So here's my plan. I am going to post pieces every day of my progress on the story and, hopefully by the end, I'll have a new story on my hands. Yes, yes, yes, dear reader, I do realize that I am trying to do yet another challenge, which I know I have a poor track record of actually completing. But I am going to do it. And I have better chances this time since I'm only keeping it to a week and I am not working this week. Therefore, I'm going to cheat today and post what I had previously written. I pray your forgiveness in advance as it's going to be long so I'm going to break it into two pieces. Hope you all enjoy the journey as much as I do.
The Gypsy's Map (pt. 1)
Many years ago a knight named Oliver
came from small village now long forgotten by men. All was peaceful
in his village and all the area around it. Resolved not to become
idle and self-consumed, Oliver worked for his fellow villagers doing
odd jobs, as if he’d never been knighted. Then, an old man came to
the town. His clothes were thin and dirty, and he carried a large
walking stick carved with many intricate designs. As he walked, he
limped greatly and leaned heavily on his stick. Around his waist, he
wore a rope belt from which hung an assortment of talismans for, you
see, he was a gypsy. When they saw him, all the villagers rushed to
their homes and locked their doors. Oliver alone was unafraid. Having
faced greater dangers than one old gypsy man, he approached the
stranger with kindness.
“Hast thou travelled long, good
sir?”
“Many a weary mile on old tired
feet,” was the answer given. Looking up from the dusty ground, the
gypsy saw his greeter’s face. “Thou art not of my brethren. Why
then dost thou greet me?”
“Tis the teaching of our Lord Jesus
Christ to give shelter to the stranger. Come with me.”
“Saint Sara bless thee for thy
kindness.”
The young knight led the old man to small hut he had
built himself. The door opened to reveal a modest room nicely
furnished and clean. Seating the old gypsy on a chair, Oliver went to
a pot emitting wonderful aromas. He then proceeded to spoon the stew
into earthenware bowls. After encouraging his guest to begin eating,
the young man cut a few slices from a loaf of bread and filled two
cups with water. The two men ate in silence, the one fulfilling the
hunger gained from days of travel and the other not wanting to
disturb him. Thus went their evening meal. When the gypsy had eaten
his fill, Oliver led him to his own bed. At this, the man balked.
“No, sir. I shall not take thy bed.
Thou has been gracious to this old gypsy . . .”
“And one more kindness cannot hurt
thee,” the knight finished.
Seeing that his
host would not be moved, the gypsy lay down, closed his eyes, and
immediately fell into a deep sleep. Smiling to himself at his guest’s
slumber, Oliver drew the covers over the sleeping man and took his
repose beside the dying fire with his sword at his side.
The next morning, Oliver awoke to find
his pot already brewing and the old gypsy gone. Going to the stewpot,
he sniffed its contents. He nose told him his meal would be
delicious. As he was stooped over the pot, the knight’s guest came
in holding a strange bouquet of herbs and flowers. The old gypsy
smiled seeing the look of surprised pleasure so easily seen on
Oliver’s face.
“It pleases thee, I see.”
“Yes but thou didst not need to go
to all this trouble. ‘Twas my place to prepare our meal.” The
guest shook his head.
“I took no more trouble than thee
when thou didst take me in and in this small way, I may repay thy
kindness.”
Thus was the knight rebuffed and forced to be a guest in
his own home while the gypsy finished preparing the meal. After a few
minutes, it was finished and he spooned into their bowls a mash-like
substance yet it had a unique, foreign flavor that delighted the
senses. Once both had had their fill, Oliver asked the origin of
their meal. The old man sighed heavily and his brown eyes grew sad.
“From my homeland, many miles away.
I was not always the weary vagabond that thou dost see before thee.
Once I had been a farmer and physician amongst my people. But it
seems the saints and God most holy did not desire this to remain so.
Our land suffered a drought like none that even our elders had ever
seen. We cried out to Saint Sara for help but we received no reply.
Then,” his eyes began to fill with tears and his voice faltered,
“people began to die, our children and our elders. They looked like
raisins in the noonday sun. Never before have I seen anything more
tragic or pitiable.
“Finally, the few of us who were
still alive left to find a new home. But on our way, we met a
wild-looking man. His eyes seemed to stare at us and still not see
us. He waved a sheet of parchment, crying that it led to the source
of the drought. We all believed he had lost his sanity due to the
lack of water. But we could not refuse his parchment for he would not
let us pass until we took it. And so began our woeful journey. I am
sorry,” he said suddenly. “I should not burden thee with my
troubles.”
“No, thou has not troubled me in the
least, good sir,” answered the knight much intrigued. “Do you
still have the parchment the crazed man gave you?”
