Tales & Treasure Chapter 1

Vatis - A New Story

Vatis stepped over the corpse of a man he didn’t think could die.

He was almost sad. There were only a handful of stories he knew that didn’t end with death, and those unfortunate people usually begged for release at some point. Maybe that’s how all stories should end.

Vatis sat between the inviting roots of a willow tree and retrieved his diligently-wrapped journal from his tattered pack. It was swathed in thin but pliable canvas held together by an emerald-colored bow. He placed the covered journal on his lap and closed his bag. Its frayed drawstring hung limply over a hole that wasn’t supposed to be there but had persisted in its development from unnoticeable to coin-size.

What’s his story?

Vatis carefully pulled his quill and ink from a compartment sewn to the front of his pack. The bright blue quill had lost most of its downy barbs from constant rubbing against a troublesome wart on his right middle finger, leaving a feather that looked more like a sparse pine tree than part of a blue jay’s wing. He closed the compartment, tightened the silver latch, then pressed the buckle’s tongue into another hole that wasn’t there when he bought it. But as the thread in the extra compartment loosened, the strap was no longer tight enough with its original punch holes. So, Vatis improvised. He punched a new hole, a jagged thing that was more of a slit than a hole, but it did its job.

Vatis dipped his quill into his nearly depleted bottle of ink. I’ll need to replenish this soon. Where’s the next town? Basswood or Barnwood. I can never remember which one is west of the river.

He pressed a small dot onto his palm. It joined dozens of faintly washed dots marking the inside of his left hand. He couldn’t afford to waste paper.

Where do I begin?

Gunnar had been everything a hero was supposed to be: loyal, brave, strong, and even intelligent. Well, more astute than most of the so-called heroes Vatis had encountered lately. His hands wanted to write, but his mind didn’t have the same desire.

It’s been two days. What am I missing? Vatis stood, scratched his head, and walked back to the corpse. He checked Gunnar’s pockets for the third time. The back of his hand rubbed against the cold, tough skin. It felt almost like armor; unfortunately, Gunnar’s actual armor hadn’t been able to stop the arrow, whose broken shaft still stuck a few inches out of his chest. This wasn’t how his story was supposed to end.

Vatis didn’t want to interfere with the outcome of any story. He was an impartial observer, recording the deeds of Emre’s finest heroes as well as a few villains. But sometimes the protagonist needs a little nudge in the right direction, he thought as he returned to his journal. The dark leather cover was now more black than its original hazel color. He flipped to the first page. It read:

Stories of Emre

Vatis cringed as he saw a faint black line in the bottom right-hand corner of the page. One too many cups of ale had led to a careless night of writing, tarnishing his beautiful, flowing script. He took pride in his penmanship. His fellow bards were always envious of his handwriting, but it had been a long time since he was active in the guild. He wasn’t sure if they’d be envious of him now, not anymore.

Squirming, Vatis moved past his mistake and flipped through the book. He loved the way the paper felt against his thumb. He stopped skimming his notes of Gunnar when he came to a page detailing their encounter with a bear outside Numeria. Heroic, yes, but story-worthy, no.

The next page recounted Gunnar saving a drowning boy in the Cemil River. Now, that might be a start – a good introduction. Vatis continued his recollection of Gunnar, flipped to a blank page, and wrote:

Gunnar-The-Good

Killed by an errant arrow near Wayland. A decent man with a good heart.

That was all he could come up with. The rest would have to wait for another day. Vatis had followed Gunnar for half a year, and all he had was one line. Waste of time, he thought as he lifted his pen from the page, biting the end of his quill.

The problem with Gunnar’s story is the stakes. He was a city guard without a city to guard. If only we made it to Barna, if he could have entered the King’s service. He could have been something. I have no idea what that something is, but more than a single sentence in the Stories.

