Prologue- The Old Man

“Can your horses go any faster?” I begged the driver for the third time. My head stuck out the carriage window and the chilled wind blew hard against my face, stinging my nose and ears badly enough to force me to withdraw back inside.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the husky voice of the carriage driver replied, muffled through his wool scarf. “These aren’t the youngest horses in town, and I’m afraid in the cold they just tend to stiffen up.”

I glanced at the sun, terribly low in the cloudless, violet horizon and ready to disappear at any moment. My situation could not get much worse than this, and if I lost this job, I’d be hard pressed to find any more in my line of work. With the last remaining light, I opened my traveling bag and checked my supplies, counting everything for the last time.

“Everything’s here,” I mumbled. “And that may be the only positive event of the evening.”

“What’s that, sir?” my driver called out.

“Nothing! I was only speaking to myself!” I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter around my neck.

“We’re almost there, sir. Just passing onto the main road now. The inn’s not far.”

I considered asking him again if he could go any faster, but decided to save my strength. After this long ride and the long night ahead of me, I would be needing it. Very fortunately for me, he was right. We arrived at the inn in minutes, and the instant the carriage came to rest, I let myself out, clutching my bags in one arm while my other hand searched my pockets.

“I could have gotten that for you, sir,” the carriage driver said apologetically. He was a heavy man with a thick brown beard that made his red nose appear like a small beet surrounded by dirt.

I replied with a weak smile as my searching became more frantic. “Er, how much do I owe you?” I asked, though I knew the amount perfectly.

“Three silvers should do it, though I wouldn’t say no to a gratuity!” he guffawed at his own joke.

His answer bought me the time I needed, and there, in the deepest recess of my pocket, was the amount I had been certain I possessed. I paid him the three silvers, and asked to forgive that I couldn’t pay more, and bade him a good night.

He left merrily enough and I paused for only a moment to take in my surroundings. The inn was on a very crowded street, lined with shops, homes, empty stands, stables, and quite a few buildings I couldn’t identify. Even standing outside, hearing the sounds and smelling the food, I could sense it was alive with business. My stomach gave an angry lurch and I went straight in.

Bodies filled nearly every chair. Mugs and plates littered the tables. More food and drink poured out from the kitchen, served by beautiful women whose perfume mingled with the smell of herbs and meats to form a truly divine scent. Men played dice games in one corner and bet on ring tosses in another. The inn was a good one, better than most I’d visited. I immediately began searching for the owner whose hard work had made it so. The problem I encountered was that with so many people moving about and congregating here or there, I couldn’t pin down anyone.

Then I spotted him. As I made my way toward him, I noted his neat work clothes, the walking stick he didn’t use, and his friendly habit of greeting everyone as though they were his best chums with an arm around a neck or a firm pat on the shoulder. When I got near enough to hear him, I noticed how he seemed to know everyone’s name.

He caught my eye as I approached, probably easily identifying me as someone needing something, so he wrapped up his other conversations and gave me his full attention.

“Hello, young man,” he said very warmly and offered me his hand. “Benjamin Nugget, owner of The Golden Nugget, how can I help you today?”

I introduced myself as Geoffrey Freeman, telling him where I had come from in such a short time. He had a knack for listening as though the whole inn was as silent as a cemetery.

“You’re here tonight for the entertainment?” he asked.

I replied that I was, “but I also need lodging,” I told him.

“I have plenty available. Almost everyone here is local. Do you plan to stay for all four days?”

I informed him that I did. Then, due to my own embarrassment, the conversation became more awkward. “You see, I used the last of my money to get here, the very last. However, I’m here for work. I mean, I have work. This is my work. And so, I was hoping if I might pay you at the end of my stay rather than the beginning. I won’t receive pay until after--”

“So you’re the scribe!” Benjamin declared. Then he pointed down to the bag I carried, filled with paper and ink and pen. “But of course, I should have noticed it sooner. Yes, yes, don’t worry about a thing. I’ve been told you were coming, but it slipped my mind completely. I’m certain I can even help you find somewhere to sit.”

Help me, he did. Without any trouble, he procured me half of one table all to myself where I promptly sat and thanked Benjamin for his magnificent kindnesses. I glanced outside the window to see how much light, if any, was left. The sun was completely gone now. I searched in vain for a clock. If it wasn’t time already, it was getting extremely close. I went about preparing my area for my work, forming a large stack of papers next to me and then arranging the feathers and inkwells just how I liked them. A loud shout startled me, nearly causing me to spill my ink, and pulled my attention away from the window to the nearby dice corner.