“Yes,” the gypsy shrugged, “though
I did not take much notice of it once we had it.”
He moved to where
his satchel sat and looked through its contents. Finally, he pulled
out a worn sheet of paper and offered it to Oliver. The knight took
it with great solemnity. But when he looked at it, his brow
immediately furrowed.
“I’m afraid some of the ink has
faded. There is naught here but a small portion.”
“’Twas always that way, good
youth,” the gypsy replied. “Another reason we disregarded its
former bearer.”
“Wast thou not curious in the least
to know why it had been made so?”
“We did not pay it much mind,
considering its former owner. What curiosity we had was satisfied
with a short verse on the parchment itself. Thou canst find it here
along this edge.” He turned the map so the knight was now looking
at it upside down. “One of our young men found it whiles passing
the time on our journey.”
Oliver examined the writing carefully. It
was written in an even, delicate hand. And thus it read:
Trust thy faith
and not thy eyes.
Be thou cunning,
brave and wise.
The knight studied the couplet for
several moments. His mind mulled their meaning and significance. The
old gypsy watched the young man curiously, wondering what had
intrigued his host so much. Nonetheless, he did not interrupt
Oliver’s reverie. At last, the knight re-acknowledged his guest’s presence.
“Wouldst thou mind if I kept this
map?”
“Take it with my blessing, good sir.
May it bring you better fortune than it has its previous bearers.
Well, I must be going.” The old man rose and began to gather his
few belongings.
“Wait,” Oliver cried, surprised at
his guest’s sudden behavior. “It will soon be sundown and it is
quite a distance to the next village.”
The gypsy seemed to take no
notice. He continued filling his sack and then put it on his back.
“No,” he stated finally as he
headed for the door. “I cannot impose on thy hospitality any more.
Besides,” he paused half-way through the door, “the rest of my
people are waiting for me.”
“Where exactly are your people?”
the knight queried aloud.
The man stopped and looked out towards the
setting sun.
“Waiting in the arms of Saint Sara,”
he replied quietly and continued walking out of town.
Oliver watched
until his guest was no more than a black spot against the sun. Then
he went back inside his home and prepared his evening meal. That
night, he prayed for protection over the old gypsy wherever his
travels led him.
The next morning, Oliver gathered all
the maps he possessed and began comparing them against the old
gypsy’s map. He looked for any recognizable landmarks so he could
find the starting place. Finally, he found a large rock called “The
Sentinel” on both the gypsy map and one map of a small woodland
area. Smiling, he leaned back in his chair and took a few deep
breaths. He then got up and began gathering his equipment and
provisions.
Stepping out the door, the knight
gazed out across the land stretching before him. His armor glinted
defiantly, boasting scuffs and gashes from skirmishes with bandits.
On his hip rested his trusty sword, docilely waiting ‘til its
master should have need of it. Maps, food, spare clothes, flint, and
a tinder box were stuffed in a pack upon his back. As he stood there
pondering the path ahead of him, Oliver fingered an amber-entombed
piece of white heather that hung around his neck. Shoving the pendant
under his shirt, he walked to the nearby stable.
“Capell.”
A chestnut-hided horse
trotted out to the knight and nuzzled against his shoulder. Oliver
gazed deeply into the horse’s eyes and it seemed to understand what
was in its master’s mind. Once saddled and bridled, he mounted the
stead and looked one last time upon the quiet village that had been
his home.
“Fare thee well, good home. May the
blessings and protection of our Lord rest upon thee.” With that
benediction, he turned his back on the village with the thought in
his heart that he may never see it again.
Several days passed before the knight
reached the Sentinel stone. It stood at the entrance of an avenue of
trees between which hung a thick fog like cobwebs. Like a guard it
sat imposing and impassive, daring any to enter the misty passage.
Oliver dismounted Capell and pulled
out the gypsy’s map. He had reached the only place pictured on the
map. Now, he did not know what to do. A path led away from the
Sentinel but led to blank space on the parchment. Methodically,
Oliver pondered in his mind what could be next.
“What dost thou desire?”
The knight drew close to his mount and
placed a hand on his sword. His eyes darted all around, searching for
the speaker.
“Who goes there?”
“What dost thou desire?” The voice
sounded as old as the earth and seemed to reverberate through the air
like thunder.
Calming Capell, the knight stepped out
with his hand still ready on his sword. He had not seen or heard
anyone enter the wood since he had. As far as he could tell, no one
was hiding behind the trees around him. The only place left was the
Sentinel and the fog-laden avenue and nothing there had changed.
“Who goes there?” Oliver repeated.
“What dost thou desire?” came the
voice a third time.
“I desire to know the truth,” answered the knight.
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