Vatis blew on the wet line of script, packed his writing supplies away, and like he did so often, he waited for ink to dry. A thin cloud shaped remarkably like a snake, open jaw and all, drifted through a pink sky. Two wired-tail swallows flew in intricate circles around the lone willow tree at the pond's edge. Now that Vatis had backed away from Gunnar, the birds swooped down to feast on an assortment of insects that often gathered near dead things. The larger swallow’s unique wire-like tail drifted behind his blue body. It landed on a branch amongst the cascading leaves of the willow. The smaller swallow did not have its wired tail yet, but its brown head gave it away as a juvenile, not a female.

He dabbed the text with his finger – dry. Good. He carefully closed his journal, wrapped it like a mother swaddling a newborn baby, tied a perfect bow, and gently placed it in his pack. The sun was setting, and he did not like to be far from the road at night. I can persuade a thief to spare my life; bears and wolves aren’t as gullible. Not that he had much luck with thieves, but he was still alive, and that had to count for something.

It was a three-day walk to Basswood or Barnwood; Vatis was pretty sure it was Basswood. He hadn’t been there in decades. He hadn’t been to a town in weeks. Gunnar had been trying to track down a missing girl in the marshlands northeast of Wayland. So, of course, this meant Vatis had also been wandering around marshes and bogs for the better half of a fortnight. They never found the girl. Though they might have, if that hunter had not thought they were bandits. He was still impressed that Gunnar was able to dodge the next arrow, kill the hunter, and walk almost five miles with a broken arrow in his chest. He certainly was stubborn, Vatis thought, scratching the itchy stubble on his cheek as he remembered their final moments together.

“Is there really nothing when it ends? Just darkness?” Gunnar asked.

Vatis clutched Gunnar’s shaking, blood-stained hand. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I certainly hope not.”

Gunnar’s teeth chattered. “Me too.”

“It’s just another adventure,” Vatis said, leaning closer.

A smile crept through shivers and convulsions onto Gunnar’s cracked lips. His dirty blond hair covered his cloudy eyes. “Vatis,” Gunnar coughed. The words came slower. “I know…”

And then Gunnar died.

What did you know?

Vatis closed his fingers into a fist, kissed the back of his hand, and gently tapped Gunnar’s forehead – a ceremonial gesture they used in Gunnar’s hometown. Gunnar deserved a better death; he deserved to be remembered; he deserved to be buried, but Vatis didn’t have anything to bury him with. His body would provide the ecosystem of the small pond with essential nutrients. There are worse ways to be put to rest.

“Goodbye, Gunnar. Good luck on your next adventure.” Vatis said, hiking back to the road. He put the fading orange sun on his left shoulder and walked until he couldn’t anymore.

Time to find a new story.

---

Embers smoldered in his makeshift campfire, thrown together seconds before exhaustion overcame him. Exhaustion was Vatis’s only constant companion, the one thing he could count on as the sun set on Emre each night. He didn’t know where he would sleep. He didn’t know what he would eat. He didn’t know whose story he would chase, but Vatis knew when the bitter dark of night arrived – he would be exhausted. As far as company went, exhaustion wasn’t that bad. It was undoubtedly better than boredom.

It had been three full days of hard walking, no rest, no writing, and no stories. A deep, sharp pain suddenly accompanied his exhaustion as he rolled onto his back. He grasped at the pain unsuccessfully. His hand was unable to provide the slightest relief as his fingertips teased at a reprieve. He stretched further, almost providing the necessary counter-pressure, but before he could, a sharper pain coursed through his shoulder, sending him back onto his stomach. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck. At least the pain in his shoulder was consolable. His arms trembled as he pushed himself upright.

Vatis stretched gingerly, careful not to extend too far. He rubbed his aching shoulder and brushed the dust from his once-white shirt—somewhere birds sang their morning song. Vatis whistled back, echoing their tune flawlessly. He could identify birds by their sweet, chirping melodies. The high-pitched, bouncy song surrounding him, like a cheerful laugh mocking his pain, could be none other than the common wren. Their songs could be heard throughout Emre and woke him pleasantly on many occasions.

