Delemental
First Post
(Updated August 25, 2010)
It was a village, much like any other. Wooden houses with thatched roofs scattered alongside a simple dirt path that was barely a road, deep ruts running its length as a reminder of the occasional wagon caravan that passed this way, hoping to avoid the crowded main roads. People and livestock commingled in the village and the surrounding farmland, living much as they had for generations. A flock of young children, no more than a dozen, gathered in the street and began running, the sounds of their laughter echoing in the still air. They raced toward a small house at the edge of the village, somewhat apart from the others.
“Grandfather! Grandmother!” the children shouted as they gathered around the front door.
The door swung open to reveal a wizened old woman, leaning heavily on a cane. She grinned at them, showing crooked teeth.
“Well, young ones, come to climb into my cooking pot?”
The children laughed. The old woman, who was ‘Grandmother’ to them all even though none shared her blood, was known to be a witch. The adults of the village came to her for medicines, or to consult the spirits about the harvest or the birth of a child, but other than that they tended to avoid the little hut and its two occupants. But children are not as foolish as adults in such matters.
“We want a story!” one of the younglings cried out. “Where is Grandfather?”
“Oh, it’s a story you want, is it?” she grinned. “No time for old Grandmother… not unless the smell of sticky buns is coming from her window.”
“And then you get to be the popular one, Grandmother,” said a grizzled voice behind her. Grandfather walked out into the sunlight, blinking as the light made his hair appear like a white halo. He stood straighter than Grandmother, but his hands were twisted, knobby things. It was said that he had once been an Imperial Historian, but none could say why he and his wife had come here instead of retiring in a city. Neither had any practical skills for a farming community, other than Grandmother’s knowledge of hedge magic and Grandfather’s willingness to entertain the young children and educate them.
“A story! A story!” the children chanted.
“All right then,” he said, settling himself into a well-worn wooden chair as the gaggle of children quickly gathered around in the dirt. “What story shall I tell today? Li Peng and the Perfect Peach?”
“No!” shouted the children emphatically.
“Princess Perfect and the Yu Shan Ball?”
“No!”
“The Four Friends Against the Bandit King?”
“No!”
“We want a real story!” one boy piped up.
“A story about things that really happened!” said another girl.
Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged a look. Were their audience older, and more worldly, they might have read much in that look, and perhaps felt some measure of alarm. But the look passed without comment.
“I may have just the thing,” Grandfather said. He stood up, and shuffled back into the house. Sounds of searching could be heard inside, but they took a long time to cease; longer than would be expected, for the house was not that large, and though age had slowed his body it had not slowed Grandfather’s mind. Eventually he emerged, and in his hand was held a scroll case made of a lacquered wood, embossed with jade and silver. The value of the case alone was likely more than the village produced in a year, though this was not known to the children arrayed around him, who only stared wide-eyed in wonder.
“This scroll,” he began, “and many others like it were entrusted to my grandfather many years ago. They contain the stories of a group of people who set out to change the world. Some called them villains, others called them heroes. My grandfather passed them to my father, and my father passed them to me. I was told the same thing that they were told; keep these scrolls safe, until the day comes when Creation is ready to hear the tales they contain.” He held up the scroll case. “Do you think you are ready?”
The children nodded enthusiastically.
“But before I begin, a warning,” he said, his tone serious. “These stories are for you only. They are not for your fathers or mothers, your uncles and aunts, or your older siblings. There is magic in these stories, true magic that seeks the right eyes to read them, and the right ears to hear them. I will only tell them to you, and if anyone else learns of them, then I will tell no more, and you will forget all that you have already heard. Do you understand?”
Again, heads bobbed up and down eagerly.
“Very well.” With a flourish, Grandfather snapped open the seal on the first scroll. “We begin long ago, when the world was very different from the way it is now, but in many ways not so different at all…”
It was a village, much like any other. Wooden houses with thatched roofs scattered alongside a simple dirt path that was barely a road, deep ruts running its length as a reminder of the occasional wagon caravan that passed this way, hoping to avoid the crowded main roads. People and livestock commingled in the village and the surrounding farmland, living much as they had for generations. A flock of young children, no more than a dozen, gathered in the street and began running, the sounds of their laughter echoing in the still air. They raced toward a small house at the edge of the village, somewhat apart from the others.
“Grandfather! Grandmother!” the children shouted as they gathered around the front door.
The door swung open to reveal a wizened old woman, leaning heavily on a cane. She grinned at them, showing crooked teeth.
“Well, young ones, come to climb into my cooking pot?”
The children laughed. The old woman, who was ‘Grandmother’ to them all even though none shared her blood, was known to be a witch. The adults of the village came to her for medicines, or to consult the spirits about the harvest or the birth of a child, but other than that they tended to avoid the little hut and its two occupants. But children are not as foolish as adults in such matters.
“We want a story!” one of the younglings cried out. “Where is Grandfather?”
“Oh, it’s a story you want, is it?” she grinned. “No time for old Grandmother… not unless the smell of sticky buns is coming from her window.”
“And then you get to be the popular one, Grandmother,” said a grizzled voice behind her. Grandfather walked out into the sunlight, blinking as the light made his hair appear like a white halo. He stood straighter than Grandmother, but his hands were twisted, knobby things. It was said that he had once been an Imperial Historian, but none could say why he and his wife had come here instead of retiring in a city. Neither had any practical skills for a farming community, other than Grandmother’s knowledge of hedge magic and Grandfather’s willingness to entertain the young children and educate them.
“A story! A story!” the children chanted.
“All right then,” he said, settling himself into a well-worn wooden chair as the gaggle of children quickly gathered around in the dirt. “What story shall I tell today? Li Peng and the Perfect Peach?”
“No!” shouted the children emphatically.
“Princess Perfect and the Yu Shan Ball?”
“No!”
“The Four Friends Against the Bandit King?”
“No!”
“We want a real story!” one boy piped up.
“A story about things that really happened!” said another girl.
Grandmother and Grandfather exchanged a look. Were their audience older, and more worldly, they might have read much in that look, and perhaps felt some measure of alarm. But the look passed without comment.
“I may have just the thing,” Grandfather said. He stood up, and shuffled back into the house. Sounds of searching could be heard inside, but they took a long time to cease; longer than would be expected, for the house was not that large, and though age had slowed his body it had not slowed Grandfather’s mind. Eventually he emerged, and in his hand was held a scroll case made of a lacquered wood, embossed with jade and silver. The value of the case alone was likely more than the village produced in a year, though this was not known to the children arrayed around him, who only stared wide-eyed in wonder.
“This scroll,” he began, “and many others like it were entrusted to my grandfather many years ago. They contain the stories of a group of people who set out to change the world. Some called them villains, others called them heroes. My grandfather passed them to my father, and my father passed them to me. I was told the same thing that they were told; keep these scrolls safe, until the day comes when Creation is ready to hear the tales they contain.” He held up the scroll case. “Do you think you are ready?”
The children nodded enthusiastically.
“But before I begin, a warning,” he said, his tone serious. “These stories are for you only. They are not for your fathers or mothers, your uncles and aunts, or your older siblings. There is magic in these stories, true magic that seeks the right eyes to read them, and the right ears to hear them. I will only tell them to you, and if anyone else learns of them, then I will tell no more, and you will forget all that you have already heard. Do you understand?”
Again, heads bobbed up and down eagerly.
“Very well.” With a flourish, Grandfather snapped open the seal on the first scroll. “We begin long ago, when the world was very different from the way it is now, but in many ways not so different at all…”
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