The Beetle's Song

I'm in love. In love with the song of the heavens, the wind in the trees, and trickling of the brook. But most of all, I'm in love with Crescendo. His arms are smooth and strong. His hands thick and warm. But it's his song – yes, his song – that's most beautiful to me. It's ever growing in intensity, every note building upon the other, until it reaches a pinnacle of perfection you never though possible. Still it grows, weaving in, weaving out, till there's a thousand tender strands woven into his song. That's how it always builds until he touches me. When our hands are interwoven, his song stops altogether, like he's pausing for a breath, and I know he's listening to mine – he told me so.

Mine is like a war, he says. Like the clash of beda-beetles on the front lines. Like a chaotic 

cacophony of melodies colliding. I ask him, “Is it pretty?”

“I like it,” he says. “You've many thoughts a tumbling around in your head.”

“And that's a good thing?”

“Yes, it means you think.”

Yes, I do think. Too much Mama says. But my thoughts won't sit still even under the strongest meditation. It makes my beda-bug feisty. She buzzes and flits beside my ear, tickling every hair till I brush her away. She'd make a good battle bug, Papa insists, but I don't want to go to battle. I don't want to fight the Pain-Bringers. They don't have songs. You never know one is behind you until you hear a twig snap. Then it's too late. Pain shoots into your eyes, a place you never feel.

..........................

Beda thread her way through the wood, here ears attentive and alert. Lady buzzed past her right ear and led the way, flitting back and forth between the trees. 

Lady, wait! Beda's bare foot caught on something sharp, and she fell to the ground. Twigs crunched under her weight. Beda cradled her aching wound. 

Bzz-bzzzz! Lady landed on the girl's nose.

Beda swatted the beetle away. "Patience, girl!" she growled through clenched teeth.

Bzz-bzzz! We haven't got much time.

"I know, but I can't very well walk on a hurting foot." Beda's fingers slid across her foot, feeling for abrasions in the skin.

You will have to learn to fight with much more than a hurt foot in the war.

"I know, I don't want to think about it."

You will have to soon enough.

Beda sighed and pushed herself off the ground. She grimaced as pain shot up leg. 

Lady tickled here cheek. There you go. Hurry now. The Uncles and Aunts won't wait for you!

Right. Beda took a deep breath. "Lead on."

Lady buzzed on ahead of her, humming an all too familiar tune. The war will come, O children rise. Defend the Father's holy land. Let our notes reach high and true, perfect songs to break all doom.

Beda ignored the notes of the song and focused on the buzzing of Lady's wings.

"Beda." The girl felt an hand on her arm and squealed.

"Peace, Beda," the voice spoke again. "It's just me. Didn't you hear my song?"

"Crescendo." Beda exhaled. "I'm sorry, I was focused on Lady."

"You need to be more aware of your surroundings."

"I know, I was just in a hurry. Have the sessions started?"

"Yes, but your name has not been called yet. Come, let's go." Crescendo grabbed here arm, his beetle now leading the way. Beda leaned close to him, trying to calm her thudding heart. She felt the trees fade away and open air rushed her face. In the distance, she could hear a thousand songs intermingled in the town square.

"Something is wrong." Beda shivered as she interpreted the frantic notes of the music.

Her friend spoke in a hushed voice. "I think now they have called your name."

Lady zipped angrily around Beda's face. "I'm going, I'm going!" Beda sprinted for the square, grimacing again as pain shot up her foot.


------------------------

Well, this is a very rough draft of the beginning of a story I've been tossing around in my head for about a year now. What I want to do with this story is just a bit difficult. If you don't mind, I'd like a little feedback so I know whether I got a few things across clearly or not.

First, did you understand that these characters cannot see, but rather they rely on their beetles to tell them where to go?

Also, is it clear that each person has a unique song by which they communicate feelings and personality?

Do you want to read more?

Oh and my title has nothing to do with the old music group...I just haven't come up with a better title yet :)

Guardian - Part 5

Children danced in the streets, their shadows flickering in the firelight. Musicians struck up a lively tune on their flutes, and someone began to sing. Soon the whole square was a light with music and dancing. Paul tapped his foot to the beat of the ancient song. Yes, he'd known this tune since he was a child.

“The King is my strength, my rock in troubled times.

My soul will sing his deeds, and my heart will magnify.

Lifting up his body, and laying down his sword,

He will rescue me from danger, and pay the ransom for my life.”

Paul's heart swelled with pride as he watched his daughter Lilith join the dancers, her feet moving gracefully to the music. Her voice rose above the other girls, and a light twinkled in her eyes. She was watching someone. Paul followed her gaze to a group of young men. One towheaded boy towered above the rest. Micah.

He couldn't decide whether he should pull his daughter from the dancers or confront the youth. Anger still raged inside Paul, even though he knew the boy wasn't guilty. He'd been angry for so long, he didn't know how to let it go. The King's hand on his arm forced him to break away from his thoughts.

“Something bothering you?” He squinted at Paul in the torch light.

“I still don't trust that boy,” Paul mumbled.

The King glanced at Micah with a frown. “He was your hired hand?”

Paul nodded.

“It seems he certainly is looking for trouble. Brave young man though. We could certainly use young men like him in our ranks.” The King cleared his throat and snapped his fingers, motioning to a man nearby. “Barlow, bring the drinks.”

Paul watched the man slip back into Ada's Tavern, soon returning with others at his heels. They lugged ale barrels through the door into the street. Ada herself followed the barrels, her eyes watchful slits. When her gaze fell upon the King, she approached, a smile stretching across her face. “We have food and drink for everyone, just as you ordered, O King.” She gave a slight bow.

The King beamed and leaned close, whispering something in her ear. Paul tried to catch the words, but the music drowned them out. Finally, the King leaned back, stepping close to a barrel. He pounded his fist against its belly. When that wasn't enough, he snatched the dagger from his belt and banged the barrel with the hilt. The crowd hushed, and the musicians lowered their flutes.

The King smiled. “Thank you, everyone, for coming. I know you've long awaited this day. I only wish it could have come sooner, but now, let us not dwell in the dark memories of the past, but rejoice in present, for deliverance is at hand. Soon your crops will grow green again and your homes rebuilt. No longer will raiders rob you of your children, of your possessions, and of your joy. Come, let us celebrate. Ada has provided food and drink for us all.”

With one voice the crowd cheered, and the ale barrels were opened. Paul's hear drummed in his chest. This wasn't right. The elder King had always discouraged drink, and now his son was supporting it? The picture was wrong, all wrong, as the King filled a mug himself. He lifted it to Paul. “Come, general, wipe that sour frown of your face.”

Paul accepted the mug with sweaty fingers, before glancing back to where his wife stood among the crowd, little Elaine on her hip. No, he couldn't do this. He had to prove to his wife that he was a man, a faithful father, but the King stood over him waiting. Paul lifted the foamy liquid to his lips, but forced himself not to drink. The King, however, seemed satisfied. He turned and filled another cup, this time giving it to Carlos.

All at once the music began again, but all the more lively. Now the people sang of summer, of green crops, and of life. The girls began to dance again, their steps faster. The scene only disturbed Paul. To his relief, Lilith had slipped away and was standing with her Mother.

Paul continued his charade, lifting his mug to his lips whenever he believed the King was watching him. Lissa watched him too, her frown deepening by the minute. Go home, Paul tried to message through his eyes, but she looked away every time their gazes met.

Now what? Paul thought. Chaos would ensue before long. Why, even children were gathering around the ale barrels. Realization dawned on him as eyed the King and tavern keeper. Neither of them drank nor ate, but served. And there, another man, one who had ridden with the King earlier, wasn't drinking either. In fact, most the men he'd seen with the King from the beginning were apart from the crowd, laughing among themselves. And they all had sheathed swords at their sides. All except for Carlos.