“You cheat!” shouted a sloppy, ugly man, whose name I had already overheard multiple times to be Quinton. He stood and clubbed his equally fat brother, Flint, around the face.

“I don’t cheat!” Flint hollered back, inflicting similar damage on Quinton.

I looked to Benjamin who had been meandering around, chatting with his patrons. His hands closed tighter around that walking stick he carried, for what purpose I still did not know. Then I heard him mutter to an older gentleman, “… no trouble really until one of the Biffer brothers throws his chair back.”

A chair flew back and slammed into the wall with a bang.

Quinton stood up and grabbed the edge of the table, mugs and all, and heaved. But before he could get the table any more than a couple inches off the wood floor, Benjamin brought his stick down bitingly on Quinton’s hands.

“Ow!” hollered the brother.

“Leave it be!”

Flint stood up to protest the abuse his brother had received, but the owner smacked the stick across Flint’s cheek. A howl of pain escaped him.

“I’ll throw you both out if you don’t behave!” Benjamin warned, “and I know you don’t want to miss out on tonight.”

That shut both of them up quickly. It shut many people up, in fact.

“Say, when’s the storyteller getting here?” one man called out from behind me. He was dressed as a farmer, so I could only assume that’s what he was. “Should be near that time ….”

“Any time now,” Benjamin responded smoothly. “So have more drinks.”

That brought several laughs and mutters. With one last furious stare at the boisterous brothers, Benjamin returned to his duties, observing the women distributing his food and ale and checking on the cooks in the kitchen.

Not long after, the moon came out and nearly full, aiding the torches on the walls and candles on the tables in giving me light to see. I started to hear more inquiries directed to the owner about the storyteller. He assured the men and the few women that all was fine and told them he had to go back to the kitchen to give his “very talented cook,” more orders. But I spied him spending the next few minutes with his head looking both ways out the kitchen window, and he did not bring it back in until he heard Flint’s loud complaints.

“Say! When’s this fellow coming? I’ve got work to do tomorrow!”

Benjamin rushed over before Quinton could join in his brother’s complaining, and hissed, “He’s on his way. Probably walking in any moment now.”

“And if he doesn’t, I expect a free drink,” Flint ordered as he put his feet up on the table.

“I think not!” came Benjamin’s answer, bringing his stick on Flint’s leg and rewarded with another yelp.

Benjamin gave a good effort, but Flint’s complaining was infectious. More and more protests and grumblings poured forth steadily. He rushed about with his women serving drinks and food as more inquisitive patrons filled the seats expecting the quality entertainment he had promised. The small influx of new patrons seemed to temporarily quell the murmuring.

I busied myself with preparing the only table in the establishment occupied with less than six people. My papers were perfectly arranged, my feather pens were ready, and I set out my own candles out to ensure myself enough light by which to see my notes. Now all I needed was someone to dictate.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Benjamin said to me now.

I could see sweat forming on his brow and I smiled sympathetically. “Perhaps I should ask you the same thing.”

He forced a small chuckle and looked around the tavern. “In a few more minutes here, I’ll be handing out free rounds and apologizing for the absence of the distinguished guest.” He took out a cloth from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his head and excused himself.

He ran about offering verbal apologies, utterly forgetting about checking his window, and trying to put off the moment of surrender as long as possible when several of the men from the tossing game stood up angrily and marched to the door. Flint and Quinton jumped to their feet right after, as though they had been just waiting for someone else with larger privies than themselves to leave.

The words “free drinks” were no doubt on the tip of his tongue when those men playing the tossing game stopped at the threshold as though they had walked into some unseen barrier. Most of the other patrons did not seem to notice this because the volume in the tavern was louder than ever.

The men at the door parted smoothly to reveal a bent-over old man with long white hair in a worn traveling cloak and magnificent riding boots. He had probably once been tall, but now it was hard to tell with his hunched over, shrunken form.

The magnitude of his presence was so great that the tavern, beginning with those closest to the door and moving toward those nearest to me, fell silent until the only sounds came from the bustling in the kitchen. The head cook came out to investigate the cause of the sudden silence, only to hurry back and hush his helpers. Then the silence was complete.

