The TaleMaster 6 …Black to Gold

This little tale started itself about a dozen years ago. It was originally a couple of pages, a  background for a D&D character. Then came a dream or three which added so much more. Life & Death interfered for many years. I’ve begun dreaming of this tale again, recently. This will eventually be a book, I hope.

So please, go get yourself a tall cold beverage, adjust your reading glasses and settle into your comfy chair and join me in the City of Colours…

If you’re just joining the story, here’s the Link to previous parts  

       After spending many hours with the bard, sharing tales and a wineskin or three, giving and imparting information, Seth closes the gate with a sigh and slumps into his chair. Muttering to douse the glows he sits, chin on fists, in contemplation of the events unfolding rapidly and on a much larger scale than previously thought. The trade-run should have already returned from Kalygth-Rathmon, bringing more relevant substance. Tomorrow, if they had not returned, he would speak to Slaight about sending after them.

     The Seth rises and makes his way to his front gate. Pulling aside the inner curtain, he looks through the metal lace work at the scene before him. The six who had visited the day before are again sitting on the cushions under his awning. Cast about them, like storm-tossed leaves, are various packages and vessels. The children sit, quietly discussing their swimming of the day before. Standing just inside his gate, he listens to them, not yet announcing his presence. Their talk turns to their trip to the Bazaar yestereve.

     After wandering through the shops they had stopped at the fisherfolks, to get some of the famous stew, and had seen Nah’lei’s new group of friends. The bard had been telling of heroic battles of long ago, the tent-shop packed, listening to his ballad. Then the ranger, an unusual fellow by all accounts, had purchased some glow-globes from a passing merchant and had thrown them into the pond! He must’ve had too much to drink after his long years in the mountains. The glows had bobbled and danced on the water, attracting attention. Oh, it must’ve been a merry sight, all those lights cavorting on the pond, then one by one the glows headed for the falls, like lemmings tossing themselves over the edge. The GoldSmith must’ve been astonished by it, the lights an armspan from his forge, gamboling by on their way to the lake. I only hope he wasn’t cooling his work in the falls.

      After the fall the glows floated on the lake below, continuing their frolic on the waves of their new stage, the crowd above applauding their performance.  The fisher children should have a fine time today gathering them all. He would have to speak to the glow merchant. The man could reacquire his stock from them and repeat the process tonight, on a much grander scale, if he waited until dark fell and spirits rose. Timing is everything . . . after knowledge.

      The Seth slides his gate open and steps out. The children quiet, waiting for him to speak first.

    “Good rising to you all. Out early today aren’t you?”

    “Oh, Sirrah, we didn’t waken you did we? I told them to be quiet.” This from Dywyn. Always the mother of the little group, she tried to protect them from any adult ire.

    “No, mistress, I was up long ago and didn’t know you were here. What have you in mind for the day?”

    Vitara speaks, silent until now. “Could you tell us another, The Seth? I’d like to hear more about the dwarves.”

    “Oh, you would? Well . . . I don’t know. I have a terrible hunger . . . it’s gnawing at my innards . . . tearing flesh from bone . . . eating at me from the inside out . . .  ” his voice deepens with each word, thrilling the children with anticipation. “If I don’t get sustenance . . . I will expire!” With this he sinks onto his faded stool, melting bonelessly into a heap of multicoloured robes.

    The children, laughing at his antics, rush to his side.

    “No, The Seth don’t die now!” shrieks Sarella feigning fear, “You’ll miss the pie that Rauli sent.”

    “Oh, Sirrah please arise, I have a lovely bowl, filled by Freah herself, with shellfish from Kalygth Rathmon. They arrived just before the dawning and Freah set aside some for you, knowing how you love them” cries Dawyn.

    “No, no, you can’t go yet, Sirrah. I can’t drink this whole skin of blujuse myself! You must stay and help.” says Drel, patting the old man gently on his back.

