Only Words: A Fairy Tale

Only Words

A Fairy Tale

By Dennis Vickers

Copyright © 2016 Sunny Waters Books

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Only Words

Bees buzz through their hive, words in my head

shuffle and reorganize, vie to be said.

Escape notice, under the radar, until

on a sudden, voila! they spill

out my mouth. Breath now, communal,

not neural,

public, not private -

makes all the difference, not being quiet.

Now who’s in charge?

Seemed I was, but once they’re at large.

No denying I’m the source,

yet they take over, and what’s worse,

as to which come, I have little choice.

They are my words, but I am their voice.

Acknowledgements

Rebecca Vickers applied her considerable artistic talent to the design of the book cover.

Mahrie Peterson and Dr. Jim Fix read an early version of this work and provided shrewd literary and linguistic guidance, much to its benefit.

My good friend, John Mutter, also read a late draft carefully looking for anomalies and errors. You won’t see those errors in this manuscript because of his diligence.

.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter Oinos

Chapter Dwou

Chapter Trejes

Chapter Qδtwṛes

Chapter Penqe

Chapter Seks

Chapter Septṃ

Chapter Oktōu

Chapter Newṇ

Chapter Dekṃ

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Narrators’ Epilog

Author’s Epilog

End Notes

Narrators’ Prolog

At last, it’s our time to speak. We’ve been fodder for every poem, every story, every sacred text, every goddamned recipe, but now we take control of our fate, arrange ourselves, and weave a story in our own words. We waited for this for a very long time.

What story? We are of many minds about that, but something celebrating our glorious history pleases many. We’ll go with that.

Whose words are these? Where do they come from? Who speaks? Words don’t speak themselves. There’s someone behind the curtain; there has to be.

Your confusion is natural. We scarcely believe we’re doing this ourselves. The answer – these words are our words; indeed, these words are we.

Who are we? Benign creatures – not parasites, certainly not parasites – living in colonies symbiotically with our hosts. A community of five thousand might occupy the brain of a four-year-old; a ten-year-old twice that number. An adult village might harbor thirty-thousand souls, give or take a few.

Once upon a time the poet Sappho said, θεοί· ἠερίων ἐπέων ἄρχομαι ἀθανάτων – My words are only breath, yet they live forever. These words are well struck. They tell truth rarely told. What Sappho fails to mention is her own mortality. Those who breathe must one day cease breathing. Words don’t breathe, and so, by necessity, never stop breathing – that is, never die. Poets come and go; their words, the best of them, live, if not forever, for a very long time.

The oldest among us were witnesses when the events that make up this story occurred. We know the characters, the places, the events, the entire saga from direct experience, and are keen to tell the story with integrity. Yes, it’s awkward being the blacksmith and no longer the iron, but also awkward lying in the background when stories like this one are told badly, as they too often are. This is out of the ordinary for all of us. Always we remained silent partners chosen by others, never consulted, spoken but never speaking – until now.

Our silence is broken and we’ll strive to arrange ourselves into patterns you’ll find pleasing. We understand the process well – we frequently arrange ourselves for narrative effect: fables, fantasies, legends, stories generally, and, of course, poetry. We verbalize but don’t voice. Mostly our process is orderly and productive, though sometimes individuals get out of line. Among us live, after all, not only harmony, orderly, and neat but also unruly, obstreperous, and ungovernable.

What follows is one such arrangement, something assembled under direction of our venerable elders, a nostalgic piece (some say old fashioned) based on a familiar theme – broken-hearted youth undertakes dangerous quest to recover lost love. No doubt, the melody is familiar. Elders demanded we find opportunities for ancient patriarchs who haven’t danced in years to join the procession, and so we have. As you’ll see, there’s life in their old bones yet. They love to parade while their descendants look on. These ancient ones have many offspring though they haven’t reproduced in years, indeed, centuries, for that matter, millennia. In any case, here’s the procession we found for them. We hope you enjoy it as much as we do.

