A Blessing And A Curse

A Tales & Treasure Interlude

Author’s Note: I planned to include this interlude in the final version of Tales & Treasure, but it didn’t make the cut. I still think it’s a good addition to the world and provides a bit more depth to the events in Yimser. I hope you like it.

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Flowers fell at Feya's feet for the fifth year in a row. She savored the raucous ovation like a fine wine—to her, there was no better feeling than applause after a performance. The audience loved her, and she loved them. She loved that they didn't care that she had played the same set for the last three years. She loved that their mutual hatred of foreign participants eliminated the chances of more talented performers. Yimser was her city. This was her stage, and these were her people. 

"Your winner, by unanimous decision, for the fifth consecutive year, the lovely, the talented, the beautiful, Feya," the announcer's words echoed in her head as she polished her new medal with the fabric of her dress. She slowly descended the stairs. The talented, barefooted bard was nowhere to be seen. She almost felt bad that such a talent could be treated so poorly because he was foreign—almost. He should've gone to Numeria, she thought. He made her nervous. She hadn't heard a bard deliver a story with such elegance and vibrato. Sure, he stuttered the introduction, but once he started, his execution was flawless. She thought he would steal the audience, her audience, but then Matt, her darling Matt, let the first tomato fly.

She stepped over the mud patch where the bard had laid like a pig a few moments ago. Calvin turned the corner and wrapped her in a hug that lasted a few seconds too long. "What a wonderful performance, Feya," he said, gently rubbing her upper arms. Feya stepped backward and bowed not out of thanks but to distance herself from Calvin. 

"Thank you," Feya said as she straightened. 

"We must celebrate," he said, stepping closer. He stood a head taller than Feya, and his round stomach closed what little distance there was between them. He smelled of spice and mead.

"I'm sorry, Calvin, but I must be going," she said, stepping backward.

"Feya, please, for the last time, call me Cal," he said, closing the distance again. "I insist. We have wine, cheese, and apple pie. I know how much you love Mother's apple pie." 

Damnit, she thought. She didn't love apple pie, but when she won the tourney the first time, Calvin offered her a slice, and in the euphoria of the moment, she told him it was her favorite. She would have said that pig shit was her favorite if she had been offered it—pig's shit was probably better. Four years of pretending to enjoy his mother's "family recipe" was too long. The pie was too sweet, and the crust was as dry as the Kaharn Desert.

"I must be on my way," Feya said, bowing graciously. 

"Feya, please," Calvin said, grabbing her wrist.

She glared at him. He slowly released his grasp. "Goodbye, Calvin. May your feet find the stage again."

"And may yours never leave," he answered after a moment's silence. "I'll save you a piece of the pie."

Please don't. Feya walked home, relishing the shouts of congratulations on her way. Her medal bounced on its silver chain. The cold medallion gave her goosebumps as it struck the bare skin above her low-cut top. She finished thanking a couple across the road when a brown-haired goblin of a girl darted in front of her. 

"You played those same boring songs last year," the girl sneered.

Feya laughed and continued her walk without acknowledging the beast. 

"Vatis was better than you," she said. 

Feya halted immediately. "Well, little girl, if that stuttering hack were better than me, he'd be wearing this right now," she said, pointing to her medal. 

"My name's Mia, not little girl, and if you weren't pretty, you'd never win a tourney," Mia said, sticking her tongue out.

Feya had had enough of the little, dirty, rat-like girl. She has no idea how talented I am, Feya thought. None of them do.  Yes, it helped that she was from Yimser, and yes, it helped that she was attractive, but that didn't take away from the hours upon hours that she spent perfecting her craft. 

"It's a shame you'll never know the advantages of being beautiful. Why don't you scramble back into whatever hole you crawled out of, little rat?" Feya said, batting her eyes. 

"My name is Mia," the little girl screamed. As she shrieked, she hurled something at Feya. She tried to move out of the way, but her tight outfit didn't help. A tomato struck her in the stomach. The sticky red flesh clung to the fabric and slowly slid onto her neatly polished boots, leaving a pink streak of juice down the length of her gown. 