Paul gripped his old friend's arm. “Does anything look suspicious to you?” he whispered.

Carlos lowered his mug and peered down at him. Paul saw, with relief, that his friend's mug was still full. “Everything,” Carlos hissed. “Everything looks wrong. From the ale barrels to the King himself. I'm beginning to wonder if that scrawny brat did know what he was talking about.”

Paul nodded, although he wasn't sure he was ready to admit Micah was right. “What are we going to do?”

Carlos shook his head. “I don't have a clue. The whole town will be in a drunken stupor before we know it.”

“Perfect time for a raid,” Paul muttered. The men's eyes locked and silent words passed between them.

“Get your family out of here.” Carlos nudged Paul forward.

“What about you?” Paul spun around.

His friend's eyebrows furrowed, determined. “I'm going to find that boy. See what else he knows.”

The men parted, Paul splitting to the right, and Carlos to the left. It didn't take long to locate Lissa, her disapproving frown sticking out like a sore thumb among the party. Paul grabbed her hand. She jerked away, glaring at the ale still in his hand. Paul let the mug slide to the ground. It clinked against the gravel, and ale splashed onto his boots. “Let's go home, Lissa.”

His wife's eyes softened, and she nodded. “Lilith, gather the children.”

Paul's eldest daughter grasped Amos and Arnon's hands and scanned the crowd. Her eyes widened. “Papa, I don't know where Ernan is!”

Frustration balled Paul's hands into fists. Not again! That boy always had a way of disappearing at the wrong time. “Go on home, Lissa, I'll find him.”

Paul weaved back through the crowd, his eyes scanning every child over four feet tall. None had Ernan's face. Finally he made his way back to the ale barrels. No. Rage shook through Paul's body, and like lightening he split through the crowd and jerked his son to his feet.

Ernan's eyes widened in surprise, and ale dribbled down his chin. “What's wrong, Papa?” he asked innocently.

“You know exactly what is wrong, young man!” Paul yanked the mug from his son's grip and slammed it to the ground.

A funny sound gurgled in Ernan's throat, and his eyes rolled into his head. Then snapped back, fiery and green. An unearthly cackle shook it's way out of the boy's chest.

No, no, no. Paul let his son slump back to the ground. “Someone, please, help!”

The crowd only cackled in response, lifting their mugs to their faces. Fear shivered up Paul's spine. He knew that sound. Yes, he'd heard it the day the raiders burned the castle and dragged away the King. He'd heard it the night he was robbed of his horse, the night his neighbor's barn was ablaze, the nights he spent in the tavern. Wait. The tavern? Paul shook his head. How was this all coming back to him now? Visions of Ada filling his mug, whispering into his ear, him stealing into the night, his fingers digging into the soil and lifting an ebony box from the ground. Paul glanced at his fingernails. Dirt was lodged deep beneath them, every single one of them.

No, no, no. It can't be! Paul collapsed to his knees, pressing his hands over his ears. He had to block out the laughter, block out the memories, block out the shame. He'd given the sword to Ada, and Ada had given the sword to this king, whoever he was. What a fool he was! The ale had been poisoned all along. He had to tell Carlos, and warn the people, but oh, it was too late. Paul glanced back at his son, sprawled on the street and clawing at the ground. A sob caught in Paul's throat.

A hand touched his shoulder, and he jerked his head up. The king stood above him, a smug smile on his face. He extended a mug. “Need more ale, my friend?”

Paul knocked the king's hand away. Ale splattered the ground, but the crowd didn't seem to notice. Paul glared at the king. “I don't want your drink, and I don't want your party. You are not my friend, and you are definitely not my king.”

The king's eyes narrowed. “Ada, I think my general needs a stronger drink.”

The woman appeared at his side, a large mug in hand. She leered at Paul, and then cackled. “You fool. No one refuses my drink.”

Paul jumped to his feet, intending to run, but the sound of metal scraping metal froze him in his tracks. The king thrust a smoking black blade under is chin. Curling up from the sword, the smoke drifted into Paul's face, stinging is eyes. Paul trembled. When had the king retrieved the sword?

“You will drink,” the king spat in his face. Two large hands forced Paul's jaw open. He struggled against them, but the sword pricked his skin, sending a searing pain through his neck. Paul found himself paralyzed and helpless. He couldn't move a single finger, bat a single eyelid. Ada leered over him, pouring the foaming liquid into his gaping mouth. The ale hit his throat, burning, tingling, urging him to swallow. But Paul wouldn't. He couldn't. The king pricked him again, this time deeper. Paul gasped in pain, choking down the ale.

The hands released Paul, and the king stepped back, sheathing his sword. Ada's hand fell, and she set the ale to the side. Paul's vision blurred. A warm tingling filled his body, and the ground rocked. Paul cradled his head. No, he couldn't let the ale take him.

“It's really such a pity, Paul,” the king circled around him. “That the smart ones like you are the ones I'll have to kill first. You were useful for awhile, you know, but now, I don't think I need you anymore. Now if you will cooperate...”

“N-never,” Paul gasped.

The king drew his sword. “You say that again I'll kill you on the spot.”

Paul drew back, attempting to avoid the curling smoke. The king stepped closer, blade ready.

“Stop!” a voice shouted. “In the name of the one true King, stop!” Micah pushed through the crowd, Carlos at his tail.

The king sneered, swinging his blade under the boy's nose. “I was wondering when you would show up, Your Highness. Have you come to save the day?” He playfully swiped at Micah's head. “Whoops, it seems you've lost your sword.”

“The King's sword cannot be lost.”

The king rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. Your guardian gave it away. Now what are you going to do?”

Micah held the king's stare. “Again, you have forgotten the law.” Taking a deep breath, the boy stepped forward. He grasped the smoking blade and tilted it toward his chest.

The king gawked. Then he chuckled, an evil chuckle. “What good will a sword be to you if you are dead?”

Micah just blinked through the smoke, tears forming in his eyes.

“But I must say,” the king continued, tracing an x across Micah's tunic with the tip of his sword. “I would really enjoy seeing you dead.” The king laughed, trailing his sword down one side of Micah's face. The boy winced. Smiling, the king spoke in a hushed voice. “You know, I won't allow you the privilege of a quick and easy death.”

Still, Micah said nothing. A trail of blood trickled down his jaw line.

“Well, okay, I suppose if you really want this.” The king turned away and then spun around, whacking Micah's head with the pommel of sword. The boy stumbled to the ground.

Carlos rushed to his side, but the king swung at him. “Stay back, unless you want to die now too.”

Paul heard the king strike Micah again, harder this time. He winced inwardly at the dull thud, but then he couldn't focus. The ground was rocking again, and his eyelids felt so heavy. Paul groped in the blackness, and finally, gave in.

<><><><>

“Paul.” Hands shook his arms and splashed water on his face. “Paul, wake up!

Paul lifted his head, looking into the anxious face of his friend. Lissa stood on his other side, grasping his hand.

“Where am I? What's going on?”

Carlos glanced at Lissa, then back at Paul and sighed. “Do you remember anything that happened last night?”

“The-the king. There was a party.”

“Yes, yes, what else?”

“Ale,” Paul murmured. “Lots of it.” His eyes widened. “Ernan? Is he okay?”

Lissa nodded. “He doesn't remember anything, except a party.”

Paul jerked to sitting position. “Micah, what about Micah?”

Carlos' eyes clouded. Pain crossed his face. “He's dead, Paul. Deader than stone. That phony king beat him to a bloody pulp and slung his body over the castle wall. He's taken up residence there. His men stalk the streets, pillaging homes and robbing shops.”

“We must gather men -” Paul attempted to stand. “- And force them from the streets.”

