A Weaver of Tales

Z.A. Mayes

Description

"Hear the song of Trajan Drevo,
The Castle of the Enduring Tree.
Brave youths and gracious maidens
Dance there no more, nor are guests
Feasted with honor at well-laden tables..."

An ancient secret casts its shadow over the castle, and over the two people who are its only hope of redemption: Martin, the long lost son of a powerful nobleman, and Ylla, the last survivor of a family destroyed by treachery. Their fates are interwoven for good or ill, in a tale of love unlooked for, of vengeance not to be denied.

Sujets

• Fiction
• Fantasy

Informations

• Publié par: eBookIt.com
• Date de parution: 06 août 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781456627119
• Langue: English

Extrait

A W EAVER OF
 
T ALES
 
 
BY
 
 
Z. A. M AYES

Copyright 2016 Z.A. Mayes,
All rights reserved.
 
 
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
http://www.eBookIt.com
 
 
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-2711-9
 
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Z.A. Mayes.

 
 
 
Dedication
 
To Kathy Shields, who encouraged me to start writing again, and to my family, who put up with so much.
Prologue
T HAT PALE AND ADORABLE LADY , the moon, each and every night follows her lonely pathway through the heavens. There, in the east, she first rises into view, whether round and full as a white melon, or thin and sharp as a sliver of ice; there, in the west, she slips over the edge of the world, and we see her no more. This very evening, as she keeps vigil in the sky with her shining lantern, she waits for Danitza, the Morning Star, who has promised to come and tell her a story. Time passes...Danitza does not appear. The moon, for all her calm face, grows impatient; she loves stories, and no one is better than the Morning Star at telling them. At last she sees her friend peeping over the horizon.
“Where have you been? What has made you waste so much time?”
“Yes, I am late, I am very late, but what a story I have to tell! It is the tale of a young man, lost from his family at birth, and a young woman...”
“I have heard that one before.”
“No, you haven’t—this is a new story. Struja Mama is in this story—Struja Mama who helped make everything, and looks after us all.”
“That is nothing new—she is the Great Goddess, the Mother of All—when has she not been part of every story?”
“Just listen! The vila, those lovely water spirits, who are her daughters, they are in this tale.”
“Oh, the vila! Our little sisters! They dance for me so charmingly when I am full moon, and they sing better than nightingales, and then I can admire my reflection so well in the lakes and streams they rule over...I would like to hear about them.”
“You see, I knew you would want to hear my tale. There are other folk in it as well, men and women both good and evil: nobles, merchants, peasants, priests,...”
“Good, I am ready...”
“...minstrels, weavers, saints, children,...” “Danitza! I would like to hear...”
“...people from foreign lands, and a horse, in fact, many horses...”
“Haven’t you left out someone?”
“Of course not—you are in it, too.”
“Then waste no more time, but tell it me!”
“Patience! I must get my breath. Hear then:
Chapter 1
Wandering between hills
Is King Balatan’s road.
North to south of our country it runs,
From Najdalje,the old capital,
To lovely Uzmore, by the sea.
The road winds around and about,
This way and that,
From village to village
Where the people live life slowly
Like the sheep they tend,
Living and speaking in riddles
Whose meaning also comes slowly To the traveller’s understanding.
 