"You little goblin," Feya cried. She leaped forward, but the girl was too quick. She scurried away like a rat with stolen food. She watched the girl jump onto a stack of crates, over the top of a merchant's cart, and onto a nearby balcony before she vanished over the slated roof. Maybe she is a rat, Feya thought. A handful of people across the street witnessed the exchange. They stared at her—she could feel their faces examining her stained dress. Feya felt her face blush as embarrassment fanned the flames beneath her cheeks. She spun away and entered the shop on her left. 

A bell rang as she opened the door. The pleasant smell of coffee filled the small, bizarrely arranged shop. Shelves of odds and ends lined the wall to her right. It felt vaguely familiar; she didn't know why.

A small, hunched-back, gray-haired man poured hot water over a cloth bag into a glass carafe. Fragrant dark brown coffee trickled into the bottom of the container. A calico cat startled Feya as it rubbed on her ankles, arching its back. 

"Coffee?" the old man asked without turning around. 

"I don't have time for coffee. I need a new dress," Feya said. She nudged the cat away with her foot, but it kept coming back. "Shoo."

"That's too bad. This new shipment of beans from Barna is outstanding," he said, clicking his tongue. The cat jolted over and jumped on the counter where he was making coffee. The shopkeeper scratched the cat behind its ears, poured the liquid into a wooden mug, and sat in a leather chair, steaming cup in hand.

"I need a new dress," Feya said.

The old man took a careful sip of coffee, testing its temperature with pursed lips. "So you do," he said, blowing ripples into the dark liquid. "This is delicious. Are you sure you don't want any?"

"I need a new dress," Feya demanded. "I have places to be, and I can't be seen in public like this. Do you know who I am?"

"You're Feya, the musician. Everyone in Yimser knows that. Right, Meeza?" he said an octave higher while looking at his cat. The cat purred and arched its back. "But I can't do anything until I finish my coffee. I may have a few old dresses. You're welcome to browse my shelves or try your luck elsewhere."

"I said I can't be seen like this, and I don't have time to wait for you to finish your coffee."

"She doesn't have time, Meeza. What would her mother say? Feya, the pride of Yimser, doesn't have time for us to finish our coffee," he said, petting the cat that had curled into a ball on his lap. The cat's ears twitched as he stroked her back.

"Stop talking to the cat. Do I know you?" Feya said, biting her lower lip to contain some of her frustration.

"She doesn't remember us, Meeza."

"Remember what?"

"I sold you that flute. Well, I sold your mother that flute," Gaffer said, pointing at the small black case slung across Feya's back. "I'm Samwell Knowles, but most folks call me Gaffer."

Gaffer, why does that name sound familiar? No. Never mind, I don't have time to reminisce; the Mayor is waiting. Forgotten memories clawed to the surface of her mind, but she shoved them down. I don't want to remember.

"This was a gift from my mother," she said defensively, swinging the flute case into a tight hug. 

Gaffer smiled. "It was. Years ago, you were no more than five. You wandered into my shop, but instead of demanding new clothing, you ambled about, awestruck by my collection. You begged your mother for this and that, but then you saw it—your flute. It sat on a high shelf covered in dust, but somehow, you saw it. You begged and pleaded and cried. Oh, how you cried, but your mother still said no. She had to drag you out of my shop. Later that evening, your mother returned, and I knew why. I had already cleaned and polished the flute. She wanted to buy you a present, but your mother couldn't pay for it. I'm sure you know that instruments are expensive, especially flutes. So, we made a deal, every night after you fell asleep, your mother came here. She cleaned, organized, and took inventory. Eventually, she earned enough to buy the flute. You look a lot like her, you know."

Please don't compare me to her. She abandoned me. "I don't remember much before she died," Feya said, nibbling a fingernail. She added an obligatory 'sorry' but did not feel apologetic. 

"Don't be sorry, dear. I watch you perform every year, hoping one day you'll wander into my shop again," Gaffer said. "And here you are." 

Feya couldn't decide if that was disturbing or endearing. Why are you telling me all this? "Why?" Feya asked reluctantly. I shouldn't have asked. I don't want to remember; I just want new clothes. 