Lissa shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “Paul, it's useless. We've no weapons, and most our able bodied men were imprisoned during their drunken stupor last night. Carlos has questioned neighbors and friends. They remember nothing but the party, and then awakening to a pillaged town.”

Paul fell back, shock numbing his mind. “It's all my fault.” A sob finally broke through his chest. “All my fault. If only I'd stayed away from the tavern, if only I'd seen the king for who he was, if only I had believed Micah.”

Lissa squeezed his hand. “If only we all had the eyes to see and hearts to believe.”

Together they sat in silence for awhile, except for the children, whom Paul could hear playing somewhere above him. “What is this place?” Paul finally asked, wiping the tears from his face and studying the dark walls around him.

“An abandoned barn. We had to hide. The king is looking for us. He wants us dead.” Carlos' words were bitter.

“But why? We can't do anything to him, not when he has that sword.”

“That's just it,” Carlos said. “He doesn't have the sword. The moment Micah's breath left his body, the sword was rendered useless, a dull and ordinary blade. The king cannot wield it.”

“Where is the sword now?” A light dawned in Paul's head.

Carlos reached his hand into a dusty pile of straw, withdrawing a silver blade. Paul excepted it with trembling hands. “Why, it's not black any more.” Dried blood still smeared the weapon, all the way down to the hilt, but an unmistakable silver twinkled in dim light. “He bought it back with his blood,” Paul whispered.

“What do you mean?” Lissa leaned forward.

“Micah,” Paul murmured. “He was the true King, and he bought the sword back through his death.” Tears welled in his eyes again. “Lissa, I turned the King of Kings out on the streets.”

“You didn't know, Paul.”

“But I did,” Paul sobbed. “I did. Every time he spoke, something stirred deep within me, calling me to respect him, give him the honor he was due, but Lissa, I hated him for it. My heart did not want to recognize a quiet, awkward, towheaded youth as my king. I dreamed of a warrior, an orator, a hero, not a servant.”

“So did we, Paul.” Carlos squeezed his shoulder. “So did we.”

“...And he saved my life,” Paul continued. “Despite what I did to him.” His body trembled with sobs again. Lissa cradled her husband's head, tears trickling down her own cheeks. Carlos stood not far off, his shoulders slumped and head bowed.

<><><><>

Dawn was just peeking over the horizon as Paul threw his last shovel of dirt over the spot. He'd done this before, twenty-nine years ago, but this time, he wasn't burying a sword. No, this time he was burying a King. Carlos stood on the opposite side of the grave, his hand resting on Lilith's shoulder. The girl swiped tears from her cheeks, her eyes glistening in the early light.

Paul had been afraid their night mission would be too much for her to stomach, but the girl had insisted on coming, at least for the burial. Paul wiped the sweat from his brow and reached for the burlap sack at Carlos' feet. He withdrew the sword, still smeared in blood. Overwhelming sorrow and gratefulness swelled in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he gripped the hilt and drove the blade into the soil at the foot of the grave.

Silent words passed between the three, and they turned, disappearing into the woods.

<><><><>

Paul, his wife and children, and Carlos gathered around a meager meal of a few tiny fish. They ate in silence, jumping at the sound of the wind whipping around the barn walls. They couldn't continue to live like this, fearing every second they'd be found. Paul wanted to move his family farther away, but he didn't want to risk being spotted.

Rain pounded the roof now, leaking in a few places. Thunder crashed, and Elaine crawled into Paul's lap, burying her head into his chest. “It's all right, dear. It's only a storm,” Paul reassured her.

But then something banged against the door. Paul's heart drummed with fear. He transferred Elaine to Lissa's lap and grabbed a pitchfork from the wall. Carlos stood beside him, his hands balled into fists. Another bang slammed the door. Whoever was out there was trying to break in. Paul motioned for his family to hide, and he and Carlos approached the door.

Swoosh. The doors flew open, wind and raindrops ushering in a tattered figure. Paul raised his weapon, and Lilith screamed. “Papa, don't!” But Paul was already hurdling forward.

A flash of white flew out of the stranger's tattered folds, knocking Paul to the ground. Paul blinked a few times at the glowing sword pointed at his face. His eyes trailed up the blade and up the arm, all the way to the stranger's face. Paul blinked again. “Micah?”

The boy lowered the sword. His face was marred and dirty, and his blonde hair was matted with dry blood. But he had those gray eyes, the long nose, the scrawny frame – he was undoubtedly Micah.

Paul looked away, and trembling, bowed his face to the ground. “H-how?”

Micah touched his shoulder. “Our enemy forgot another part of the law.”

Paul jerked his head up. The boy was smiling. “The true King does not stay dead.”

Of course. Joy rippled through Paul's body, and his eyes filled with tears. He grasped Micah's feet. “My King.”

Carlos also still knelt on the ground, his eyes wide. Lilith flew past him, her arms open wide. “Micah!”

The King returned her embrace and then greeted the other children, his eyes twinkling a new light.

“Tell us a story!” Amos bounced around his feet.

“Yeah.” Arnon tugged on his tattered tunic. “What happened to you?”

“Where did you get that sword?” Ernan's eyes were saucers. He reached out to touch the blade.

Lissa swatted his hand away. “For goodness' sake, children! Leave him alone. What he needs right now is good bath and a bed.”

The King laughed, the noise lighting up the barn. “Maybe later, but right now...” he glanced at Paul and Carlos. “It's time to see what this sword can do.”

 Paul stood, grasping his pitchfork. “I'm ready. Let's go.”

__________________________

Thanks for reading, everyone, and I hope you enjoyed it! It didn't end exactly how I planned, but I think I still got my point across :)

Guardian - Part 4

The King swooped down upon him before he could make another move. Paul bowed low, fear trembling his body. Now the King would strike him, imprison him, maybe even hang him. He'd never believed Paul all along. The crowd held their breaths in expectation. But nothing happened. Maybe the King was waiting for him to speak?

“Your Majesty, I swear, once again, I never opened the case or gave the sword to anyone. I don't understand it in light of the ancient law, but I beg of you, believe me. If there is anything I can do to prove -” Paul felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see the King, his brown eyes twinkling.

“Oh, Paul, I never once doubted you.”

“Y-you didn't? I mean, you believe me?”

The King smiled, nodding his bearded chin.

Paul collapsed in disbelief. “Oh … I – b-but how?”

The King extended a hand and pulled Paul to his feet. “The sword was never given to you, Paul.”

“What?”

“The case was empty when my father gave it to you.” The King's gaze swept the room now, his voice raising to keep their attention. “Think, all of you. Why would a king bestow the whole power of the kingdom upon a commoner he had never met? He had no need to hide the sword from raiders who couldn't steal it or wield it.”

“Then why give me the case and key?”

“A test.” The King spun around, mounting the stage. “Every King desires subjects he can trust. Men he can appoint as rulers, advisers, counselors, and -” He let his words hang for a minute and motioned for Paul to come forward. “... and friends.” He put an arm around him. “Paul, you have passed the test. I hereby appoint you chief officer and general of my men.”

Paul's face turned crimson, and he eyed the ground. “Your Majesty, I don't deserve...”

The King gripped his shoulder. “Yes, you do.” His eyes had not yet lost its twinkle. “This man,” he addressed the crowd again. “Since he was only a boy, hid my father's key and sword, telling no one of it's whereabouts. He himself never opened the case, respecting the man who entrusted it to him. If he had, he would have known it was empty, and when I faced him with the unknown fact, he didn't invent clever stories to get himself out of the mess, but vowed to find it. Listen and learn. Men like him are ones I desire in my court.”

The King removed the purple cloak from around his neck and flung it around Paul's shoulders. The crowd erupted into cheers. Paul's chest swelled with pride, but something deep inside still urged him to speak up. When the noise from people faded, he cleared his throat. “But your Majesty, how do you have the sword? You said it was given to someone besides it's rightful owner.”