An hour later, the road transitioned from barely recognizable, trampled-down grass to a remarkably well-kept dirt path, which meant only one thing: he was getting close to civilization and opportunity. It was time to act. It was time to become Vatis-of-the-Road, the jovial, carefree bard whose antics teetered dangerously close to annoyance on many occasions. Of the characters he played, Vatis-of-the-Road was his favorite. For a day, he could forget about his troubles and simply meet new people and tell stories. What else would a traveling bard want?

An arrow-shaped sign reading Basswood was affixed crookedly to a rotting lamppost. One of the wrens landed atop the swaying lantern that looked about one bird away from falling. Vatis kicked dirt into the air and forced himself to smile. He pushed thoughts of Gunnar’s death to the back of his mind like an experienced executioner. The journey had taken its toll on him, and he had difficulty getting into character. Come on, Vatis thought, rubbing his temples. He could feel the oil on his hair and skin. I need a bath. Vatis continued various tricks he had to get in character. He slapped his right cheek three times; that didn’t work. He opened his eyes wide like his eyelids would burn his retinas if he allowed them to close; that didn’t work. Finally, when everything else failed, Vatis sang:

Running through the garden
Skipping by the trees
Where is she hiding?
Where could she be?
Is she in the window?
Is she in the hall?
Ah! There! 
In a bright blue dress
Coming for us all

Hopping in the castle
Twirling through the hall
Where is she hiding?
Where could she be?
Is she in the kitchen?
Is she in the wall?
Ah! There! 
In a dark red dress
Hunting for us all

Running through the stable
Hiding in a stall
Where is she hiding?
Where could she be?
Where could she be?
Where could she be?
Ah!

Vatis danced in coordination with the silly melody children sang while playing hide-and-seek. It worked. He was Vatis-of-the-Road. His thighs and calves burned as he crested a long hill, but when he reached the top, he continued his jig in rhythm with the tune.

“Basswood,” Vatis said to himself, changing his voice slightly to test the pitch before he met anyone. “The city of broken promises.” No one called Basswood the city of broken promises, but Vatis thought it had a nice ring to it. Vatis-of-the-Road loved to add these types of details to towns, cities, landmarks, and people – they added flavor to the world in his head.

An immense bridge adorned with stone bears spanned a quick-moving river before turning into the main road where Basswood’s shops were located. Two guards in polished green armor vetted a short line of travelers seeking entrance. Vatis skipped into the line of what looked like two merchants, a husband and wife, and a hunter carrying various pelts over his shoulder.

“Basswood, the city of broken promises,” Vatis repeated as he stepped into the line.

The tall, muscular hunter scowled at Vatis, stepped forward, and let out an exaggerated sigh. He was huge, larger than Gunnar, and carried the longest bow Vatis had seen; its thick dark wood looked almost like steel.

“What a lovely day. Hello. I’m Vatis, Vatis-of-the-Road. What’s the story behind those pelts and that bow?” Vatis asked with a graceful gesture toward the hunter. “You see, I’m a traveling bard.”

The hunter turned with speed that Vatis did not think possible for a man of his size. “None of your business,” he said, reaching for a dagger sheathed on his hip. His hard, scarred face issued one of the most frightening threats Vatis had ever received, and he’d been threatened a lot.

“Understood,” Vatis said, holding up his hands and cowering into the chest of an elderly woman who had filed in behind him. Now, this man might have a story worth telling. “Ah, sorry, ma’am.”

The hunter huffed and stepped forward as the guards ushered up the next travelers. Vatis followed but kept his distance, listening to the guards question the couple in front of the hunter.

“What brings you to Basswood?” one of the guards asked the husband and wife.

“We are passing through on our way to Barna. We were hoping to stay at the inn,” the man said with his arm around the woman.

On your way to Barna, you’re a long way off, Vatis thought.

“Where are you coming from?” the guard said.

“Numeria, sir,” the man answered.

“And what business would a couple from Numeria have in Barna?”

