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A Tuning Fork in the Road; [Choices Short Story GRP; DNR]
Topic Started: Sun Jun 8, 2014 11:20 pm (224 Views)
Zolero Rossen
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The tall grass that ringed in the Debon Plains' numerous farms and stables hid countless secrets, both mundane and magical--and not all of them benign. Despite--or perhaps, considering the nature of youth, because of--the danger involved, not one of the farmers' children could resist the allure of the wilderness. Their parents had organized a small rota to try to keep the would-be adventurers in the safe confines of civilisation, but even their best efforts had been ineffective when faced with the children's eternally innovative escapes, and they'd long since given up their doomed campaign against the farms' youth and switched their labours to keep their children safe to the less daunting task of clearing the hazards out from the grasslands. A swathe of land a little under five kilometers in each direction had been staked out as reasonably safe, and while the occasional lost bear wandered through and gave a group of children a fright, it had been several years since anyone had been lost to the forest. It would take at least two hours for a child's small legs to clamber through the thick bracken to reach the edge, and even the few children brave enough to venture past the safe zone were rarely determined enough to walk for so long without being sidetracked by a particularly easy-to-climb tree or inviting game of tag.

One such explorer, no older than eight or nine years, was hidden in a small hole dug by some long-dead animal, shielded from sight by a thick circle of brush. It was nearly impossible to tell someone was there without standing directly behind them. Only the occasional faint rustling of the leaves when he became uncomfortable and shifted his weight could have clued in any searcher. He'd found the cubbyhole some years previously, during a game of hide-and-seek with some of his friends. It had since become a sanctuary from the exacting chores that his father's farm demanded of him, although every chore he escaped was replaced by a long and equally arduous lecture from his father about the need to take responsibility when he inherited the farm.

The boy, although he had never found the courage to tell his father, had no intention of inheriting the farm. The idea of spending his life tromping through muddy fields wielding a heavy scythe was anathematic to his venturesome spirit. Like many of the children, he played at being a knight or soldier and slaying fearsome dragons, but unlike them, his desire to escape the monotonous life he'd been born into was anything but frivolous.

Peering through a small gap in the leaves, he could see the solitary dirt road that connected their small network of farms to the city of Kellen. It rarely saw traffic except at the end of fall, when the farmers loaded their harvest onto their ramshackle carts and rattled off into Kellen to sell and barter their goods. The reaping was still several months off--the foliage that hid him from any prying eyes had only just retrieved the leaves lost in a harsh winter--but the boy could hear the rhythmic thudding of a horse's feet. The long-neglected road sent up clouds of dust in protest.

Had any other child been the first to catch sight of the new visitor, they would quickly have run off to spread the gossip, but the boy had just had a furious argument with his father and was not yet prepared to return home. He'd set an entire row of fencing the wrong way around, losing a full afternoon's work at a time when the farm could ill afford to waste any time in getting their seeds planted, and his father had raged at him until he could bear it no longer.

He watched with solemn curiosity as the cart passed by him. He'd seen one more expensive, when a nobleman had come to discuss buying some of the farmland to build a country home--a venture which, despite the best efforts of the locals, was quickly put to rest by the contrast between the idyllic golden plains imagined by the nobleman and the dusty, inglorious reality--but it was flashier by far than the practical carts used by the farmers. It was painted in a variety of eye-catching colours. Wide crimson banners hung from both sides, displaying a face the boy presumed was the owner's above a row of letters. He'd never learned to read, but he recognized the symbols from the signs hanging over many of the buildings in Kellen city.

Clambering quietly from the hole, he slid down the hill and fell into line behind the carriage, unseen. It continued along the road for some time before rolling to a halt and letting the short, pudgy man featured on the banners emerge from its ornamented interior. He peered at a scrap of parchment and looked around the barren fields, shielding his eyes from the fickle spring sun. When he caught sight of the boy who had tailed him for the past quarter hour, he jumped back, his eyes widening in fear before he registered that his pursuer's youth and relaxed. "Oh... Hello," he said, straightening his collar.

The boy looked up at him. The suspicion that any young child holds for an unfamiliar adult who might, with no notice, insist that he go to bed or do his chores was assuaged somewhat by the man's small stature; while the trim but scruffy beard that adorned his chin marked him as irretrievably grown up, he was shorter than many of the older children. His eyes danced even behind their thin gauze of worry, and his cheeks were chubby and dimpled. "Hi. 'M Zolero," the boy mumbled shyly.