“My older brother. My father gave the sword to him, to reconquer our kingdom, but my brother had evil intentions. A higher evil had been messing with his mind, and he was tricked into passing the sword on to another, more evil than he.”

“Then how did you get it?” Carlos spoke up now, doubt underlying in his tone.

“Everyone has some good in them. Repentance is not far off for most.”

Awe rippled through the audience. Murmurs of, “Isn't he wonderful?” resounded through the room.

Paul, too, was in awe as he accompanied the King outdoors, the crowd following close behind him. It was time for the meeting in the square. Already large numbers had gathered around the central fountain, awaiting the King. Paul spotted his family not far off. Lissa's eyes widened when she spotted him. How would he explain this all to her? Surely she would believe him now. Yes, all would be restored, including peace in his family. Yet, as Paul took his stand beside the King, something tugged deep within him again. Something wasn't right. Something wasn't adding up, but he couldn't put his finger on it. The feeling was just there, sitting in his gut. Shaking his head, Paul pushed all doubt to the side. For now, it was time to rejoice.

_____________________________________________________________________

Sorry, this still isn't the last part, but I do plan to post it this week. Your feedback has been very helpful, and I finally found the inspiration I needed.

So tell me now, how do you feel about the King? What about Paul?

Don't worry, I won't be asking these questions again after this.  :)

Guardian - Part 3

Paul trudged through a sleepy town, his feet heavy, and his heart heavier still. The sun was beginning to set, and he needed to head home, but no, he couldn't, not yet. Not without Micah. Where was that bothersome boy? He'd searched every shop and questioned every farmer he thought Micah may have possibly talked to, but none had seen the tall, towheaded boy. There was only one place left to look, but he'd sworn he'd never go in there again.

His feet slowed as he approached the only bustling business in town – Ada's Tavern. Maybe he'd just take a peek in, but he'd have no drinks, no food, no friends. As of yet, Paul still hadn't figured out why Lissa had accused him of staying out at nights. He had always gone home before dark, hadn't he? Or maybe the drink had caused him to forget.

Paul stopped just outside the tavern, unable to go any farther. A crowd had gathered outside, trying to squeeze through the double doors. Others stood on their tip-toes trying catch a glimpse of the inside. A voice boomed from the smoky interior, young and clear, yet commanding. Paul gasped. The King. He couldn't face him without the sword.

Paul spun around. Thwack! His face collided into a bony chest. Paul glanced up, rubbing his nose. Micah? Before he had time to react, the boy slipped into the crowd. No, no, no! Paul barged in after the blond head, but the crowd wouldn't yield to him.

“Hey!” A man yelled. “Watch where you're going!”

“Sorry,” Paul mumbled, more to himself than anyone else. Then the mob in the doorway gave way, and Paul collapsed just inside. By the time he jumped to his feet, Micah was nowhere in sight, but the King stood in the center of the room, his dark eyes resting on him. Paul froze, but the King didn't speak to him. 

“My people, you have suffered long enough. But fear not, for the time of deliverance has come! Tonight we assemble in the town square, and tomorrow we go to war! I want all able bodied men to join me.”

“But what about the King's sword?” A man shouted.

“Don't worry. It has been found.”

Cheers erupted around the room. Paul's skin grew clammy. What? Why hadn't be been told? He glanced around the room. If only he could slip out, but the crowd was thicker than ever.

Micah's head suddenly popped out of one corner, headed for where the King stood. Anger swelled in Paul's chest. Micah. He must have given the sword to the King and woven some fanciful story about how he'd found it. Well, Paul would make sure the King knew the truth.

The crowd hushed as Micah took the stage. Carlos stepped forward to push him back, but the King motioned for him to stop. “Let the boy speak. The young are perhaps the most valuable citizens in a kingdom.” The King turned to Micah. “What's on your mind?”

Micah turned to his audience. “This man is no King.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Paul suppressed a growl. Now what was the boy up to?

“How can you say such a thing?” Carlos hissed.

“Because I know what I say is true.” Micah's words were calm, but strong. “You say,” he turned to the King. “That your sword was lost, stolen from its guardian, but how can this be so? No man can steal a King's sword, neither can it be lost. It can only be given.”

Gasps erupted from the crowd at the quoting of the ancient law. Paul shook his head, confused. It didn't make sense. The case he had seen empty with his very own eyes, and he definitely hadn't given the sword to anyone. Why, the sword wouldn't even need a guardian if it couldn't be stolen, so why had the elder King given it to him in the first place?

The King stepped forward, fire in his eyes. “I know the law, boy. When I say stolen, I merely mean that the sword was 'given' to someone besides its rightful owner.”

Wait. Now the King was against him? Paul wanted to shrink.

“The law also states,” the King continued. “That if the sword is not 'given' to a person, he will not be able to wield it.” He faced Micah, challenge in his voice. “Test me tonight, if you will. I will bring the sword. Let us see if I can wield it.”

Cheering and applaud broke from the crowd, but Paul pursed his lips. Micah's gaze had turned to him. Paul held his breath until he broke away and turned back to face the King. “I don't doubt you can wield the sword,” he spoke when the people quieted. “If the sword was given to you, you will indeed be able. However, that doesn't mean the sword is rightfully yours and that you are King.” Micah's eyes bored into the King a second longer, as if letting his words sink in. Then he turned away, and dove into the crowd. The people tore away from him, as if he were a knife slicing through their midst. Micah reached the door untouched, and disappeared into the street. Paul tried to follow, but was once again, swallowed by the crowd.

-------

I've really struggled with the last two parts I've written, and I still have another to write. Can you tell me, is this all making sense so far? If not, what doesn't make sense? Am I losing your interest?

Guardian - Part 2

Paul's mind spun, his knees wobbled. The red velvet that lined the box lay empty, exposed. The sword was gone. But how? Then Paul remembered the loosened dirt. Micah. It had to have been Micah. How he picked the lock, Paul didn't know, but the sword was gone, and his children certainly weren't capable of such a feat. But how was he going to explain this to the King?

The King was already drilling Paul with his stare, waiting for an explanation. Paul expected him to blow, to strike him, order him to be imprisoned, but the King just waited.

Paul took a deep breath. “I swear, your Majesty, I have never touched the sword since the day your Father entrusted it to me. Neither have I opened the case.”

“Then what has become of the sword?”

Paul felt as if he were melting under the King's stare. “I – I have an idea.”

“Tell me.”

Paul looked into Lissa's eyes and glanced at his children who had stopped their dancing to listen. This would break their hearts, but he had no choice. “My – my hired-hand. I released him minutes before you arrived. He slept in the barn where I hid your sword.”

“How would he steal it without a key?” Carlos barked. “No man can pick a King's lock, not even -”

The King held up a hand to stop Carlos. “I believe him.”

Carlos' jaw dropped. “But …”

The King silenced him further with his gaze. “I can tell when a person is telling the truth.”

Paul almost collapsed with relief.

“But,” the King continued. “Since the sword was under your care, Paul, I expect you to retrieve it.”

Paul nodded. “I will, I promise, your Majesty.”

The King gave Paul's shoulder a squeeze before remounting his horse, but Paul saw a spark of something in his dark eyes he couldn't quite read. Suppressed anger, agitation, worry? Whatever it was, it caused Paul's stomach to flip flop. What would happen if he couldn't fulfill the King's order?

The King's men still murmured among themselves as they also remounted. Carlos threw him an icy glare. Paul watched until horses and riders disappeared down the muddy road, the hoof beats fading into the wind. The sun peeked through the clouds. For a moment the road glistened like a winding river, and the raindrops sparkled on the spruce trees. It was as if they were rejoicing, their heads lifted to the heavens, but Paul did not rejoice.