“Ah, well, that’s a matter of some discretion, sir. We … we have business with the King. I assure you we will be no trouble. No trouble at all. We only plan to stay the night.”

Business with the King, that could be interesting. Vatis desperately wanted to go to Barna. He dreamed of performing at the King’s Tourney, but he couldn’t even muster the courage to perform in one of the qualifying events. For now, his stories would have to live in his mind and small uncrowded taverns. Vatis rubbed his eyes to release himself from his daydream.

“What is the blacksmith's name in Numeria?” the other guard asked.

“The blacksmith,” the man said, scratching his chin. “I don’t have many needs for a blacksmith, but I believe his name is Alvor.”

The guards nodded at each other. “Welcome to Basswood. Over there with the lantern hanging in the doorway, that’s the Rau Tavern. There should be room for you.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” the man said as they gathered their belongings and walked across the bridge.

‘Next,” the guard said.

The hunter stepped forward. “What brings you to Basswood? Oh, it’s you,” the guard said.

The hunter pointed at the pelts on his shoulder. “You want to sell those, Elbert?” The hunter nodded fiercely.

“That’s all?” the guard asked.

Elbert. There’s a start. He must be from nearby, Vatis thought.

The hunter nodded sideways as if he was saying yes and no simultaneously. “Fine, just stay away from Ember. She wants nothing to do with you.” the guard said as his voice cracked on the empty threat. “Next.”

The hunter marched across the bridge, and Vatis stepped forward.

“What brings you to,”

Vatis cut off the guard’s initial question. “Ah, Basswood, the city of broken promises.”

“What? This is not the city of broken promises. No one calls it that,” the shorter guard said.

Vatis pointed at the hunter halfway across the bridge. “Well, I’m sure that fellow will do more than sell his pelts, so there is one broken promise already.”

The guard ignored Vatis’s observation. “What brings you to Basswood?” he said. He glared through the narrow slit in his faded emerald armor.

“I’m but a simple bard seeking an audience and shelter,” Vatis said, puffing out his chest before punctuating his statement with a perfectly executed, ball-worthy bow.

The guards looked at each other. Vatis could almost hear their brows furrow in confusion inside their helms. Then, they each nodded, trying to guess what the other was thinking. The shorter guards spoke first. “How long do you plan on staying?”

“Only the night, my friends. If you are off duty, you should come by the inn. I’ve got quite the story to tell.”

“Where are you coming from?” the shorter guard asked.

Vatis smiled. “The road.”

The guard grunted. “Where did you last perform?”

“Wayland.”

“Aye, what inn?” The tall guard said, stepping forward.

Vatis thought for a moment. What was that inn called? Red something. Ah, yes. “The Red Fox,” Vatis said confidently.

The guards shrugged, looked at each other again, and tilted their heads like a scale balancing. ‘You may enter. Welcome to Basswood,” the taller guard said reluctantly. “Stay out of trouble,” he added.

“I promise.”

Vatis skipped across the bridge, humming his song. The guards on the opposite end of the bridge gave him the same unsure look as the two who let him into the city, but they allowed him to carry on. Tall wooden buildings lined a well-kept stone road. A shop with a strange triangular sign caught his eye. Trivial Distractions. He curiously approached the building; a worn piece of parchment was nailed to the front:

The bird is 
NOT FOR SALE 

“Interesting,” Vatis said as he danced into the shop. There must be a story there.

The musty scent of old books immediately brought a smile to Vatis’s face. He didn’t have to act. It was his favorite scent in the world. One day he would have a library of his own with well-kept books that earned an intoxicating scent after years on a bookshelf. A shopkeeper wore thick, black-rimmed eyeglasses, so thick that Vatis doubted the man could even see. He looked up from behind a neatly organized desk containing various jars, books, and two stacks of parchment. A glass jar containing two dragonflies sat on top of a book called “The Lost Forest.”

“What do you want?” the shopkeeper said, returning to his document review.

“The Lost Forest, that’s one of my favorites,” Vatis said.

