The Bard's Tale

Once upon a time, there was a man named Robert. He was a kindly man who lived alone in a two-bedroom cottage with his lovely daughter, Desiree, so named, because she had been the desire of her parents' hearts, born to them later in life. Desiree, a blooming girl of thirteen, had come to live with her father when he discovered after Desiree's birth that the lovely enchantress he'd married was really a malicious, ugly hag in disguise. But this is not her story.

Robert was a crafter of magical tales and exciting adventures. With his words, he wove the fabric of tales line by line, character by character, and the way he related his tales drew his listeners in, until people began to come around just to hear his stories. Robert loved the companionship of his listeners, brief though it was, and over time the tales grew wilder and richer, even more enchanting – and enchanted. As his listeners gathered around, the magic of the story drew them in; and they became knights and clerics, dwarves and sorcerers. Eventually, they became the story.

Oh, how Robert loved being the center of attention! He loved how these faces fixated onto his, completely enraptured. He thrilled at having his listeners seek him out, at having people gather in his home just to hear his tales. For him, save for his time with Desiree, there was no greater joy for him. Over the years, he invited his listeners to participate in the stories he told. They created the characters and helped build the stories from the perspective of their own characters. They battled giants together and sought for magical treasures, until these tales became like a game. No longer did these tales last mere minutes; now they lasted hours, days, months! And Robert preened at his importance to those who wanted to play his games. But the writer's existence is a humble one, and though he worked many long, hard hours at creating these tales, he earned not a cent from doing so.

"Papa," said Desiree one afternoon, "Why don't you ask those who come to play your games to bring a little food or a few pence so we can have some food to eat? The miller could bring some barley flour, the hunter a bit of dried meat, the farmer some vegetables, and I'm sure the merchant could find some oil. I could make such a lovely stew and some bread for us!"

So the next day as the men gathered around Robert's table, he told them, "Look, every day you come and enjoy my tales and play these games. My daughter and I are hungry. Will you please bring a little of your food so that we may eat? A scrap of meat? Some barley flour? A few vegetables?" At this, the men became indignant.

"What!? You want us to pay for your stories? I can't use your stories to keep me warm. Your stories don't put food on my table. They're not like clothing I can put on my children's' backs. We work hard to have the food we eat, and if we were to give any to you, there wouldn't be enough for us!" Resigned, Robert didn't push it, and he commenced that day's game. He was afraid of giving up their company and friendship, though he didn't feel that they were much like friends now.

Thirteen summers had passed since that time when he had escaped the old hag's clutches with his infant daughter late one dark night, and while he adored his daughter, teen moodiness and all, this gentle bard was lonely. He'd met a sweet, loving lady named Catheryn who enjoyed his company but who had not yet committed to a permanent relationship. Robert cherished every moment he got to spend with her, but he wanted more. He wanted the commitment, and he often thought he'd give anything – save the life and health of his daughter – to have this lady share his life forever.

Catheryn loved hearing Robert weaving his marvelous stories, but she could listen, then move on. She adored his voice, and could sit forever just watching how he gestured and how his warm brown eyes lit up as he told his tales. But with the "the end" or "until next time," happy was she to be on her way, tending to work and her own two daughters. After all, while stories are well and good, they don't do the wash, keep the shop open, or put food on the table.

Day after day, Robert would spy Catheryn in the crowd, in one of the coveted spots in front if she were early enough, looking at him with rapture as he spun his yarns. Day after day, he tried all he could to capture her attention, often telling tales with a romantic bent, hoping to soften her heart. Still, though Catheryn was always kind and complimentary, there was a distance between them. Sometimes they would take their girls on a picnic by the lake, enjoying the fresh air and the cool water between their toes. When they were able to spend time alone together, the moments were nothing short of magical for Robert: Stars were brighter, birds sang more sweetly, the air was fresher. The beautiful young widow seemed to enjoy herself, too, so it frustrated him endlessly, trying to figure out why she wouldn't consent to be his wife.