Lissa had turned to face him, her eyes burning orbs. “How could you?” she spat. Lilith stood beside her mother, her eyebrows furrowed.

Paul's hands flew to his hair. “Aaah, so now my own family is against me? Is the King the only one who believes me?”

“Yes, and shame on him for it!” Lissa stomped her foot. “He doesn't know you like we do.”

“What?! Are you saying I stole the sword?”

“Well, it certainly was not Micah. You can't blame him just because you've harbored hatred for him since the first week we hired him.”

“Hatred! Lissa, please!”

She jabbed a finger at his chest. “Yes, hatred, because he's a better man than you, and you are too full of yourself to admit it.”

Paul shook his head. “That is not true - Micah is just a boy! I've never liked his stories, that much is true, but I've never hated him.”

“Boy or no, he is a better man! He took the time you never took to spend with your children. When my feet were too tired and my arms heavy, he scrubbed the pots and pans. He tucked the children in bed, sang them songs, cleaned up supper, while you were off who-knows-where!”

“Lissa, I had work to do! Remember? To put food on your table, clothes on your backs, a roof over your heads. I haven't had time for much else!”

“But you make time for Ada's Tavern.” Lissa blinked back tears, and her voice broke.

“Is there something wrong with a man taking little time to socialize with a few good friends?”

“Yes, when you spend most the night out!”

Paul stumbled back a step, shocked. Was Lissa playing with him? He'd always come back before sundown, he made sure of that. Maybe he wasn't spending enough time with his family, but he wasn't that neglectful. Paul shook his head. “I never...”

“Don't you dare lie to me. I've laid too many nights alone in the dark to believe any of your excuses.”

“Lissa, I don't recall-”

Lissa held up her hand “Just don't. Please, don't.” She spun around. Gathering the children, she stormed off to the house.

Paul collapsed to his knees, his body shaking with sobs. Now what, O King? His gaze fixed upon the road where the young man and his horses disappeared. Twenty-nine years ago the man's father had disappeared down the same road, hauled off by raiders. Paul had just been a stable boy. He still remembered the orange flames roaring from the stable walls, the horses wild-eyed in their stalls. Paul's father had pushed him from the crumbling building and told him to run for the woods. Running as fast as his legs could carry him, his foot caught on a rock, and he stumbled. Firm hands had lifted him to his feet, and that was how he met him, the King. He was cloaked, and tucked in the folds he carried an ebony box and satchel. Paul, wide-eyed had accepted the items.

“Hide my sword,” he said. “At all costs, keep it from the enemy.” The King shoved him behind the brush and motioned for him to sit still. The sound of hooves had filled the air, and the King stepped into the open road. The last Paul had seen of him was the raiders dragging him through the dust.

After Paul had married Lissa, he'd built a farm here, hoping beyond all hopes that the King would return. He never told anyone but her about the sword, and even she did not know exactly where he'd buried it. Sure he'd been tempted to peek at the legendary sword, but he'd restrained himself. However, he couldn't prove that to anyone.

Now all hope was lost. Unless... Paul's thoughts trailed off for a moment, and he stood, his brow furrowed. He had to find Micah, he had to find the sword.

Part 3 coming soon...




Alrighty, question time again!

1. First off, now what are your feelings about Paul, Micah, and the King? Have they changed any?
2. Does my sudden launch into the past seem awkward and misplaced to you?

Again, thank you. You're feedback was really helpful last time.

Guardian - Part 1

So I told myself I wasn't going to post any stories in parts this year (besides What If...), but this has gotten extremely long, and I've edited a lot out already. Hopefully I will get the next part posted before the end of the week so you don't have to wait too long for the end.

 Paul slammed the door behind him with a huff. Rain dripped from his beard and trickled down the sleeves of his coat. He whipped the hat from his head and slammed it into the puddle at his feet.

“Paul!” Lissa jumped from her chair by the fireplace, her mending sliding from her lap. “What on earth is wrong with you?”

Her husband clenched his jaw and jerked his head toward the door. “They've finally gone and done it.”

“Done what?” Lissa laid a hand on his arm.

“Robbed us blind!” Paul hissed. “The seed is gone, our tools are gone, all our food left from winter storage is gone – the cellar is empty!”

Lissa's face paled. “Please tell me you're lying.”

“No, it's gone. All of it.” Paul kicked off his boots and shed his coat into her arms. “Without seed, I can't plant. Without crops, we'll starve.” His voice dropped to whisper. “Micah has to leave, Lissa.”

His wife glanced back in the corner where a towheaded youth was telling stories to five expectant, eager faces. Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head and turned away.

“Lissa, he must. I warned you it would come to this. We can't afford to keep on feeding another mouth. Plus there's the coming baby.”

Lissa placed a hand over her swelling belly. “But he's so good with the children.”

“Yes, filling their heads with outlandish stories.”

Fire jumped into Lissa's brown eyes. “You just say that because -”

Her husband's finger on her lips forced her to stop. He tilted her chin up and bored his gaze into her eyes. “He must go. You know that.”

She nodded blinking tears from her eyes. Paul watched her bare feet disappear through another doorway before closing the space between him and the children. The towheaded youth stood, his pale gray eyes looking over his long nose down at Paul. “Do you need something, Master?”

Paul nodded toward the bedroom.

Lilith stood and grasped her father's sleeve. “But Papa, Micah was telling us a story!”

“I know, Child.” Paul brushed her hand away and followed Micah into the bedroom.

Micah turned to face his Master, his eyes discerning Paul's movements.

Paul shoved his hands into his pockets, and then pulled them out only to fold them across his chest. Why was it so hard to push the words out he'd been wanting to say for over a year now?

But Micah didn't need words. “You're letting me go.” The youth's words came out in a hush. Paul wondered if those were tears in his eyes.

He cleared his throat. “I-I'm sorry. I don't have a choice.”

Micah shook his head. “You doubt there will be enough food.”

“There is no food!” Paul growled. “The seed is gone. The cellar is empty… Go find another master.”

Of course, finding work or food was next to impossible right now. The boy knew this, but he didn't argue. “I'll go pack my things.” He ducked out the back door, his head hanging low.

What things? Paul thought. The boy hardly had anything but the clothes on his back. Paul looked up to see his wife in the doorway. Here eyes were red and her cheeks flushed, but she pursed her lips together.

Husband and wife jumped when screams split the air. Lissa's eyes grew wide, and Paul paled. An open raid now? It was only morning! If they were attacking his neighbors, they'd burn his house next. “The children!” Paul shoved Lissa back through the doorway. “Get them out!”

Lissa scooped Elaine off the floor and grasped Arnon's hand. Lilith was already pulling Amos to his feet. “Out the back door, everyone!” Paul herded everyone through the bedroom, but Lilith spun around and tried to push past her father.

“Where's Ernan!”

Paul's eyes locked on his daughter's frightened ones. “Don't worry,” he hurriedly brushed the hair from her face. “I'll find him.” He prodded her through the door then spun around. “Ernan!” he yelled. “It's not time for games!”

No response. He rushed back into the main room. The flames still danced in the fireplace, but nothing else moved. “Ernan!” he yelled again and rushed into the other bedroom. His eyes fell upon a large chest at the foot of the bed. He jerked open the lid but dropped it with a second thought. He didn't have time. Paul fled the room. “Ernan!” Still no answer. Panic began to build in his chest, but he shoved it away. Maybe, just maybe, he was already outside – or in the barn, with Micah. He flew out the back door.

Paul saw with satisfaction that the rest of his family was no where in sight – well hidden. He rushed into the barn. “Ernan! Where are you?” Paul searched the empty stalls and then mounted the ladder to the loft. No boys, no movement, just hay. Micah must have packed quickly. The youth had must have taken him very seriously. But where was Ernan?