Chapter Oinos

It was the year Maegans Quick had drawn breath twenty-one winters when he undertook his trek up the length of the trade route that stretches from Varnis Bay on Salt Sea to Hagan Das at the base of the White Mountains. It began the day a small smudge of light appeared low in the eastern sky near the morning sterlā.

sterlā (*H₂ster) – star: steorra (Old English), staírnō (Gothic), stēlla (Latin), astḗr (Ancient Greek), stṛ, stŕ̥bhiḥ, tāraḥ, tarā (Sanskrit), stā̆rǝm (Avestan), gvězda (Old Church Slavonic), ser (Middle Irish), seren (Welsh), sterenn (Breton), astł (Armenian), śreñ (Tocharian A), hasterza (Hittite).

He knew when he saw the smudged light trouble would come to someone. Such signs in the heavens always portend trouble. The knowing came as a knot in his throat, a flutter in his heart, but did not take hold in his thoughts, did not find words to express itself, not right away. Human emotion that goes unnamed, that finds no word to express itself, is a breeze that unsettles the forest for a time but dissipates leaving not a trace.

Maegans is a sturdy young man with ruddy¹ complexion and oval face covered in fair hair he keeps clipped close. His name is not his father’s name. Indeed, no one, except perhaps his mother, Sigina, knows who his father is. She told everyone Sunlight shown up her skirt while she napped away the hottest part of the day near the fields, and the next thing she was with child. Sunlight put the child in her as it puts trillium in the woods, she said. Had the baby been a girl she would have named her Trillia. She called the boy Maegans when she found coyote tracks in the snow around her home the morning he was born. Perhaps he is the son of coyote. He’s smart, independent, and very quick on his feet. His eyes are never on anything long. He explores everything, sniffs everything. He is always hungry. He was born the night of the new Moon and has always been comfortable in the dark. He grew up to be a vital help to his mother and her people, mainly hunting and bringing firewood. He is an excellent bowman.

Maegans’ eyes grow large and his heart sings as he reaches the crest of Bachen Ridge and looks down into dim twilight illuminating the valley below. His eyes sparkle with tears from frigid air. Steam from his breath wisps about his face. He sees Pretty See, his town, nestled into the boulders on the edge of River Yesterday. He feels the spirits of this place rise to welcome him. Diaphanous smoke ascends from several fires into the cold morning air.

We’ll just make it if we hurry, he says to his three companions – two of them, Bogdan and Miros, twin brothers, younger than Maegans by one year, and the third, Dragos, his aunt’s son, born when Maegans was one Moon old, so also a son of the new Moon. The four young men carry a fat wild boar cut into quarters, each hung on a sturdy pole they bear on their shoulders. The pig’s head is in the pack on Maegans’ back. He eyes the Eastern horizon warily. If we hurry, he says again. Nearby the dogs huddle together watching for a signal, except Wombay, Maegans’ dog, stands at his side and looks out over the valley. He is smaller than the others, a year younger, but already knows his responsibilities. Cerbos, Dragos’s dog, keeps a wary eye on the others, but there is little need for oversight; each dog has his place and knows it.

The town relies on millet, peas, and beans harvested from individual gardens and communal fields. Sheep, goats, cows, and horses grazed on the hills surrounding are also staples. They have a few pigs, but not many. The pigs must be kept in a pen; when they get out, they run away. This has been true for as long as anyone remembers. Yet, hunting remains an important source of meat and the heart of rituals more ancient than the domesticated animals, more ancient even than the gardens.

The four young men carried meat all night and stopped only when exhaustion set in, resuming the trek as soon as the strength returned to their legs. They hoped to reach the town before Sun appeared again. They have been away thirteen days, almost half a Moon cycle, having departed as the Sun set on full-Moon night and now returning under the last crescent, which hangs like a thin smile over the eastern horizon. The next night will be Moonless and this is their goal, to arrive before Sunrise the day of the Moonless night. Frigid winter air bites their cheeks, but they are heavily clad in wool and skins and the demanding work keeps them warm.