The shopkeeper looked up from his documents; his long eyelashes flickered against the murky lens of his glasses as if he were seeing the customer for the first time. His bushy grey eyebrows furrowed then rose as the corners of his dry, blistered lips turned slightly upwards. “You know ‘The Lost Forest’?” he asked.

There we are, a warmer greeting. I bet he doesn’t get many customers who can read in Basswood. “Know it. Ha. I’ve read it a dozen times,” Vatis said. “Some believe it’s a true story; that somewhere in the far northeast, there’s a forest with magical creatures. I don’t know if I believe it, but maybe someday I will try to find it. Don’t mind me. I’m just an old man with childish dreams.”

“You don’t look that old,” the shopkeeper said, adjusting his glasses.

Vatis forced himself to laugh. “It’s not how you look. It’s how you feel.”

“Aye, so they say. ‘The Lost Forest’ is a children’s tale, but I enjoy reading it now and again,” the shopkeeper said.

“There’s a lot of truth in children’s tales.”

“Aye. So, what brings you into my shop?”

“I want to see the bird,” Vatis said, looking around the cozy, candle-lit shop.

“She’s not for sale,” the shopkeeper said quickly. His interest in Vatis seemed to dwindle, and he scanned his documents slowly, marking an “x” in the bottom right corner before moving them to the neighboring pile.

“I don’t want to buy the bird. I just want to see her. A bird must be something special for you to nail that sign to the front of your door. Why else would people continually ask to buy a bird?” Vatis said.

“She is something special for a wren.” The shopkeeper bent down and brought up a black birdcage. Perched on a wooden bar inside was a common wren. It looked almost identical to the dozens of birds that he whistled along with this morning, unremarkable brown feathers over a tan underbelly, except its beak was gold, not a pale yellow, but gold like a king’s crown. Vatis whistled its morning song, and the bird cocked its head back and forth, listening. It flapped its wings excitedly when Vatis finished and echoed the tune.

“Where did you learn to whistle like that?” the shopkeeper asked.

“It’s just something I picked up on the road. I have spent many mornings in the company of wren; their song is one of my favorites. She certainly has an interesting beak. I have never seen one like that. Is it natural?”

“It is,” the shopkeeper said. “I found her outside my bedroom window one morning. She has been something of a good luck charm since, but the beak isn’t even the most impressive part.” He whistled sharply to get the bird’s attention. “Heppni, say good morning.”

“Good morning,” the wren squawked; morning sounded like marning.

Vatis’s eyebrows raised as he bent closer to the cage. “That is impressive. Does she say anything else?”

“A few other phrases, but she is best at saying good morning.”

“Good marning,” Heppni repeated. “Good marning.”

“Ha, that’s terrific. I can see why people would want to buy her,” Vatis said. He reached for his belt and pulled out a worn leather coin purse.

“She’s not for sale,” the shopkeeper said defensively as he pulled the cage behind the desk.

“I understand,” Vatis said, holding out an affirming hand. “I want to buy your copy of ‘The Lost Forest.’ It has been a long time since I read it, and I feel nostalgic today. How much?”

“Ah,” the shopkeeper paused. “It’s not really for sale either, but I could part with it for ten Kan.”

“Seven.”

“Ten.”

“Will you go to nine? I need enough coin to stay at the Rau tonight,” Vatis said.

“Aye, I can do nine,” the shopkeeper said as he pulled the book out from under the jar of dragonflies. The glittering azure bugs fluttered around as their container jostled back and forth.

Vatis counted out nine Kan. His purse was nearly empty, well, the purse he carried on his belt. Only a few coins rattled as he reattached it. He picked up the book and opened it to the first page. A large drawing of a tree surrounded by a circle of perfectly round stones sat above the tile: “The Lost Forest.” He smiled and tucked the book into his bag.

“Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you and Heppni. When I am back in town, I expect to be able to have a conversation with her.” The shopkeeper laughed, and Vatis bowed as he walked backward out the door. It was time to go to the tavern, where Vatis-of-the-Road shined brightest.