Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
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Prologue
The sky was still light, though ribbons of red, apricot, and gold flamed across the horizon and tinted the drifting clouds. The air was warm, as it would be for most of the night this time of year. Opa was pleased; he did his best telling under the open sky. The stars would be brilliant later, and the moon would be full. A perfect evening for a telling. The Fey would approve.
Talking softly among themselves, the people with whom he had dined led the way from the house to a cluster of chairs, benches, and rugs the host had brought outdoors for the occasion.
As the adults strolled, the children darted among them like minnows through a stately school of trout, their voices shrill with excitement. Most of them were old enough to remember his last visit, the year before, and the ones who weren't were infected by the excitement of their elder siblings.
Opa was unconcerned. They would quiet down when the time came.
The adults chose seats, spread rugs, or settled into the cool grass, drawing their children to sit beside them. Opa followed, knowing the best seat, the place of honor, would be saved for him. Sure enough, he spied a rocking chair, with weathered cushions of no particular color, set to one side where all gathered could see and hear clearly. Vastly superior to the more usual old stump or rock.
With easy dignity, Opa made his way to the rocker and settled into it with a sigh of pleasure. The children flopped in the grass all around, their faces turned to him like flowers to the sun.
Before he could speak, the host's eldest son, Peter, called out, "Now tell us the story, Opa!" The eager grin on the boy's face was only slightly marred by a broad smear of jam.
Next to him, Ava chimed in, echoing her older brother as was becoming her habit. "Yes, Opa, a story!" She bounced in place, as if any moment she would be up and away.
The old man leaned back and looked around at the faces turned to his. He had no blood relatives here, but to all of them he was, and had always been, Opa: Grandfather. Aside from his host's family, there were three work hands and their wives and children, two sets of in-laws and their children, and many others; friends and neighbors who had made the trip to this prosperous house just for the chance to hear him.
It was, as ever, flattering to the old man; but more, it filled him with a blend of gratitude and satisfaction. He knew how important his stories were, even if many in his audiences didn't.
He made a pretense of deep thought, stroking the white beard lining his square jaw. Last year, it had flowed down his still-powerful chest, but its length was a nuisance for a life on the road. "A story, eh?" he mused aloud. "Well, I could probably manage."
He let his eyes, still the bright blue of his youth, settle once more on Christa, Peter and Ava's mother, who sat beside her husband, Timothy, their infant son clasped in her arms. "Of course, storytelling is dry work," Opa continued. "As parched as I feel.…"
The woman laughed and shook her head, the fading sunlight catching the first glints of silver in her dark hair. "That was as gentle a chastisement as ever I've received. If someone will hold Raymond?" The look she gave her husband left no doubt of which "someone" she had in mind.
He chuckled. "Well, we can't have a storytelling without your fruit cordials, my love. I don't know how Opa knew you've been saving them all this time, but the secret's out now."
Opa smiled. "The flavor has lived on my tongue since last year. I'd not be likely to forget that."
In the general laughter that followed, Christa rose with a gracious smile, handed the baby to Timothy, and went back to the house. She was barely out of sight when Peter piped up again, quickly joined by two of his cousins — what were their names again? Ah, yes — Josiah and Mariah.
"Tell us a Triad story, Opa!"
"No! I want to hear about a Cavalier."
"The olden days, tell us about the olden days."
"I want a story about magic; can we have a magic story, Opa?"
Mariah sat up and spoke with authority. "No! It's got to be a Cavalier story. I want a story about Oengus."
Peter turned to her with scorn. "He wasn't a Cavalier."
"Was so!"
"Was not!"
"Yes he was! He could beat anybody!"
Peter turned to Opa for verification. "Oengus was not a Cavalier, was he Opa?"
Opa raised a hand, concealing his pleasure behind a stern expression, and the children fell silent. "So, you remember the tales of Oengus MacHeath, do you?" he said. "Oengus was a great warrior, true. But it takes more than skill at arms to make one a Cavalier."
Perhaps they could have answered him, but their mother reappeared beside Opa's chair, a tray stacked with cups and two tall, squared glass bottles in her hands, and the moment was lost." Enough," she said. "Let Opa have his drink first. Would you help yourself, Opa?"
She should have served him herself, he reflected, but let it pass. After all, her hands were full, the tray was heavy and there was no place to set it, an oversight on her part she would probably correct after tonight.
With a cheerful smile, the old man lifted the nearest cup in one hand and relieved her of one of the bottles with the other. As he poured, the smell of summer-ripe peaches and bright cinnamon flooded the air; he hummed aloud in anticipation. "Spiced peach! My very favorite. Madam, you are a marvel and without peer."
She beamed with pleasure. "Oh, you're too kind." She looked around for a place to set the tray; Timothy rose, set the baby carefully on the seat, and took it from her. She smiled her thanks and filled the other cups, passing them to her guests before finally taking her seat next to her husband, he gathering Ava onto his lap, she with baby Raymond on hers. They gave their full attention to the old man in the rocking chair.
Opa took a moment to center himself, gathering his ki, the energy of his soul with which he infused his telling, making the tales live and breathe in the hearts and minds of those fortunate enough to hear him. For a moment, he held the entire story in all its glory clearly in his mind's eye, even the parts he knew would remain untold.
Then he looked at each of the semi-circle of faces turned to him, one by one, holding their gazes by the strength of his will.
Clearly, none of them were old enough to remember first hand the things he told of. Some would hear him with nothing more than amusement and pleasure, seeking only an evening's entertainment, a break from the day-to-day routine of their lives. Others would listen with envy, wishing they knew more of the things of which he spoke than mere tales.
A few would secretly shudder with relief and be grateful that they knew no more.
But some would truly hear him, would listen to the stylized words, the rhythms of line and phrase that were part of the storyteller's art, and would hear what lay behind it, all the deeds, dreams, thoughts, and passions that Opa, of necessity, must leave aside. And they would learn.
Those were the ones for whom his stories were truly meant.
"You ask for a Triad tale, a story of valor, of magic and Cavaliers. You ask much. But perhaps not more than I can give." He paused. "Of Cavaliers, always remember: a true Cavalier must have more than a sword and the skill to use it. The path of the Cavalier begins in the heart."
He leaned back, still holding their eyes with his and not letting go. "Let me share with you the tale of one who walked that road. One who was…another storyteller."