Catheryn cared for Robert deeply, and she knew he cared for her as well. Every time they were together, the moments flew; she greatly enjoyed his company. This fair lady, however, was a pragmatist. The income from her little shop was enough to take care of the modest needs of her daughters and her, allowing her to tuck away a little here and there to afford treats and gifts. There was no way she could afford to feed Robert and his daughter, too, on the amount she was making. So she watched as, day after day, small groups of her fellow villagers marched into Robert's house, emerging hours later looking happy, tired, and triumphant. She saw Desiree during these long afternoons roaming through the village, begging for a few pence and food to take back to her father, doing all she could to keep them from starving.

One day Robert was in the village, and he stopped and peered into the window of Catheryn's shop. She was listening intently to a humorous story a customer was telling her, and her rich, glorious laugh tripped along the shelves, out the door open to the spring warmth, and wrapped itself around Robert. He didn't realize he had company beside him at the window until the creaky voice of an old man said, "She sure is lovely, isn't she?"

Robert sighed and said, "She is," with a wistful note in his voice.

"So I take it the little lady doesn't share your affections, eh?"

Robert didn't think Catheryn would appreciate being called "little lady," but he swallowed the rebuke on his tongue in deference to the man's age. "She says she cares for me, but she can't afford to take care of my daughter and me."

"You're a strong, strappin' young lad! Why in tarnation would she need to take care of you?" And thus saying, the wizened little man rapped Robert smartly in the shin with his walking cane.

"Ow!" Robert jumped away from the man, rubbing his abused shin, certain a bruise was even now blooming under his pants. As he did so, he finally got a look at his new companion. Stooping with age, the little old man barely reached Robert's chest. His clothes were worn but cared for, with just a hint of fraying at cuffs and collar and hem. His head was nearly bald, save for a few grey wisps on top and encircling his head just above his ears. With an inward chuckle, Robert thought the man had more hairs in his ears than on his head. The man's face was a map of wrinkles, and the ones at the corners of his eyes deepened when he smiled. Bright, sparkling green eyes belied his age; they were the eyes of a much younger man, unaffected by cataracts or other ravages of age. Yet, the depths hinted at wisdom suited to his age, or maybe even a man much older.

"Walk with me," the man demanded. Intrigued in spite of himself – Robert wasn't used to taking orders from anyone – he accompanied the man down the busy street, shortening and slowing his steps to match the wobbly ones of the old gentleman. "I remember being in love once. Aw, most beautiful little maiden you ever did see! Name was Rebekah. Flowing red hair, brown eyes like warm brandy on a cold night, and the sweetest, most sumptuous figure I'd ever seen! Yessiree! And whoowhee! Temper! She had a temper on her alright, just as fiery as her hair!" The old man's eyes had taken on a certain glaze as he looked ahead, like he was seeing this vision of loveliness even now.

Robert thought he could see her, too; she reminded him a lot of Catheryn, especially that temper part. "What happened to her?"

With a bark of laughter, the other man smacked Robert on the back and said, "Why, I married her. Together fifty-eight years, we were. Had a passel of children, a couple o' girls, beautiful as their momma, and a few strapping boys. They're all grown now, with children of their own. Except for the baby. Sweet little boy, died of disease when he was two." The man paused to wipe a tear from his eye. "Seems silly, getting all leaky over something that happened nigh on 50 years ago, but it liked'a tore Rebekah up when he died. Tore me up, too, but I couldn't let her see. I spent a lot of time out in the woodshed those weeks following. We were plum set on firewood that year – and half the year following," he added with a rusty chuckle.

"I don't think Catheryn will ever agree to be my wife," Robert sighed.

"Why do you want her to be?"

Robert stopped and looked at the old man, letting the silence stretch. He hadn't actually thought about it. Still mulling over the question, he continued on, slowly, pensively. "Well, she's beautiful," he said, realizing as he said it how lame that sounded. "She makes me laugh. She's really smart, so she's fun to talk to. I feel more alive when I'm with her. She's got a temper, but that just makes her more exciting. Everyone loves her! She has a way of listening to you that makes you feel you're the only person in the world, and being on the receiving end of that much focus makes you feel really special. She's talented, she's successful..."

"Well, why should she want to marry you?"