    “Sirrah!” whispers Vitara, digging through his robes to find, at last, his face.  “I have a whole sack of stickies for you!” her starfish hand pats his cheek gently, like butterfly kisses.

    At this, the man rises and looks around at their faces, bushy eyebrows raised  in wonder. “Stickies?… Did you say stickies?” He pulls the petite child to his lap. “I LOVE stickies . . . where are they? I must find them . . . have them . . . eat them. NOW!” With this he pretends to search her gown, tickling her till she squeals with laughter. At last he pulls her close, nose to nose, and says “Well I can’t go yet . . . not with stickies to be had.”

    Laughing, the children retrieve the various packages, proffering them to the TaleMaster. It appears they have been to every shop, gathering their offerings. Besides the morsels they tempted him with there are tiny tarts, with exquisite goat cheese and berry filling; a duckling stuffed with a quail, which in turn is stuffed with a vegetable/herb mixture; a huge fish, fully arms length, has been split and filled with aplcotbutter and dried fruits (Freah’s specialty), then wrapped in layers of cabbage and spinach and slowly roasted in coals; an assortment of herb rolls, delicate with flavor; and a variety of fruits. The scents assail him, making his stomach grumble in reality.

    “A’drui, rungo get a bench and some bowls. This is far too much for me alone. Drel, A’klym, would you help him?” he says. The boys enter his cave, returning momentarily with the requested items. A’drui and Drel set the long bench before the man and they gather round. A’klym hands round the bowls and The Seth fills them with a portion of each treat. He eats, at last, fully enjoying the feast provided by them.

    Celebrations are always so fine, he thinks, watching the children as they gobble up their food. Celebration of Life at Herze-end is certainly the best of the year; hopefully Nah’lei will have returned by then. With all the harvests in, the merchants and farmers from miles around bring their wares and others come to buy or trade. Some especial treats could be had at that time and no other. The food and the crowds, the children having time off to listen and learn, the adults enjoying themselves, bards and jugglers, acrobats and actors, free from cares, all in a merry mood, these are the joys of the Celebrations. Sometimes six weeks a year does not seem enough.

    The children pack the leftover food back into its containers. The older boys take the bench in while the rest carry the bowls and food. Soon they are back at his feet waiting for their tale.

    “Last time you heard How the Dwarves Came to the Mountain, no?” he says settling into his stool, moving the tankard a hairs breadth closer.

    “Yes, Sirrah. The dwarves found the mountain and their cavern” Drel states.

    “Well. When Elriad came down from the mountain top for their first feast his bedraggled, dirty appearance was noticed as he sat down. He explained where he had been and told of his discovery of the muddy place on the plateau. The group became excited; a permanent source of water would make this mountain incomparable as a home. Plans were made to investigate further in the morning.

    A feast, made up of most of the remaining supplies, was enjoyed by all. Their good fortune and well-being were toasted repeatedly. Numerous other toasts were raised, becoming more and more outrageous as the night progressed. At last, growing somber as the spirits faded, the group discussed their hopes for their future in this place. Tunnels and home caves must be hewn, food gathered and herded, skins prepared for blankets and winter clothing.

    When Elriad awoke the next morning he was disoriented. Groggily he looked about, unsure of where he was, and saw twelve pairs of eyes peering at him in delight. Twelve muddy, grinning dwarven shapes encircled his pallet. They had apparently not been to sleep after all, and had already been to the plateau and dug a pond, or at least the beginnings of one. Not quite believing his eyes, or his memory of all the events of the previous day, he got up and followed them in a daze.        

    On the way up to the plateau the other men seemed to lose their exhilaration, growing more solemn than usual, pensive. Wondering what had happened, or was about to happen, he followed in silence. Nearing the crest the group stopped as one and turned to him. Grila, his second sister Lyraegh’s husband, spoke. “We think you should be The Blackfist.”

