The Tales of Tarya, Books 1-3

Chapter 3 - Columbina-1

ColumbinaIn the end, the journey took a day longer than even Sofia had guessed. For two days they travelled a narrow pass between the looming peaks of the mountain on their right and the dark shadows of Ravenna forest on their left. They had to rest the horse frequently as the road grew steeper, pulling off the road to allow room for other travellers to pass. On the first night out of Malo they camped at the edge of the forest. Balto didn’t want to stray far from the road. Though it was a warm evening, he lit a huge fire and kept it burning all night. Mina caught him glancing anxiously at the nearby trees often. He still did not speak much, but his face spoke eloquently of his fear of the dense forest.

Sofia drew Mina away from the fire that night so Balto would not overhear, and taught her all the formulae for starting and ending stories. There were more than Mina had realised, depending on the type of story—whether it was a legend, or a story about royalty, or a tale commemorating someone’s life. They sat up late, Sofia teaching Mina tale after tale, surprised at the girl’s ravenous memory. As Mina repeated each tale in turn, her recall virtually faultless, Sofia gave her tips on how best to use her voice, or play a joke, or have the audience hold its breath.

‘You truly have a gift, Mina,’ Sofia declared as they made ready for bed. ‘What you have learned in one night would generally take an apprentice months. Tomorrow we will continue the lessons on the road. This training is usually done in secret, but I doubt Balto will overhear.’

‘With his humming and the endless clinking of bottles,’ Mina agreed.

On the third day of their travel, they came upon another village, and Mina’s heart leaped for a moment, but they had not yet reached Pedon.

Ilsa was unlike any village Mina had ever seen, for the houses were built atop the undulating slopes of the hills through which they now travelled, and the harvest grew on terraces. Mina had never seen grape vines before and was astounded when Balto, in a fit of loquaciousness, explained the process of making wine as the road wound ever upward. Grape vines soon gave way to orchards, then to vegetable gardens. Finally they reached small gardens of bright flowers and tiled terraces with lacy wire fences. The houses, lined with many small windows to catch the sun, reminded Mina of Andon, being whitewashed and almost too bright to look at in the afternoon sunlight.

As with Malo, as soon as the villagers saw the many-hued patches of Sofia’s storyteller cloak they welcomed the travellers effusively, hurrying them to the village divina as bells rang out to draw others in. Sofia told a myth full of romance and bravery, to the villagers’ delight.

‘Join us for a feast,’ they begged afterward. Mina watched in astonishment as they carried a long table out of a nearby house, setting it up on one of the terraces, then proceeded to pile it high with spiced sausages, fruit, many types of pies, and fresh, steaming golden bread shaped into knot work and flowers. Once everyone was sated, they removed the food with the same swift ease and replaced it with a variety of sweet cakes decorated in pastel colours.

A young woman came up to Mina and offered her a simple purse of yellow fabric. ‘Thank you,’ she said shyly.

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Mina protested, but the young woman pressed the purse on her anyway. It was filled with coins. Feeling guilty, Mina slipped them into the beaded pouch she had taken to wearing on her belt and returned the purse. The pouch was made from fabric Paolo had given her, and as she touched it she made a wish that it would bring her luck in finding him.

Mina hurried to Sofia. ‘They gave me coins,’ she whispered. ‘But I didn’t do anything.’

‘They see you as my apprentice,’ Sofia responded. ‘It is their way of showing how much stories matter.’

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a pompous, fat man in a dark blue velvet waistcoat that strained to cover his belly.

‘Madame story teller’, he boomed, ‘my name is Geraldo. Let me be your host for this evening. A bed is prepared for you. This way …’

What seemed like a dozen children ranging in age from almost adult to barely walking followed them, giggling all the way, to his house at the peak of the hill.

At the gate he turned to the children. ‘Off you go now, go home.’

The children protested, but did as they were told, scattering like rats.

‘Come in, come in, Madame story teller. Let me serve you some port as a nightcap.’

Mina decided she loved the sweet dark drink, which they drank seated in a lavishly furnished sitting room. The decorating seemed like someone’s idea of what wealth should look like, with ornate gold chairs upholstered in clashing velvets. Afterward she expected to be able to go to bed, exhausted from the day’s travel and feasting, but Geraldo had other plans. He talked at them for several hours, telling them about the happenings of the village, the people who lived there, and particularly about his family.

Finally, late into the night, Sofia asked to be shown to their rooms. Geraldo proudly led them to a guest room where all the furnishings were sewn from a fabric of rustic scenes drawn in rose on a white background.

‘My late wife chose the fabric,’ he said with a little sniff. ‘She decorated the whole house. Such exquisite taste. Well, good night.’

Mina waited a moment after the door closed to be sure she would not be overheard before she turned to Sofia.

‘Is that the downside of the popularity of story tellers? As players, we may have been shunned by some, but we never had to endure hours of reminiscences by drunken village elders.’

Sofia chuckled as she draped her cloak carefully over the gilt-edged, rose-patterned chair.

‘Not the most exciting of evenings, I’ll give you that,’ she said. ‘But actually, this is part of our role.’