The question brought Robert up short once again. "Uh, well, I'm smart. I tell amazing stories. In fact, people from all over the village and surrounding towns come to hear my stories. I've even created a group that comes together and helps create stories. And Catheryn seems to have a good time with me."

"What sort of work do you do?"

"I'm a bard. Everyone around here knows that." Robert was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the old man's questions, and there was a note of irritation in his voice.

"In't that your daughter yonder, begging the baker for a crusty old loaf of bread?"

"Yeah, so? Writing just doesn't pay well." Robert was getting quite angry at the man now.

"Ever thought about doing something else?"

"Like what, old man? I'm a writer. It's what I do. It's what I know."

The wizened man shrugged and moved on down the street, pensive, not saying a word.

Robert turned to go the other way, happy to be done with the old man and his intrusive questions. "Say, young man?" the old man called to him.

"What?" Robert asked sharply, irritation heavy in his voice.

"How would you like Catheryn to agree to marry you?"

"Haven't you been listening? I want her to marry me! I've asked her three times!"

The man cut a look up at Robert. "What would you give to have her?" he asked slyly.

"I'd give anything!" Robert replied. "Anything but the health and safety of my daughter Desiree."

"Anything, huh? Would you give up your games and your storytelling?"

"What!?" Now Robert began to feel a bit panicked. If he gave up his games, who would look at him in adulation? Who'd come around to keep him from being alone?

"Would you give up your games and storytelling if it meant having Catheryn as your wife," the old man asked slowly and a bit more loudly, as if he were talking to the village idiot.

After some long moments of hesitation, Robert finally responded with a slow, "Yeeesss," looking at his companion with some suspicion.

"Now we're getting somewhere!" hooted the man, dancing a little jig in the street, holding his cane over his head, for the moment looking nothing like the decrepit old man who'd been accompanying Robert down the street. Robert watched the man, bemused, waiting for him to settle down. "If you want Catheryn as your wife forever, you will have to give up gaming and storytelling. Forever. For good. Catheryn's adoration of you should be enough for you – that and the love of your daughters. If they are all you want, all you need, then you don't need the adulation of these hangers-on."

"Okay," said Robert, beginning to get excited about the possibilities. "Fine. I hereby give up games and storytelling forever."

"It's not quite that easy, young man. Young'uns. So impatient. Never want to wait to hear all the terms and conditions," the old man muttered to himself.

"Once you give up your games and storytelling, then Catheryn will consent to become your wife. With all this new free time, you may discover that you have time to seek employment so that you can support your daughter and yourself. If you tell one more story for public consumption or even go near anything related to gaming – the people, the stories, the accessories – at that moment, Catheryn and her daughters will be gone from your life forever, and all you'll have left are the memories of your life together. For them, it'll be as if you never existed; they'll have no memories of your relationship whatsoever, and therefore, no heartache. Is this clear?"

Gulping as he took this plunge, Robert agreed. He found Desiree and together they walked home.

As they entered their humble cottage, Robert noticed something was different. Several somethings, actually. The kitchen table, which had been sitting in the center of the room, was tucked against the wall. The stacks of books, boxes of dice, and the miniature figurines that had adorned the shelves lining the walls were gone. There wasn't even a disturbance in the dust indicating they'd ever been there. Feeling unsettled, Robert mechanically ate his meager dinner without really tasting it before going to bed.

The next morning, the stories and games were but a vague, distant memory to him. After eating a chunk of stale bread to break his fast, Robert again felt unsettled; what was he to do with the day ahead? He meandered into the village, suddenly feeling strangely lighter as he progressed on. The air was sweet with the vibrant spring blooms everywhere, underscored by the smell of the dusty road, and the cool, dew-kissed morning promised a warm, gorgeous day. So caught up in his thoughts was Robert that he didn't realize he'd arrived in front of Catheryn's shop until she greeted him as she opened up for that day's business. He looked up, surprised to see her. As their eyes locked, something new and electric arched between them. Robert's heart was pounding in his chest, echoing in his head. His usual facility with words completely deserted him as his tongue dried up in his mouth.