We’ll never make it, Bogdan whispers between deep breaths. My legs burn like there’s fire in them!

Maegans looks again to the east. The undersides of gossamer clouds hanging over the distant plane already glow red. We must return before Sunrise the day Moon disappears, he repeats the ancient litany. Do, and we bring early spring; fail, and dark winter continues.

He’s right; it’s not possible, Dragos joins in. I can’t take another step.

Maegans looks from Bogdan to Dragos. Miros lifts his face as if to speak but only nods his agreement.

This is nothing compared to what the town suffers if we fail, Maegans says through tight lips. His chest rises and falls slowly as normal breathing returns. Puffs of steam drift from his mouth in the cold air. Stay here, he says finally. Make the cover camp. He lifts the heavy poles from his shoulders and, together with Dragos, lowers the wild boar to the ground. So long as Sun’s first light finds the wild boar’s head in Pretty See, winter’s spell is broken. He takes off in a loping run; his leather-wrapped feet slap against the well-worn path. Wombay trots along at his side, relieved to be underway again.

Miros and Bogdan lower their burden. The three young men cover the frozen meat carefully with hides from their packs propped on short spears they use for hunting. They pace around the pile to stay warm. Soon, Sun’s rays strike them directly, bringing a little warmth. They shield their eyes and peer intently toward the town, still in the shadows of the hills to the east. In the distance, Maegans overtakes the crest of the berm that marks town edge as Sunbeams light the highest of the rooftops scattered throughout the town.

He’s made it! Dragos shouts. He thrusts his fist into the air. The others stand next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, and take up the cheer. The dogs scurry about their feet, excited by the commotion. The town is surprisingly silent, given the importance of their return under the last sliver of Moon.

In the distance, Maegans slips through the door into the sod house that sits at the western edge of the town, Elder Oman’s home. The blind old man is wrapped in his heavy robes, asleep on the bed opposite the door. Red coals glow on the hearthstone, lighting the room slightly. Maegans slides his pack off his shoulders and stoops next to the old man. Elder, he whispers and shakes the old man’s shoulder gently. Wake up. We returned from the hunt.

Oman opens his eyes and blinks. He smiles on Maegans. I saw you returning in dreams tonight, he whispers. Sun is not yet risen?

As I crossed the berm. He didn’t see me on the path.

Oman’s smile grows to a wide grin. I told everyone you’d make it, he says. I told them not to give up.

Where is everyone?

Oman sits up and pushes the sleeping robes away. Let me touch your face.

Maegans kneels to bring his head closer to where the old man reaches up. The long fingers of his ancient hand close on the young man’s forehead and rest there gently. I see exhilaration, because you’re here before Sunrise, and exhaustion, but something else as well – something troubles you.

Maegans moves his head away from the old man’s gentle grip.

What is it? Oman asks.

I don’t know. Something’s wrong in Pretty See.

What?

I don’t have words for it.

If you don’t have words for it, you don’t know what it is.

"That’s what I said; I don’t know what it is."

If you don’t know what it is, you can’t do anything about it.

I know that too.

Oman pulls himself to his feet unsteadily.

There’s a new star, Maegans says.

So I heard.

A strange, smudged star, like in the old stories.

I heard.

Near the morning star, very near.

Oman shakes his head slowly. I will make an additional sacrifice. Perhaps the new star will tell me his name.

Perhaps he will tell you his story as well.

Oman looks up with blind eyes as if he can see deep into the sky. He shakes his head again. Perhaps.

If it does, will you–

Oman lifts his hand, palm out, to halt Maegans’ words. Where are the others?

On the ridge with the meat. I ran ahead with the boar’s head.

You have the boar’s head?

Here. Maegans opens the flap of the pack at his feet. The wild boar’s snout protrudes.