Mina, turning down the sheets on the bed they were to share, looked across at Sofia with a grimace. ‘What?’

Sofia patted the side of the bed and they sat down together. ‘What do we do Mina?’

‘We tell stories.’

‘And why is that important?’

Mina thought for a moment. ‘It … it entertains people. It lifts them out of their ordinary lives.’

Sofia nodded at each answer.

‘We …’ Mina followed her thoughts. ‘We show them their lives …’

She was answering like a player. She looked at her new friend, a question in her eyes.

‘We are the memory of the people, Mina. All you have said is true, but the most important thing we can do is to connect people to what has come before, and show what will come after. Show them their lives matter. We find the shape of their life, so they can understand. When you are living it you can’t see the patterns, or hear the song that threads through your days. And no one can do that on their own, regardless. It takes someone who can sit outside, listening to all the voices that remember a life, to shape a tale with a beginning and an ending. Someone who has a gift with words, find the right words … Tonight I learned about Geraldo’s wife, how she lived, what she gave to this place. Geraldo has entrusted everything about her life, as well as his love for her, to me, and I will return his trust by bringing a tale back to him when next I return. His wife will live on—her life will be remembered. And it will have meant something. Once we give words to a person’s time on this earth, we give their life meaning.’

‘That’s why storytelling is sacred,’ Mina responded thoughtfully.

Sofia nodded. ‘Without stories, nothing makes sense. Stories unlock the world for us, and show us our place within it. By becoming a story teller, you take on a sacred trust. Now sleep. Tomorrow we will travel the rest of the way to Pedon, and you will find your brother.’

Mina could not sleep. Her heart and mind churned. As she lay listening to the first birds of morning, she could not decide whether what had kept her awake was the thought of seeing Paolo again, finally, or the dawning awareness of the great responsibility resting on her shoulders now she was a story teller.

~

Pedon was much the same as Ilsa in character, perched atop vibrant green terraced hills planted with vines. Though only a few days travel from Aurea, it was surrounded by mountains on three sides, tucked away in a forgotten corner of the world. The hills leading up to the village were so high the road had to zigzag back and forth to make it a manageable incline, so though they caught sight of glistening white houses on the hillside in early afternoon, it was dusk before they actually reached them.

Strangely, there was no sign of life amongst the houses on the lower slopes. Windows stood open, but not one face peered out at the travellers. As they neared the hill’s peak, however, banging and cheering and wisps of music could be heard.

‘Some kind of festival?’ Sofia asked of no one in particular.

‘It’s too late for the Festival of Lights,’ Mina replied as they rounded a final bend to reach the outskirts of the village proper. The road led past tiers of houses to a village centre made up of three levels of terraces, with steps of stone linking each to the others. Above these was a grand house, tiled with elaborate images like the houses in Aurea.

As they rounded a corner, they suddenly found the villagers, crowded onto two terraces. Balto called a halt because his way was blocked by several hundred people, all dressed in clothes more like costumes than anything else. The women wore colourful skirts writhing with embroidery, their hair pinned under similarly embroidered scarves. Men tapped their feet and whistled, splendid in tall hats and embroidered vests. Though the crowd was at a standstill, many people swayed to music from an unknown source. Children danced through the crowd, carrying drums, or sticks bound with coloured ribbons, banging them noisily. Every now and then amidst their shuffling feet, Mina caught sight of colourful squares on the ground. She guessed the entire terrace must be made up of patterned tiles.

Sofia and Mina climbed down from the cart. Sofia’s cloak did not draw the attention it normally would. Everyone was caught up in the music. Nearby, the children had formed a long line and were snaking around the terrace with purpose. As they neared, Mina saw a tall young man leading them, leaping and whooping. His face was pulled into a wide grimace that might be a smile, but might as easily be a cry of pain. As he danced he waved a stick wound with ribbons of crimson and emerald.

The snake of children came closer and closer, their noise deafening. If Mina wanted to ask what was going on, no one would hear her. The young man, his face dancing through many expressions as he led the children in their dance, suddenly saw Mina and stopped for an instant. His feet were bare and his hair, which was long and knotted, was twisted through with ribbons of red, green, yellow and blue.

He came skipping over, singing a song that sounded familiar to Mina—a lively dance tune in a minor key. There were no words though, merely a kind of melodic whistling that spilled into the general commotion. In the shifting crowd someone trod on his foot, but he didn’t seem to notice. He danced right up to Mina and pushed his face close to hers so their noses almost touched.

‘Columbina, Columbina,’ he sang, and reached out to take both her hands. He swung her around in a lopsided dance, spinning her faster and faster until she cried out to him to stop. The children were laughing, clapping and cheering, calling out what must be his name.

‘Dance, Colum, dance,’ they encouraged him. He spun her around the other way. For a moment Mina regained her balance, but he kept spinning her and she became ever dizzier. Then he stopped still, without warning. Mina stumbled, falling against him. He reached out one hand, his finger winding through the air as though he were tracing the path of a bee, until it lighted on Mina’s nose. Something caught his eye and he reached for the money pouch on her belt.