"That's a good question. I don't quite know the answer," Gaffer paused. "I loved your mother - no, not like that, as a companion. Even after earning enough to pay for your flute, she kept coming into my shop to keep me company. You came with her most of the time, and you always had that flute with you. I'd let you practice in the back because you said your flute sounded better back there. Your mother and I would listen as you slowly improved. You worked so hard. But when your mother passed, you stopped coming by, and I didn't see you again until the tourney five years ago. Not many from below the bridge make a name for themselves, especially women. Look at you now. There's not a person in Yimser that doesn't know you. You're practically royalty."

Repressed memories resurfaced. Images of the fruit cellar with the outstanding acoustics, the smell of her mother's perfume, her voice, the soothing, encouraging sound of her soft voice. It said, 'It's alright to remember, love.' Feya sniffed and swallowed a lump in her throat. The Mayor can wait a few minutes. "Maybe I will have that coffee," Feya said. Her voice felt childishly frail.  

"Splendid," Gaffer said as he slowly rocked himself onto his feet. Meeza jumped down and rubbed against Feya's legs.

They talked for hours, recalling memories both good and bad: her first instructor, her home, the fire, her mother's death. She cried so much that she ruined Gaffer's handkerchief. She laughed at the shopkeeper's oddities and adolescent jokes. She even played him her favorite songs, but mostly she appreciated that someone noticed her hard work. Why did I stop coming here? Feya thought. I had no one; I had nothing. Why didn't Gaffer reach out? She wanted to ask him, but she was no better. He was lonely, and she didn't remember him until this afternoon. 

"I will come back tomorrow," Feya said as she hugged Gaffer. He winced as she gently squeezed him. "Put a stool in the fruit cellar and maybe a candle. I need to practice for Barna." 

"Of course," Gaffer replied. "Wait. Your dress. Let me see what I have."

Feya smiled. "It's dark. No one will see. I'll have to thank that little rat if I ever see her again."

Feya walked home, ignoring the looks of women as they passed. She opened the green-painted door to her ideally located home neighboring the Mayor's manor. It was more than twice the size of the house she lived in with her mother and filled with elegant furniture, artwork, and rugs—all gifts, even the house itself was a gift.

Feya walked up the narrow staircase to her bedroom. A gold-framed painting of Feya playing the flute on a dimly lit stage with pink and white flower petals at her feet hung on the wall over a locked chest. She lifted her mattress and grabbed a small key. She unlocked the trunk. Four bronze medals were stacked neatly inside, along with a leather-bound book, a stack of parchment, and a pearl necklace. She set her new medal on top of last year's. They were identical. She straightened the stack of awards then pulled out the necklace. The tiny pearls were dull and stained. In her jewelry case on her nightstand, she displayed three pearl necklaces of much higher quality—gifts, of course. But this necklace was her mother's, the only item to survive the fire, only because Feya had stolen it pretending to be a princess that morning. She shuttered and closed her eyes hard, trying to erase images of orange and blue flames leaping from the windows of her childhood home. She put the necklace on and closed the chest. 

Feya gently ran her fingers over the smooth pearls. She smiled. She could see her mother's kind green eyes staring back at her. She could hear her soft voice say, 'I'm proud of you, love.' 

Suddenly, pain shot through her chest, down her left arm. Feya couldn't breathe - each small gasp enhanced the pain. She collapsed on the hardwood floor. The necklace broke as she tried to brace her fall, her thumb catching under the pearls. The pearls scattered everywhere, underneath her bed and between loose floorboards. She tried to stand, but the pain was too intense. She clawed at the floor; her elegantly painted nails scratched the wood. Splinters dug into the tips of her fingers. She cried out, but no one could hear. None of her fans, none of the suitors, not the Mayor, not Calvin, not even Gaffer heard as she choked her last breaths.

As Feya fought for her life, her flute fell onto the floor near her head. She reached and pulled it close. Darkness crept onto the edge of her vision. She blinked, but the darkness spread like fire. She tried to scream but couldn't. She clutched her flute tightly and curled into a ball like she did when her mother died. She could hear her sweet, reassuring voice say, "It's alright, Feya," as the taste of blood faded away, as the smell of cedar grew bitter, and as her vision surrendered to the encapsulating darkness. "It's alright, Feya," echoed through a cavern of nothingness, following her into eternity.

Want More Stories of Emre?

If you liked this story and want to read more of my work, I suggest Tales & Treasure. The novel is available in its entirety here on Substack for FREE, or you can order the ebook and paperback on Amazon.