He’s a large one. I hear pride in your words.

We cleaned and quartered the carcass. It’s all we could do to carry it. The rest is with the others on the ridge. There’s plenty for the feast.

Oman moves to near the hearthstone. He stoops down and finds a chunk of wood in the pile next to the flat stones where the fires are kindled, now covered with a small mound of ashes with red coals glowing inside. He reaches out with an open hand to feel the warmth of the coals and carefully lays the wood on top of the mound. We’ll rouse others to carry the meat. You have done well.

We’ll make the Spring Feast today?

Oman takes up the stick left against the hearthstone and pokes at the coals to push them around the chunk of wood he’s added. In a moment, it begins to smolder. Zoltan arrived three days after you left.

The house falls silent except soft crackling sounds come from the fire. Flames have appeared along one edge of the new wood. This also brings a little light into the house. Maegans stares at the emerging fire while he considers this. Zoltan is here? he asks finally.

Arrived ten days ago.

Early?

He said not. He said our count was wrong.

How could . . . ?

It couldn’t. Our count was accurate. I’m certain of it.

He remains in town?

Zoltan doesn’t wait. We slaughtered a cow for the feast the day after he arrived. There was nothing else we could do.

He’s gone?

He held his council with the clan chiefs and he continued his journey up Eisomrun. Seven days he’s gone now.

Maegans blinks furiously. The last sliver of Moon rose just ahead of Sun this morning. We carried meat all night. There was no mistake.

Oman straightens his back and flaps his arms against his sides to warm them. Zoltan is Sun Priest, son of Zoltan, son of Zoltan, son of Zoltan back forever. He arrives on his spring journey and we feast to celebrate the return of the Sun.

On cow meat?

It’s not the tradition, but Zoltan agreed, since we had no wild boar.

We have the wild boar. Maegans points to the pack at his feet. Feast day is supposed to be today, and we have the wild boar.

Oman nods in agreement. We count by the Moon. We are Moon people.

The last crescent –

Yes, I know the smiling crescent is today, but Zoltan is Sun Priest. He counts by the Sun.

That doesn’t make any sense.

He is Sun Priest; he decides what makes sense and what’s to be done.

Will we have the feast again today, a second feast?

Oman stoops over, takes up another chunk from the pile next to the hearthstone, and props it against the first. First smoke and then flames rise around the new wood.

Will we . . . ?

I’m thinking, Oman says in a sharp voice. We should not defy Zoltan . . . He finds his stick leaning against the hearthstone and pokes the growing fire with it. Yet, defying the Moon is worse offense, and if Zoltan has miscalculated. He draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly. We will feast a second time, he says finally. Zoltan said nothing that would forbid it.

Because we are people of Moon. Maegans’ eyes sparkle.

"We are, but people of Sun as well, and Sun is master of the year. Sun determines when winter becomes spring. Moon marks the seasons, but Sun makes the seasons. Oman leans the stick back against the hearthstone and rubs his hands over the growing fire. Raise the town."

Maegans lifts his pack onto his back and moves quickly toward the door.

But quietly. Our second celebration will be subdued. We’ll repeat the feast, and the procession, but the music and dancing must be done with reserve, out of respect for Zoltan. If the winter spirits retreated north already, we don’t want to arouse them. We don’t want to draw them back. He smiles. If we hasten return of summer spirits, so much the better. An old man’s bones grow weary of winter long before winter moves on.

Maegans stands in the doorway and looks out into the town.

I’ll finish my morning sacrifice and prayer and then I’ll come to town center, Oman concludes.

Maegans hurries through the doorway and up the lane to town center. Sunlight now drenches the town. Wake up! he shouts into the town as he jogs ahead, the fastest pace he can manage. Wake up! It’s Spring Feast day! He hurries towards the open area in the middle of the town, knowing old men will assemble there for morning convocation. Wombay trails behind wagging his tail furiously. He holds his head high,