Paul fled the barn and scanned the front yard. There, by the road. He sped toward his son. “Ernan! What are you doing? We must hide!” But then Paul realized the air was silent except for the icy raindrops pelting the ground. No screams, no horses. Or wait. Who were these galloping down the road? Paul glanced at his son. His eyes, too, were fixed on the riders.

“Papa,” Ernan murmured. “Who are they?”

Paul's heart drummed in his ears. The King, at last? Could it be? He ran forward to meet the horseman who was riding ahead of the others. The horse slowed to a stop, and a burly man dismounted, his feet sloshing into the mud.

Paul wiped a spray of mud from his brow and blinked the rain from his eyes. “Carlos, is that you?”

The burly man slapped him on the back and grinned. “Yes, Paul, it's me.”

Paul grinned back at his old friend. “What are you doing in the countryside?”

“The King has recruited me to gather men for his army. We shall go to war!”

“Then it is true? The King has returned?” Paul craned his neck to see behind his friend.

“Yes, well, his son actually. He will reclaim the throne.” Carlos paused and wrung out his hat before replacing it on his head. “There's a meeting tonight in the town square.”

“I'll be there.” Excitement coursed through Paul's veins, and he shivered. The other horsemen were almost upon them. “What about the screaming earlier?”

Carlos chuckled and turned around, steadying his own horse. “We were mistaken for raiders.”

Paul nodded. Right. His family was still in hiding. Probably worried sick about him... Paul's heart skipped a beat. His eyes were now glued to the young rider leading the other horsemen. “Is that the … the … Is he the … ?”

Carlos glanced at the riders, then back at Paul and smiled. “The King has come for his sword.”

“What sword?” Ernan piped up. “There aren't any swords here.”

Paul didn't answer. He knew exactly what Carlos meant. Paul sped into the house. He had dreamed of this day, of this hour, of this minute, when he would tear the key from the seam in which it had been so carefully sewn. Collapsing at the foot of his bed, Paul lifted the lid of a rough-looking cedar chest with a groan. Inside, a disarray of clothing and quilts were thrown in together. Paul dug to the bottom. He pulled out a dusty green cloak, the one he'd owned since he'd been a stable boy of thirteen. His fingers slid through the thinning material in search of that one seam, that one lump. Then he found it. He tore it open, not caring for the cloak. No, he didn't need it anymore. The time had come. A silver key dropped into his lap, twinkling in the lamp light.

Paul snatched up both the lantern and the key, strode out the back door, and slipped into the barn. The rain had ceased for the moment, as if respecting his mission. Paul counted the steps to the abandoned stall, grabbing a shovel off the wall as he passed. The barn was silent. Dead silent. They hadn't owned any animals since last winter, when they'd had to kill their last mule.

Paul shoved the dusty, decaying hay to the side, searching for that one spot, about three feet from the east wall and three feet from the north. There, that had to be it. He reached for his shovel and pressed the tip to the ground, but froze. The dirt was loose and darker than the rest of the ground. Paul's heart pounded. Fear drove his shovel into the ground. In less than three minutes, he struck something hard. He let out a sigh of relief. It was still there. Paul lifted the case from the ground, brushing the dirt from the ebony King's Oak. Perhaps one of his children had discovered it and replaced it? Surely they would have said something. He'd ask later. For now, it was time.

Paul rushed back to where Carlos stood with the King, as did Paul's family, the children dancing in circles, and Rissa's eyes brimming with tears. The King looked up when Paul approached, a smile breaking across his young, ruddy face. He had to be about average height, Paul supposed, and perhaps in his late twenties. He'd thought the prince, now king, would be younger, but perhaps that was just because he had always remembered the prince as a toddler. The King, by no means was overly handsome, but his features were sharp, framed in a fine bronze beard and shoulder length hair. But it was the man's eyes that told Paul he was the King. They were dark and piercing, yet they held a kindness in them.

Paul bowed, his hands shaking with awe and reverence as he extended the case and key. “Your Majesty, your sword.”

The King accepted the items, his face eager, and perhaps relieved. “Thank you, my friend. My father knew he could trust you.” He patted Paul's back, then handed the case to Carlos. “Open it, let's see what sort of condition it is in.”

Carlos inserted the key with eager hands. The lock clicked, and he pried the lid open. All the King's men gasped. Some muttered among themselves. Others glared at Paul. Rissa grabbed his arm. “Paul, what have you done?”

Feedback Please!

I'm trying to portray my characters a certain way, and I want to be sure I'm succeeded. So tell me...

1. What are your feelings about Paul? Do you sympathize with his situation?

2. What are your feelings about Micah? Dislike or sympathy? Other?

3. What are you first impressions of the King?

The Tear Master

Faith, this is the story I wrote for your challenge. I apologize, it did get extremely long.

“Record my lament;

list my tears on your scroll -

are they not in your record?”

<Psalm 56:8>

I leaned over the well, my tears tumbling down my cheeks and dripping into the darkness below. When I was younger, I used to imagine that my tears were a bitter potion that would poison my family. One sip from my polluted well, and our miseries would be over.

Mom's scratchy voice interrupted my thoughts. “Beth, where's that water? Get your backside moving before I tan your hide!”

Yes, my family was miserable.

“And Sammy, bring me those eggs I told you to get ten hours ago or I'll kill you, too!”

I choked back another flood of tears and wiped my steamy face on my sleeve. Heaving the bucket from the ground I ran as fast as I could without spilling it, but as I neared the house, Sammy collided into me, the front of his shirt loaded. I sputtered, jumping to my feet, my torso soaked. Sammy wasn't in any better shape, his belly yellow and gooey with egg.

“Idiot!” he yelled. “Now what am I going to do?”

I winced at his tone. Big sister or no, this was how my ten year-old brother treated me. Too often he reminded me of Dad, something I didn't like to think about. Honestly, I just wanted to cry again, but I couldn't let Sammy see me in such a state.

“You were the one who ran into me,” I managed, my voice shaky.

Sammy didn't hear me. He was frantically counting egg shells, cursing under his breath. “There's one missing,” he finally growled. I took a step backwards, scanning the ground. I heard a crunch and felt something slimy under my heel. Sammy heard it, too, and kicked the bucket into my shins. “Mom's going to kill us!”

Let her, I thought, clenching my teeth at the pain. I was ready to die. Maybe Dad would just come back and kill me in my sleep. That might feel better.

Before I could pick up the bucket and refill it, Mom stalked into the clearing, hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. “You stupid children!” she barked at the mess. “Now what are we to eat? Do you think I can magically produce breakfast?” Her hand struck my cheek. I cowered, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Mom swung at Sammy too, but he ducked away, only arousing more anger. “Neither of you will eat today,” she screamed. “Unless you can find somethin' in the woods!” She thrust the bucket into my arms and reached for Sammy.

“Don't touch me!” he yelled back. “I hate you, and I hate this farm!” He ran towards the trees and then spun back around. “If you had let Dad stay, things would be better!” Then he was gone.

“Samuel Thomas! Don't yell at your mother!”

I stumbled back into the woods, collapsed to my knees, and covered my ears. Mom's voice still carried through my hands, so I cried louder to drown her out. The tears stung my eyes, and I sobbed 'till my head pounded. I didn't blame Mom entirely, not like Sammy. No, it was Dad's fault. He'd left us when I was eight. Never seen him since. Sammy blamed Mom for his disappearance, but I knew better. I was glad he was gone – I still remembered the bruises he left on my arms and on Mom's face, and the foul smell of whiskey on his breath. Sammy was only three. He didn't remember those things. All he could remember was that there was more food. Which, there was, but it was stolen. Dad never worked. Mom hadn't yelled quite so much then. It was Dad's fault – he left her, taking everything: the china, the silver, the drapes, the coin jar, and our last shred of joy.

