The Villager's Tale

Mages were not as plentiful in those days as they be in modern times. Nor were they as welcome. Remember, magic was not trusted, in those days before the Dragon-slayer Wars. The mage himself helped matters not, appearing suddenly in the village square, standing before the blacksmith's in his dark, hooded robes, like some shadow or wraith, freshly escaped. He asked the startled blacksmith for directions to the nearest inn, and stalked off, spreading about him the scents of countless herbs and spices, magical ingredients for potions only he knew of. He spent his days at the local drinking house, where I worked . . . no, not this one, this alehouse was built years later. At the time, the only drinking house to speak of was Alain's; nothing more than wooden tables and benches, really. There he would sit for hours on end, sipping blood-tear tea and staring straight ahead. If asked what he was doing, he would only look at the sky with his eyes, the colour of winter rain clouds, and say, "I am waiting." This was the only answer he would give, no matter how hard one pressed him; believe me, friend, for I can recall many a night wasted questioning the mage. He was strange looking, with silver-grey hair that belonged on a man thrice his age, and slim, almost graceful hands with long, horribly thin fingers. He was considered handsome by many, but I thought him ghastly, with his high cheekbones and cadaverous demeanor. He called himself Jerym. Most villagers accepted him as one of them before his second seven-day was through, for he gave his advice freely, and entertained the children of the village upon occasion with his magic. The girls sighed over him, as he was, despite his silver hair, no more than twenty-five winters old; and his un-ringed hand spoke for itself. I, on the other hand, liked him not; nor could I find any young man in the village who differed from my opinion. Call me Ishmael. No, call me Bob. No, call me..... Well, it matters not what ye call me. Naught but my tale matters. It be a true tale, no matter what the scribes and historians say, and I know it to be true, for I was there myself, so many years ago. I have neglected to mention someone of import to this tale. Her name was Tamsin, easily the fairest maiden in the whole village. By fair, I mean not fair of skin, as Tamsin was dark of color, from her long, glossy mane of hair to her oft-bared feet; nay, by fair I mean fair of heart. Tamsin was the sweetest, kindest, quietest maid for miles; indeed, most every young man would have given his life to win her. But not a word was spoken in her favour; nor was she given a shred of respect. For Tamsin was a foundling. She had no kin; indeed, she had naught to call her own but the clothes she wore. She went from house to house, working for shelter and food, sleeping in the fields when she could find none. No one knew of her past; naught was known of her but her name and face. She could never marry, for she had no dowry, and for that reason, she was shunned by the all. Shunned by all, that is, 'til the mage came. Turn the Page Back to the Blueberry Fields index page

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Page design, layout, and contents by Clockwork Penguin Productions. Backgrounds and flower plates courtesy of System F. Penguin Kao Ani Smilies courtesy of Miwa's Farm

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