Part 19 of Rob Donovan’s free serialised story set in the same world of Frindoth as his newly released book “Ritual of the Stones”. In this story we follow the journey of Pewtory the Lesser bard as he travels to Lilyon to witness the Ritual.
Pewtory the Lesser Bard part 19 – I am not crazy
Pewtory watched Archie as the Peddler stood in the centre of the room swaying slightly. The man’s glass was empty and his eyes were still shut. Pewtory could only imagine what was going in his friend’s head.
Up until this point, the peddler had accepted the bard on face value. The way Pewtory conversed with his fish and spoke to his mandolin were mere quirks in Archie’s mind. He thought Pewtory possessed an endearing eccentricity that perhaps necessitates genius. Now however all that had changed. The reference to Pewtory’s past and the mention of a mental illness, dissolved the tolerance for such behaviour. Pewtory’s innocent interaction with Willow and Wisp now took on a more sinister edge.
Pewtory had seen that look many times before. It was the moment where so called friends looked at him and doubted his sanity. The warmth tended to fade from their eyes and was replaced by outright fear.
Archie opened his eyes and looked around, they widened when they saw Pewtory as if he was surprised he was still there. The Peddler, trundled over to the table, thought about pouring himself another short before changing his mind and filled the glass from the jug of water. He downed the contents and then poured himself another. Pewtory noticed the man’s hand trembled as he served himself.
The bard braced himself for the inevitable question and although the pair of them were silent for several more minutes it eventually came.
“Were you put in an asylum?” Archie asked.
And there it was. Why did it always come down to this? Why was it so important for people to know? Archie knew the type of man Pewtory was. They had travelled together. Wasn’t it the Peddler who pushed the concept of them being friends and not the other way round? And yet here he was being judged again.
“Yes, I was. For two years and then I escaped.”
Archie winced at that. They always did. Bad enough that they realised their friend was deemed crazy, bad enough that it was for a couple of years rather than a few months, but worse still to know that he had never been declared sane and released with societies’ blessing.
Pewtory sat up on the bed and helped himself to the drink he had so far not touched. He had never told anyone about his life in the asylum and if he was going to do so now, he needed a bit of courage. He gulped the whiskey down and sucked in air as it burned his throat.
Archie sat in the chair, his hands on his knees. Pewtory guessed he was trying to appear casual but the Peddler was too rigid to pull off the look. Was it the bard’s imagination or had Archie inched the chair closer to the door? Pewtory also tried to ignore the dagger in the peddler’s belt that had also become visible. He took a final look around the room and then began.
“I awoke in darkness, alone and more than a little afraid. It is a hard thing for a man to be alone when he knows he is not crazy. Yet for an entire year I was isolated.
I was kept deep underground in some sort of cellar. At least I thought that is what it was. It had been built and abandoned long ago. I suppose I was quite fortunate, for I was not confined to one room but several. There was little furniture in any of the rooms, but harsh brick work lit by candles.
The room I was in contained a bench, my mandolin and a bowl with Willow and Wisp in. That was it. There were no other comforts and nothing else to distract me to help me pass the time.
The room did not even have a door. Stone steps descended into a corridor which curved round to a lower room. Here I made my bed upon a pallet and found an array of abandoned clay pots. Although, I slept in this lower room, it was evident what the pots were for, as the ceiling dripped in several places.
From this room there were more steps that led upwards to three smaller rooms, two were vacant and like the rest of the cellar, all had stone floors. Have you ever heard how loud your footsteps echo on a stone floor in a room devoid of any furniture Archie?”
The peddler shook his head. He now leant forward in the chair, caught up in Pewtory’s story telling already. The bard allowed himself a small smile.
“The third upper room had a hatch in the centre. Twice a day, the hatch would be opened and a boy would lower a large basket down by using a thick rope. The basket contained my food, candlesticks and once a week a change of clothes. I was also permitted to empty my mess bucket by placing it in the basket and received a clean bucket in return.
Despite numerous attempts to engage him in conversation, the boy never once spoke to me. I longed to hear another voice, any voice, just to say something. A few times the boy seemed like he was going to waiver and speak but he never did.
I close my eyes and I can still see that boy’s face. It was the only human I saw for a whole year. He wasn’t a handsome lad. His face was gawky looking. You know how boys get when they become men: all sallow faced and riddled with pimples?
The hatch room also had a mini library. Along two of the walls, were row after row of annuls covering all parts of Frindoth’s history from when records began up to the last forty years. I guess that gives you an idea of how long the cellar had remained empty.
Still, I soon made best use of my time. If I was going to be down in that cellar all alone then I was going to master the tools at my disposal. With nothing to do but practice that is all that I did.
I began to divide my days up into sections. Before the first meal was delivered I would play the mandolin and sing. The vacant rooms and vast corridors made for the perfect audience. Every note I played and sang, bounced back at me. I could hear exactly what the audience would hear. I experimented with my voice. I strove to centre it as my hero Pewtory the bard had done, he was said to have mastered the art of getting the greatest amount of power from his voice with the minimum effort. I paid attention to every intonation, every pitch, every tone and every phrasing until I became the best I could be.
After the first meal I would read the histories and then practice telling them in new and stimulating ways. Again, I would hear them echo of the walls as I spoke. I told and retold each story hundreds of time and when I got bored of my own voice, I would find a way to make it interesting again. I figured that if I was still captivated myself with stories after hearing them hundreds of times, than the audience in taverns were bound to like my tales.
Finally after the second meal I would concentrate on mastering the hardest part of all.”
Pewtory glanced over at the bowl in the corner where Willow and Wisp swam with their backs to him.