Every eye (including mine) was fixed on this man who took little notice of the change in the crowd and drew a long wooden cane from the folds of his cloak, setting it down on the floor with a resonating tap. Benjamin had the same look as a cave miner who had just tapped into a thick golden vein in soft rock. Each small step the old man took was accompanied by another tap, and the eyes of the patrons followed him carefully.

When the old man finally reached the small stage with his chair already waiting, he gently set his cane on the floor and sat. I could hear his knee joints creak as he bent, it was so quiet. When his body finally reached the seat, a collective sigh broke out over the audience, but it was quickly hushed.

“Water, please,” the old man said to no one in particular. His eyes surveyed the large crowd in a mere glance and for a moment they rested upon myself. It startled me from my entranced state, and I grabbed my pen and dipped it in into my ink. The excess dripped steadily into the inkwell. The blankness of my paper called to me to fill it with words.

A mug of water was in the owner’s hand almost faster than the words registered in my ears. Benjamin had never moved so quickly, I was certain of it. When he went to the stage to deliver the requested drink, I felt as if good Benjamin had intruded on someone else’s property. The old man received it gratefully, drank a small sip, cleared his throat, and lifted his head.

He had the feature common to men fortunate enough to reach such a ripe age: large ears whose lobes hung to his cheeks, a large, large nose with reddened skin, probably from the same chill I’d felt outside. His eyes were as bright and wise as ever, and I doubted his memory had dulled a whit. His lips were heavy and pouty and it made the tufts of long white hair appear even whiter.

“True love,” he began, his voice low, but strong. “We use these words too lightly. We throw them around like bare chicken bones. But when a man and woman experience it, recognize it, and embrace it … there is no greater-- nor a more powerful force in the world.”

“Except ale,” Flint said with a laugh, but when no one joined in, he fell silent.

The old man took no notice of the interruption and continued on. “Two kinds of people exist in the world: those who taste love and those who do not. To be pitied are those in the latter group! It is tragic! Very very tragic!”

A flinch rippled through the crowd, and the old man surveyed them with the most utter seriousness.

“Great things are born of great loves. Such are the matter of stories. Such things bring me here today, for I shall tell you of a truly magnificent love and, of course, equally terrible powers that do all they can to snuff out the happiness of others. You will all leave here better men and women after you have heard this … a tale of love and adventure ….

“The beginning of Henry Vestin and Isabelle Oslon is similar to many stories you’ve heard before, but then again, it isn’t. After all, two people have to meet somewhere, at sometime, and there are always obstacles to overcome for any story of love, be they rich or poor. Or in their situation, both.

“Henry was the son of a wealthy woodcarving master, and Isabelle was the daughter of an impoverished nobleman and lady. Despite the disparity in riches, the two families were alike in many ways. For example, they each had one elder boy and one younger girl. Both Lady Vestin and Mrs. Oslon were quite stern and both loved beautiful dresses. Both Lord Oslon and Mr. Vestin had strict temperaments.

“And there was also the hedge.” He spoke as if he could see the hedge perfectly in his mind.

“You see, the backside of Oslon Manor faced the backside of the Vestin homestead. The two properties were separated only by a row of tall evergreen bushes planted by the gardener of the Oslons a few years before Henry’s birth. It was Lord Oslon’s way of trying to forget the Vestins existed at all.

“This was a time in Blithmore’s history when education had become quite fashionable, even for women. Henry’s mother, Mrs. Vestin, had received her certificate from the Office of Royal Educators and set about teaching her two children. Desperate to keep their children as fashionable as possible, but unable to afford the cost of sending them to the schools with other young nobles, Lord and Lady Oslon made an unconventional arrangement with Mrs. Vestin, and sent their two children through the evergreen hedge every morning to be taught alongside Henry and his sister, Margaret.

“The first day of class as a foursome found Henry dumping a handful of dirt into Isabelle’s hair. Isabelle screamed until her brother, James, became so angry that he wrestled little Henry to the ground and tore Henry’s shirt in the process. The Oslons were so offended by the behavior of the Vestin boy that if Mrs. Vestin hadn’t apologized in person that very evening and assured them an immediate change in her son’s behavior, that would have been the end of it all, and there would be no story to tell today.

“On the second day, out of revenge, Isabelle dropped a handful of dirt down Henry’s new, clean shirt, and that cemented their friendship permanently. All they had left to do was grow up, like the evergreen bushes in the hedge, every year a little taller, a little older, and a little closer together.”