    Elriad nearly reeled with shock. Surely, he was too young! The thane of the clan, The Blackfist, was too great a position for one his age. Although he had been central in their leaving, their decision to go had been their own. They had looked to him for answers on the way, his counsel had proved worthwhile and was admired. More and more they had turned to him for answers and he had tried his best to provide them. But was he ready for this task? Being The Blackfist was much different from leading a party through the mountains. Of all the things he had thought they would say, this had never entered his mind. Silence fell on the group.

    Elriad turned from them and continued up, over the crest, onto the plateau. He walked in silence to where the men had worked that morning. The men came slowly behind respecting his need for silence and solitude. A small, muddy pool had been carved into the plateau. His thoughts were of the leaving and the journey. The arrival. And the utter peace of this place. Turning to his friends, his companions of the journey, all he had left from his past, he spoke at last, “I am honoured.”

    They spent the rest of that day, and the next four, enlarging the pool to a small pond. The water was still muddy but the dirt and silt would settle with time. A permanent source of water was at hand! The small herds of sheep were seen again, and a herd of mountain goats once, making the capture of a few animals for taming possible. Fences were built at the base of the mountain to keep them in, allowing the herd, and the children who watched them, to be checked on with only a glance over the edge.

    Next the dwarves turned their attention to preparing themselves and their home for the coming winter. The children led by two young women wandered the surrounding country side gathering grains and roots for storage. They went west to the tree line and gathered nuts and late berries. Three young men hunted throughout most of the summer taking three of the older children with them. The men dug and delved, hewing home caves into the cavernside.

    More dwarves arrived from the old home, following the signs, known only to them, that had been left. Several groups arrived enlarging the clan and the caverns.”

    The Seth asks A’drui to go into his home-cave and fetch back the water skin. The boy hurries to comply.  A’drui returns and fills the tankard from the sweating skin, handing it to The Seth, he takes care not to spill a drop. The TaleMaster quaffs down a goodly portion then adds a spill of the black.

    “With the preparations for the coming winter came change. Change in ideals, traditions, lifestyles. New ideas were tried out, then used or discarded. New ways were found, ways that worked better for the dwarves, made more sense. Those who were most adept at each task did that work. For those tasks where none was more skillful than another, the work was shared. Children were encouraged in any area they showed talent, or expressed an interest in. The caverns grew and the clan thrived.

     Another group of dwarves wandered in and was made welcome. They had been in a battle with a tribe of orcs over a small spit of land on the western edge of the Fuahn Mountains. Alas, the orcs had won, by unhonourably killing the dwarven thane with a foul thrust from behind. The spit of land was not worth the loss of lives. The dwarves, having lost their morale with their thanes life, retreated. Breaking into small groups to arouse less notice some had lost their way.

    This band had traveled for upwards of sixty days, seeking a clan to join. Hungry and exhausted, they had searched on. They had arrived near death from lack of water. Being disheartened from their recent experiences and then witnessing the wonder of the mountain and this new way of life, they asked to stay. The council met and agreed to let them.

    Tens of years went by and the dwarves merged into one homogeneous clan, stronger than before. They became adept at adaptation and change, trying new ways constantly.

    The smiths found that forges could produce items other than tools, weapons and cooking vessels. Jewelry and ornaments found their beginning and made a way into all aspects of dwarven living. Nothing ostentatious, just a simple beauty, a tasteful show of wealth. A new way of life, a new order, had been found.

    At about this time The Blackfist’s eldest son, Ilriaf, selected his mate. A home-hewing for them had begun when a strange thing occurred. An old passage, covered by some cave-in centuries ago, was unearthed. The Blackfist and Ilriaf entered and were gone for the rest of that day, returning finally when Lunya had ridden high. They were haggard and worn, but would not rest until the new cave had been sealed off. The next day The Blackfist would say only that the area must be left alone, no one could ever dig there. Ilriaf would say nothing of his experiences. A new site was found and excavated for Ilriafs home cave.