The man smiled. "Good afternoon, Zolero. I heard there was a hamlet of some sort around here. Might you happen to know where it is located?" He spoke with a flowery friendliness. Zolero tilted his head to the side and looked quizzically at the man. The road was lined on both sides by farms. He wondered how the man had failed to recognize the obviously cultivated rows of barley, wheat and corn. The noise and disruption of the farmers' yearly trip to Kellen had dissuaded anyone from building a farmhouse near the road, but the signs of tillage were everywhere.

Zolero pointed across the fields towards a nearby farmhouse. Still dubious about the visitor's intelligence, he instructed, "This way," and trotted off along one of the lanes between the rows of crops. The man tagged along behind him, abandoning his cart beside the road. He followed the boy's footsteps exactly, careful not to let his bulging belly disturb the crops on either side. Zolero glanced back at him. "What are you doing here?" he asked with childish bluntness.

The man paused in mid-step, wobbling from side to side. "I'm a travelling musician," he proclaimed after a long pause. "I came to Kellen intending to perform in at the Green Gryphon, but... something came up, and I had to leave in a hurry. I was hoping I could perform here in exchange for a room for the night and perhaps some supplies for the rest of my journey."

Zolero stopped and turned around to stare at him. He'd caught the man's hesitance to offer a reason for his sudden departure from Kellen. He squinted at the man suspiciously, his imagination offering up hundreds of possible explanations. The man didn't look like a murderer, or a monster, or a vampire, but surely that only made him more dangerous. Zolero picked a twig up from off the ground and brandished it in front of him, bravely defending his home from the ravages of this mysterious newcomer, who now looked rather taken aback. "How come you had to leave Kellen?" he demanded. "Did you kill somebody?"

"Heavens, no!" he replied in mock indignance, a hint of an smile crossing his face for a brief second. He bit his lip, then ducked his head and whispered confidentially to Zolero. "You want to know the real reason? Can you keep a secret?"

Zolero nodded gravely.

"Well, I was playing dice with some men and I got a little carried away. I ended up owing them more money than I had. But you musn't tell anyone, agreed? Else it might get back to them, and they'll know where to come looking for me." The last few words were spoken with serious urgency.

Zolero puffed out his skinny chest. "You can count on me," he said proudly, swishing his stick from side to side as he turned back to follow the trail. "They'll never even know you're here." The farmers, most of whom were still paying off the hefty loans they'd needed to buy their farms, were fiercely opposed any other form of debt, and this contempt had rubbed off. Helping someone escape a creditor was nearly on a par with saving a kidnapped princess in the children's Ranking of Heroic Feats.

After a few seconds of silence, he continued questioning the man. "What does a travelling musician do, anyway?"

The man shrugged. "We travel and play music," he replied flippantly, then, sensing Zolero's dissatisfaction, chuckled and continued, "I play the flute, usually at a tavern or an inn, and people give me money for it. Would you like to hear me play?"

"Yes please!"

"Well, usually I don't play for people when I'm not performing a show--I'd never make any money--but I suppose I could make an exception for my stalwart protector." He stopped and rummaged through a pocket sewn onto his vest, emerging with a long, thin case. He popped it open and extracted a wooden flute, from which his lips and hands coaxed a beautiful, lilting tune.

Zolero listened, enrapt. The fast, low notes swept him away from the fields, transporting him to a kingdom of imagination and passion. He closed his eyes. The few minutes that passed while the man finished his song seemed to stretch into hours, then days, then weeks and years and lifetimes contained within the short seconds, and still Zolero wanted more.

When the man at last finished and dropped his flute to his side, it took Zolero several minutes to snap out of his entranced stupor. The man grinned pridefully at his speechless wonder. He held the instrument out to the boy. "Would you like to try?"

Zolero, still dumbfounded, didn't register the offer immediately. He looked, startled, at the flute the man was holding out to him. When the man's words were at last siphoned through the vivid strands of thought and creativity that the music had woven across his mind, he stared at the man, unable to believe that the man would grant him such a marvelous opportunity. He nodded, his eyes making the plea that the voice stolen by wonder could not, and held out both hands.

He received it reverently. Cradling it gently in his hands, he raised it slowly to his dry lips and gave a short blow. Encouraged by the pure note that came out, he gripped it slightly tighter and began to play for the first of what would be many times.
Edited by Zolero Rossen, Sun Jun 22, 2014 4:34 am.
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