Yes, life was miserable. Why did it have to be my family? Did anyone care? My memory fixed upon the image of the Howard's three-story farm house towering above the trees. I used to play with Macy when Mom worked for them, but they fired her when Dad tried to steal a horse. Macy didn't care about me after that. It was like I was just another one of her broken toys in the garbage pile. She went on with her merry life, making new friends the following day. It didn't make sense or seem fair to me that brats like her could be so happy, have big homes, and plenty of food, and I, a girl who only wanted a single ray of peace and joy, was left with nothing. Nothing but broken people in a broken home. If life were a game of fate, I didn't think it was worth living. Perhaps I could throw myself in the well, but Mama, she'd go crazy.

“Dry up those tears, Missy. You're drowning the dandelions.”

I uncovered my ears and stood, scanning the wood for the friendly voice.

“What you crying for, anyways?”

My eyes finally found him. An old man with a white beard and matching garb, perched on the edge of the well. He looked at me, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” I stammered.

The man snorted. “Sure, like I'm twenty-two.” His grin was missing a few teeth. “No, really. What's the matter?”

I hesitated. He looked nice, but maybe it was just all the wrinkles. “I want to die!” I finally sputtered.

The man leaned back, like my words had blown him away, his eyebrows raised again. He whistled. “Those are harsh words, Miss.”

“But they're true!” I dared to step closer. “All my life, all I've ever wished for, is a happy, normal family. Instead, I have a broken family who fights and struggles to live from one day to the next. Neither gods nor men show even an ounce of compassion. What have we ever done to them? Are we simply subject to fate or did some cruel god invent my life for entertainment?” The man stared at me, unblinkingly. “Tell me!” I sobbed.

“I don't know, Child,” he murmured. “I don't know.”

My heart sank farther into my chest. Anger shook my body.

The man stood and paced the ground, his brow furrowed. I would have screamed but his face suddenly brightened and he lifted his shaggy head. “Well, wait a minute. I guess there is someone...”

“Who?”

“He's said to only be legend, but...”

“Just tell me, please!” Legend or no, I was desperate. If he could give me one ray of hope, I would consider living even a decade more.

The old man raised his hand to stop me. “I was getting there.” He resumed his pacing. “Some say he's legend. Others say he's a fact, but all people, near and far, call him the Tear Master.”

“The Tear Master.” I let the name fall off my lips, savoring the comfort it somehow gave. “Who exactly is he?”

“It is said that the tears of mankind he records on a scroll, keeping account of all the suffering that occurs in our world. Never does a sparrow fall to the ground that he does not see, nor a tear fall from the eye that is not recorded.”

“But what will he do about it?” I asked. It was nice to know someone might care, but what was the use if he never did anything to help?

My companion lifted my chin so that I had to stare directly into his eyes. They were a solemn blue, but warm. “Perhaps you should ask him, Child.” He released my face and turned back to the well.

I looked at my grubby toes, confused. “But how do I find him?”

Silence.

I jerked my head up and spun around. The old man was gone. I massaged my forehead, willing my headache to fade away. My tangled thoughts only worsened the matter. Surely the old man had been a figment of my imagination, an image I had created to relieve my pain, yet, how in all Narrozzania had I come up with such a fantasy? It had to be real. I wanted it to be real. Wiping the last bit of tears from my face, I made up my mind to find out, and I knew exactly how to do it.

My thoughts swirling and hope swelling in my chest, I hastily drew more water from the well. As I neared our tumble-down shack of a home, sobbing reached my ears. Guilt churned in my empty stomach. I wasn't the only one suffering here. With caution, I peeked through the doorway. Mom sat at the table, her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. I padded across the dirt floor to my sleeping mat, leaving the bucket by the door. Taking a deep breath, I lifted up the corner of my ratty quilt. Three copper coins smiled up at me. I fingered the twinkling metals and held them close to my chest. My time, my labor had earned these coins, but I knew what I needed to do.

“Mommy?” I tapped her shoulder.

She sniffled and jerked her head up. “Leave me alone,” she spat, but I held out the coins. Her eyes widened and snatched them from my fingers. “Where did you get these?”

“The Tyndale's paid me to scrub their flooring and beat their rugs.” I wiggled my toes in the dirt, remembering the feel of the smooth, finished wood on my bare feet.

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?” Her words were harsh, accusing.

I tried to look her in the eye. “I had hoped to buy a dress.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I awaited an explosion. Nothing happened. I peeked at Mom. Her eyes had actually softened, but she tightened her grip on my money, not willing to let the treasure go.

She finally dropped the coins into her dress pocket. “Go fetch Sammy.”

I released a sigh and drug my feet towards the door. Then I remembered. I spun around. “Mom?”

“Yes?” She hadn't looked up from her pocket.

“Have you heard of the Tear Master?”

Mom's expression turned sour again. She stood, her back to my face. “He's just a fable, Elizabeth. Pay no heed to stories of him.”

My heart leaped in my chest. I hadn't been hallucinating.

“Beth? Ignore, those stories, you hear?”

“Yes, Ma'am,” I mumbled as I fled the house, but I knew I had to know more.

◘◘◘◘◘

I shuffled my bare feet down the dusty road leading into town. My foot hit a stone, and I stumbled over it only to trip into a deep track a wagon had left days ago. Slight pain in my ankle made me wince, but I kept going. My mind was on a mission, and the rocks and ruts in the road weren't going to stop me. Besides, I'd been going barefoot for years. A horse galloped by, kicking dirt in my face. I spat. Looked like my weekly bath had been useless. I watched the rider disappear into the distance. He didn't look back once. I planted my hands on my hips. Well, I was going to find someone who did care.

Upon entering the bustling little town, my hopes plummeted. People bumped into me like they hadn't seen me or would avoid my side of the street. I knew they saw my patched and thinning garment and guessed I was a beggar, or worse, a thief, like my Dad. How would I find out more about the Tear Master if no one stayed near enough for me to speak to them? I scanned the crowds for friendly faces. There had to be someone. I couldn't give up yet.

“Excuse me, Sir,” I tapped a man's shoulder. “Could you -”

The man jumped and spun around. He was well-dressed and clean-shaven, but seemed nice enough. It only took a second before he judged my motives.

“I'm sorry, Miss, but I already gave my spare coin to another beggar.”

Liar, I thought, as I watched him scurry to his wagon, his shiny black boots mocking my bare toes. If the high and mighty's wouldn't listen to me, perhaps I should have been looking for someone closer to my own station. Yes, the wealthy probably didn't think they needed a Tear Master anyways. Another “beggar,” on the other hand, might tell me something.

I wandered into an empty street. My surroundings changed, from bustle and buying to filth and litter, and I knew I had found the proper place. A baby cried, somewhere on my right. I heard the mother shhh the child.

“Hello?” I peered into the shadows. Only darkness.

I jumped when a hand grasped my arm. “Looking for someone?” A rattly voice questioned.

“Yes...I mean, no. I just have a few questions for someone. Anyone, actually.” I stared into the bloodshot eyes before me. They squinted at me, distrust in their dull shine. The woman finally stepped from the shadows. I guessed her to be in her fifties, slight wrinkles framing her eyes and creasing her forehead. Her wispy hair was graying, her garment worn, and her feet bare. I had found my match.

“I'm open to questions,” she squinted at me again. “Dependin' on what they are.”

Her rotten breath blasted my face. I stepped back. “I just want to know about the Tear Master.”

She laughed, a smile stretching across her face. “Well, if that's all you need, Sweetie, then ask on.”

My heart pounded faster, and I smiled too. “Is he real?”