    As that summer lost its warmth and turned to fall, then wound its way on down toward winter The Blackfist started feeling less sure of himself. The honour weighed upon him as nothing had ever done before. He had not had the training to lead a clan, as his elder brother had, he felt unsure of his abilities to do so. His clan had grown, now nearing the size of his fathers; he sometimes felt oppressed by the numbers, so many depended on him to make correct decisions. Again he made his way to the crest to pray to The One.

    Again he meditated on the proper forms and phrases, to ensure his being heard. The Blackfist started by thanking The One. For His provision of so much, so many resources, in this new home; and the fortitude lent by Him, this humble clan was grateful. He continued by asking The One for patience for himself and his people in adjusting to their new way of life and endurance for the coming winter. He asked for guidance of the clan in their new order, to prosperity and happiness.  Finally he asked to be granted greater wisdom so that he could lead the clan and make just decisions. Finishing with the ancient rituals, he looked up to find Soll just retiring.

    The Blackfist raised his eyes to the heavens and saw an object floating down toward him. Mute with something akin to terror he rocked back and stared as it fell. The object grew in size, finally becoming recognizable. A great black hammer floated down and splashing hugely into the pond at his feet, splitting an immense rock, soaking him. The Blackfist, shaking with doubt at his own actions, waded out and reaching, grasped the handle, wrenching the hammer from its entombment.

    As the hammer came free from the rock with the strength of his pull, it slowly turned from black to gold! He turned it over and over, examining it in perplexity, wondering if the light or his eyes were playing tricks on him. As his eyes picked out the finely wrought details etched in its surface, his hands felt of its forging. A new knowledge leapt into his mind full blown, into his very being. Knowledge of a metal crafting so finely wrought it would resemble spiders’ webs when complete. Glancing around, hoping to see another who had witnessed this event, The Blackfist realized that something was happening in the pond. It bubbled and burbled near where the hammer had fallen. By Solls dying light he could see a spring gurgling at the edge of the rock, its water running clear as crystal.

    The Blackfist leapt to his feet and raced down to the cavern. Shouting and laughing he went, headlong, into the cave, like a thief with his first take. As you can imagine, everyone came running to see what had happened. He tried to explain, stumbling and tripping over his words, trying to sort out and explain his experience. At last, in desperation, he raised the hammer high. A hush fell over the assembly, the now golden tint of his eyes and skin was noticed.

    The GoldSmith then led them all back up to the plateau where he showed them the spring. By this time he had sorted his tale and proceeded to relate what had happened. The assembly of dwarves were voiceless with wonder. For long, long minutes they digested the tale. Then, one by one, their thoughts became coherent and they spoke.

    “The One has favored this clan.”

      “He led us here, almost as if he knew.”

        “The ideal home, the consummate caverns.”

      “Never have I heard the elders tell of such happenings.

    “No where, in any of The Chronicles, was mention ever made of one of the chosen being marked by The One.”

       “What a wise decision we made in coming.”

    The dwarves returned to their cavern, rejoicing and singing. Merrymaking started then, lasting all of that night and well into the next day. Plans were made to build a glorious temple to The One. And The GoldSmith made his own plans, as he fell asleep over his cup. A place of forges and anvils, tongs and hammers. Metals from tin to iron, brass to gold. A place with great fires to heat the metals and water to cool them. A place to try out, test and perfect this new knowledge.

    And so ends The Tale of the GoldSmith”

    The old man leans down and picks up his tankard. After drinking it down he says with a twinkle in his eye “Have you been to the far side of the spring? I hear there’s a juggler that does amazing feats with wooden balls, hoops and sometimes . . . daggers!”

    The children take in a collective gasp of awe. “Will he still be there, do you think, Sirrah?” breathes Dywyn.

    “Oh, yes. He is supposed to stay till Sol starts her journey down.”

    The children rush to the edge of the tent to see the height of the sun. “Good-bye Sirrah and thank you for the tale. We will come back after we see the jugglers. ”

continued in Part 7

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