"Um, so..." Catheryn began, "Would you like to come over for dinner tonight? Desiree, too, of course." She finished the rest in a rush, as if she were afraid she'd lose her nerve.

"Uh, er, sure," stammered Robert. "I'll, uh, see you then."

He spent the rest of the morning in the village, speaking to shop keepers, browsing in stores, looking at wares he knew he couldn't afford. A cloud descended on Robert's previously buoyant mood; he had to find some way to earn some money, but what could a simple bard, albeit a talented one, do? On entering the village woodworker's shop, he noticed three people waiting to speak to the wood carver, the keeper was bustling busy, and the floor was a mess. Without thinking twice about it, Robert grabbed a broom and began to sweep the floor. After everyone had cleared out, the wood carver tossed a penny to Robert and thanked him for his work.

Oh. Well, that felt kind of good, thought Robert as he went on his way. Coming to the dressmaker's shop, he asked if she had anything small he could do for her for a penny or few. "Sure." And she showed him to her back room where her girls and she sewed the fabulous dresses she sold. "There are pins all over this floor," she told him. "Pick those up, and then come see me." An hour later and a few more cents richer, Robert went on his way. It was early afternoon by this point, and he wanted a few hours to rest and get ready for dinner.

On entering their cottage, Robert found Desiree sweeping the rough wooden floor. "Great news!" he exclaimed. "We've been invited to Catheryn's for dinner. I'm going to go down to the river and start hauling up buckets of water so we can take baths. You drag out the tub and fix up the privacy screen. I'll let you go first. Go on, now!" And with those parting words, he practically skipped down to the river, the empty bucket swinging along beside him.

Later that afternoon, Desiree and Robert walked down the road towards the village. The side door at Catheryn's shop was unlocked, so they entered, calling up to her. She flew down the stairs to greet them, helping them off with their jackets and hats and hanging them on the pegs by the door. "Please, follow me," she said, leading them up the stairs to the cozy apartment above her shop. The air was redolent with the aromas of what seemed like a feast to her guests. The three girls ran off to Catheryn's daughters' room, and soon the sounds of talking and giggling were making their way into the small parlor at the front of the apartment where Catheryn and Robert sat.

"Thank you for inviting us," Robert said. "Dinner smells incredible!"

"I'm glad you were able to join us. I think you'll be pleased."

Their conversation settled into small talk about Robert's stories and Catheryn's shop, little girl antics, and news about various merchants around town. Usually so glib with his tongue, Robert found he was strangely struggling to come up with things to say. He felt rather awkward, but if Catheryn noticed anything was amiss, she didn't comment. He sat back and let Catheryn talk, content to be lost in the cadence of her voice and the way her whole face lit up when she mentioned those she cared about.

Soon dinner was ready, and what a happy, boisterous affair it was! The girls were on their best behavior, but the talk around the table was joyful and excited. The food was excellent: Roasted chicken with a beautiful, herbed, golden skin; roasted potatoes seasoned with rosemary; fresh steamed green beans from the local farmer's market; and soft, buttery rolls finished the simple meal. As Robert looked around, happily taking in the whole experience, he felt a yearning well up so swiftly inside him that he nearly sobbed aloud with it. He needed this. He needed this warmth, this joviality every day, every night.

As dessert came around, Robert determined that he would do everything he could to earn Catheryn's respect and win her love. Giving up his games didn't even seem like enough to sacrifice for the love and commitment of this woman.

Months passed, and Robert was able to hire himself out around town as a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He willingly did whatever work he could find in order to earn some money. Over time, Desiree no longer had to beg in the streets and, free of this humiliation, blossomed into a lovely young lady. They were frequent visitors to Catheryn's home, and one moonlit night after the girls were settled into bed, Catheryn at last consented to become Robert's wife. Being that this was her second marriage, the ceremony was an simple but lovely affair, attended only by their daughters and several friends. Afterwards, though, their friends and neighbors threw a joyous feast to celebrate their new life together, and the dancing and revelry went on through the night and long into the next day. Exhausted but happy, the blissful couple left for a brief honeymoon, leaving their daughters in the care of Catheryn's friend Rachel.