Old song
 
 
IT WAS IN THOSE SLOW AND SLEEPY HILLS, one day in midsummer, that the goddess Struja Mama (Mother of the Waters, Weaver of Destinies, She Who Watches Over the Worlds, the Spinner, the Mother of Bears, She Who Catches the Threads, the Great Mother...) had taken on the form of an old woman, a tall and straight-backed old woman, following her flocks about as they grazed on a hillside by the road. She wore the local peasant dress: a richly embroidered white blouse and skirt, with a red apron, and shoes with tasselled toes; her hair was silver, her eyes black, sharp, and fiery, with yet a glint of humor in them. Under her arm she had tucked her distaff, a carved and polished branch with carded wool wound round its upper half; as she walked she spun this wool, with a spindle, and sang to her beasts to quiet them. It was a fine warm day, and the goddess was enjoying the feel of the sun on her back, and the entrancing scents released by grasses and herbs as the animals grazed over them. “Yes, we did well to make this world,” she thought to herself, “though it is so much trouble to care for. We must always be visiting it, and looking after things, it seems. But it is a lovely place. What will the people be up to today, I wonder, those who are travelling this road? What help will they need from me, and what will I get from them in return?”
The road remained empty for some time, until shuffling, stumbling steps sounded and here came a man and a donkey, both laden with firewood and looking half asleep, trudging down the road on their way to market.
“Tsk,” said the goddess, still in her disguise. “That Jeko—the way he’s packed the kindling, it’ll fall any minute. Too much wine and song last night,” and she called out to him: “Eh, man, look to your load! It’s slipping!”
Jeko started, and looked round; seeing that a knot on the donkey’s load had come loose, and the wood was about to fall, he touched his hand to his cap in thanks. “So many hours to gather it, and only a moment to lose it. I was late to market already; if I’d had to pack it again, who knows if anyone would be left to buy it! You’ve saved me my dinner, and a scolding from my wife, may God bless you for it.” With clumsy fingers he retied the knot, then pulled up his donkey from where it was grazing, and off they plodded down the road.
Struja Mama went on spinning, and singing...little clouds blew across the sky...sometime later, three young women came into view, with baskets balanced on their heads.
“Ah, there’s Milan’s daughter, and Josia, and her cousin, going to help with the plum-picking at Pospan village.” Seeing the old woman, and thinking by her costume that she came from a nearby hamlet that a friend had married into, they called out, “Has Sofia had her baby yet?” and Struja Mama answered, “Yes, a fine girl, born just this morning.”
“May Our Lady bless them both! We’ll stop in and see her on our way back,” said one of the three.
“But we must not visit her without a gift, cousin,” said another.
“A kindly thought, my dears! Take her this gift from me, for the new baby,” said Struja Mama, happy to be of use, and gave them a skein of yarn, fine-spun and soft as a cloud.
“Oh, how lovely! Even my granny can’t spin as fine as that. A thousand thanks! But don’t you want to take it to her yourself?”
“No, dearie, you’ll see her before I do, most likely. A good journey to you.”
“And a good day to you!”
An hour or more went by. The sheep grazed peacefully, the goddess kept up her spinning. Then from up the road came a faint rumbling sound, which grew louder; then hoofbeats could be heard along with it, and faint snatches of music drifting along on the wind. At last the travelers came into view: four armed guards, mounted, riding at ease, laughing and chatting with one another, expecting no trouble on this drowsy old road. Behind them came a stout, box-like carriage pulled by four heavy horses, a single rider, richly dressed, keeping pace beside it; following them were pack horses, carts, a flock of sheep and their shepherd, a group of led horses that carried no burdens, and finally, eight more mounted guards. A cheerful song that kept time with the horses’ hoofbeats issued from within the carriage; someone inside it played harmony on a lute.
“Travelers from up north,” said the goddess to herself. “There’s Lord Kyril riding, and Rosina, his new lady, in the carriage—and there are his new horses, too. You don’t often see their like—what beauties, to be sure.”
The song came to an end. Kyril clapped his hands in appreciation. A wiry man, not in his first youth, he had a large nose, like an eagle’s beak, and a weather-beaten, good-humored face.
“Well sung, my lady! Just the tune to raise weary spirits on a long journey. And to think that when we wed I did not know you could sing. Indeed I hardly knew what a treasure I had found, beyond any of my dreams.”
“Now, my dear lord, you flatter me.”
“Never, I swear it. No words, however extravagant, could ever come near the truth of you.”
“So you say now. I’ll wait till we’ve been married a month or two. Then you’ll change your tune. ‘Wife, where are my boots? Wife, have you slept the day through, that the dinner’s so late? A new gown? I bought you a new gown just six years ago, or was it seven—why ever should you need another?’ That’s the husband’s song, isn’t it Milina?”
The girl with the lute chuckled. “I have no part in this—you have married and must bear all together. Come, the two of you, stop your fencing and give us a duet. So harmony in song may bring you married harmony as well.”
“A kindly thought. Husband, what song shall we have?”
But Kyril had noticed the old lady on the hillside, and holding up his hand to stop the procession, rode over to speak to her. “Good day, mother. How fares it with you and your flocks?”
“Well, master, very well,” said the goddess. “And you? Have you far to go?”
“A week’s travel, or a little more, depending on the weather. We go to Mirisan Bredo, “Fragrant Hill,” in the south, near Zapad Mesto.”
“Ah, then perhaps you raise apples there.”
“Yes, and we will have sheep; my wife brings them as her dowry.”
“And horses, too, I see. Those are not of the common sort.”
“No, indeed, mother, they come from the T’ayana’ai, the wild men, the gift of their king, whom I have served these three years and would still serve, were it not that my elder brother has died, and so I must go home and be a lord within four walls again.”
“But you will have good company there, with those two lovely ladies.”
“Ah, my lady Rosina, and Milina, her cousin, who of her good nature comes with us to keep my wife company among us rough men. I set out from the T’ayana’ai with just the horses and their grooms, but see what has happened. As I traveled homeward, a fierce storm arose, so that I was like to have lost my way and perished on the road, but that I came to the castle of my lady’s family, and found shelter there.