The woman chuckled again. “Of course.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No, but I know he's real 'cause my daughter is alive, and I know it's no doctor's doing.”

“Was she sick?”

“Deathly sick. Had no money for a doctor, so I thought she'd be gone by morning, but she wasn't. I'm telling you, it was the Tear Master's doing.”

“Where can I find him?”

The woman sighed. “I wish I knew, Dear. I'd like to thank 'im someday.”

Frustrated, I kicked a pebble. It skidded through the dirt and landed with a puff. I turned to leave. “Thanks anyway,” I mumbled, but a low rumble drowned my voice.

“My Mama used to tell me,” the woman yelled after me, pointing at the sky. “that the rain is sent by the Tear Master himself. It's his way of sayin' he cries with us. That always helped me when I was feeling depressed.”

“Thank you,” I nodded, sincere this time. Her words warmed my heart. Another peal of thunder rolled in the distance. I fled the alley, knowing I had better run home, and fast. Those black clouds were some of the worst I had ever seen.

The town flew by me as I sped for the main road. Thunder rolled again, this time louder. I stopped dead in my tracks. If the Tear Master sent the rain, then did he live in the mountains? I glanced at the wall of clouds covering their peaks. It had to be. I spun back around, and ran straight for them.

◘◘◘◘◘

My hands grasped at the jagged rock, and my feet slid on the wet stone. Monstrous rock formations loomed on all sides of me, casting gloomy shadows over my path, but I pressed on. My mind had been made up, my decision written in blood and stone, and I would not turn back. Whatever it took to find this Tear Master, I would do it, for without him, I knew my life was meaningless. It had felt like days since I had begun my journey. Perhaps it had been days or maybe weeks. A trip through the mountains would take no small amount of time. In fact, I hadn't heard of a single soul who had done it. I had had neither water nor food nor rest, yet I felt like I had the strength of a mountain goat. Yes, I was going crazy, I decided as I reached another summit. I let my gaze wander my surroundings. The heavy fog hanging all about me inhibited most my sight, but here and there more mountain peaks protruded like spears through the cloudy blanket. There was no sign of the plain, no sign of town. For all I knew, I had been wandering in circles, yet, there it was again: a flash of lightening, a roll of thunder, a rattling of pebbles at my feet. I adjusted my course to where I was certain it had come from and stumbled onward.

◘◘◘◘◘

Finally, I was there. I had made it, at last. My legs were now shaky with fatigue and my hands red with blood, but my heart was light and my mind determined. I pulled myself onto the ledge and stood, my jaw agape, my heart pounding. This was it, the final summit, but – I collapsed to the ground – there was nothing. Nothing but fog and rain and thunder. I lay panting and shaking, angry at myself for believing, angry at the Tear Master if he did yet live somewhere, and angry that the only hope left in my life was death. Black death, in dark mountains, in the midst of a stormy night. “Tear Master,” I whispered. “Where are you?” Closing my eyes, I let the tears roll down my cheeks one last time.

◘◘◘◘◘

A warm light beckoned my eyelids to open, but I squeezed them shut, afraid that death had not yet taken my life. A gentle hand stroked my cheeks, and a calm voice soothed my shivering body. “Awake, Child.”

My eyelids fluttered open, searching for the voice. A warm, strong face smiled down at me. He offered me his hand, and I took it. Pulling me to my feet, he led me towards the hearth. I glanced back to where I had been lying, and trembled. Somehow, here in the middle of this glowing, warm room, a dark mist hugged the floor. Within the darkness I could see the fog, the jagged peaks, my blood and tears smeared across the rocks. My confusion, my fears, my suffering, all before me. As I stared into the mist, I felt it growing, expanding, sliding across the floor boards towards my feet. “Master!” I shrieked as it nipped at my toes.

“Take heart,” the Tear Master smiled. “It is no more.” He scooped up a fistful of flaming ash and coal from the hearth and sprinkled the light into the darkness. The mist dissipated and sizzled, baring the glowing floor once more. “Now come,” he touched my shoulder. “You must wash.”

He led me to a table across the room and poured a glistening pitcher of water into a large basin. I glanced at my hands, and shuddered. Yes, I did need to wash. I was just about to plunge my bloody hands into the water, but he took the basin from the table and set it at my feet. With tender hands he bathed my sore feet, the warm water washing away filth and wounds alike. Speechless, I watched as he also wet a towel and wiped my face and hands clean. I wanted to speak, to say thank you, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, parched and dry.

As if reading my thoughts, he set the basin to the side and once again reached for the pitcher, but this time pouring into a small cup. I gulped down the sparkling water in a couple swallows and handed the cup back to the Master to ask for more, but realized, I wasn't thirsty anymore. “Here,” he said, pushing a small loaf of bread into my hands. “You must also eat. The journey will be long.”

The journey? What journey? “Are you sending me back through the mountains?” I asked, fear tingeing my voice.

The man smiled again, but this time, a bit of sorrow in his eyes. “Come, you must see.” He led me to a desk covered in a million scrolls of paper. A shelf spanned the wall behind, also storing a countless number of scrolls. I peered at the open scroll on his desk. Tiny blotches covered the paper, as if someone had sprinkled water on the desk, but I knew better. These were tears. Hundreds of them.

“Whose are these?” I dared to ask, touching one of the drops.

“Your Mother's” he replied, reaching for a couple scrolls off the shelf.

“Where is mine?” I asked. He unrolled one of the ones he had just retrieved and handed it to me. Compared to my Mother's it was small. Barely a third of the amount of tears on hers was on mine. Guilt rose in my chest. I had lashed out at her so many times, unmindful of the fact that she, too, was suffering.

“This, the Tear Master pointed to another on the shelf, “Is your brother's, and over here is your father's, and this one,” he paused and held up the other in his hand. “Is Macy's.”

Macy? My wealthy, stuck-up neighbor? And my father? I shook my head, baffled. I hadn't realized, hadn't even considered the fact they had pain and suffering, too. I was so heartless, so cruel, so selfish.

“Do you see why you must go back?” The Tear Master lifted my chin. “They must know about me, Child. Tell them I know their pain, and I can heal.”

As he led me back to the hearth, a part of me was saddened that I must leave him. We had just met, but, yes, I did understand. I had found whom I was looking for, or rather, he had found me, and there were others who needed to know what this man, or Master, whoever he was, had done to my soul. “You will not be alone,” the Tear Master read my thoughts. “A part of me I send with you.” Once more he reached into the hearth, but this time, pulling out a single, large coal. “Take it,” he said. “I will be your light.”

I hesitated, staring at the orange flame, licking at the coal. “Will it hurt?” I asked.

“Fear not,” he assured me. “I will give you joy in suffering.”

I took the coal, the flames crawling up my arms and down my body, but I did not burn. Instead, I was tickled in warmth. Yes, perhaps the journey wouldn't be so impossible.

“It is time.” The Tear Master led me too the door. He swung it open, the mountains and fog seeping into the room, but they did not seem so hopeless now. Holding my flaming coal in front of me, I stepped in. As the light radiated through the atmosphere, the fog lifted, revealing a narrow path through the mountains, leading towards a tiny town in the distance. “Someday,” the Tear Master continued. “I will take you to my Father's home, where there will be no more suffering, no more tears; but in the meantime, be strong.”

I smiled, and turned back toward the Tear Master. “Thank you,” I whispered.

He nodded, smiled, and shut the door.

◘◘◘◘◘

“Mama, she's waking.” Sammy stood over me, his face curious yet concerned. Mama rushed over and grasped my hand. Her face was gaunt, but I saw a flicker of love in her eyes.

“How are you feeling, Elizabeth? My, you are warm.” She felt my forehead.

I smiled, imagining the coal still in my hands. “Mommy,” I took her hand back. “The Tear Master, He is real!”