Story 10 - The Barter

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Welcome. Cassandra’s Tales and Truths is an anthology series that utilizes the wisdom of the Delphic Maxims. In this episode, the tenth episode, Cassandra presents what might be considered a dividing lesson, at least by certain standards. There’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s the sort of lesson that–if learned through experience–is drilled deep into the psyche. But if that isn’t the route you traversed, then you might remain blissfully ignorant of how necessary generosity can be. It’s life sustaining to some. And for that, there’s reason to be grateful. Beyond grateful, even. After all, some things go beyond a simple ‘thank you.’ Some things are far too important for that.

So, dear student, honor generosity.

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Darvix could no longer remember what it was like to take an unconstricted breath. Had he really been sick that long, he wondered. Or was it just all the mental stimulation that came from traveling through such unfamiliar lands? Had all of those thoughts and sights pushed out this other memory or pushed it so deep into his mind that it could not easily be recalled? No, he thought, it was probably the illness, twisting his sense of normalcy or demanding this sort of adjustment in order to keep his mind steady. And that was just a part of survival. Panic and dread kept one from focusing, and recovery would almost always require focus. In any event, it would require care. 

His mind wandered peacefully through these paths as he sat in the saddle of the cheapest mule he could find. The return to a familiar activity brought him some comfort, and he felt himself fall into the soft hum of his own mind. This was the tranquility that first pulled him into the contemplative life. With one taste of it, he was tied to this pursuit, for all of his days. And now, as he seemingly neared the last one, Darvix felt himself fall into the embrace again only to be pulled out abruptly by a shooting pain across his body, from his right hip to his shoulder. 

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Pain like that seemingly was part of his illness, but one that attacked him like that was new. With this novelty, a certain panic began to set in. An unraveling began, and he knew he needed to pull himself back together.

It wasn’t that hard, really. The previous thought could serve such a purpose. Darvix lacked the internal direction to ride it fully, and so, he redirected his mind, turning instead to an interrogation of the thought’s merits rather than the thought itself. In all likelihood, this did not need to be pursued as it was the sort of thing that another scholar had likely parsed out before, or attempted to. It seemed inevitable given how many came before him and how simple the notion, but a name or argument did not come to mind. 

Darvix ignored the sign that his memory was failing. That could simply be attributed to the pain. Although it had subsided, the feeling was still fresh. And it would haunt him for some time, long after the next pang came, which admittedly did not say much. They were getting closer together. Whatever ‘they’ were. No one had been able to tell him. No doctor, surgeon-barber, or healer that he encountered along his travels had been able to tell him or even utter the name of the condition he had. Some knew of it, vaguely, having seen it in an old tome or two. But the combination of letters that made up its name did not fit well on the tongue. The sound could be replicated, sure, had a speaker heard it before, but that would require another speaking it allowed, and that simply did not happen anymore. This was part of being infected with an old illness, an illness long thought extinct and therefore forgettable.

That prose was a long winded way of telling Darvix that they–whoever they happened to be on any given day or in any given town–could not help him. By the time they got to the lecture, Darvix knew what came next. He knew that they spoke of his death, and frankly, he was becoming resigned to it. 

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All the same, it was not the sort of news he could deliver to his family. His family were owed the news, undoubtedly, but he could not bring himself to write it out on the half-finished letter in his pocket. And yet, the letter could hardly be considered complete without it. Gentle admonishments and words of wisdom to his young son had come easily. Words of affection and affirmation towards his wife were made more powerful by the frequency with which he said them to her. But such horrid news would not blend well with these things. And yet–he knew–it was the only thing his family would care about. 

Or, rather, it was hope. Hope was the only thing they would care about. It was what they needed from him right then. If he were so determined to not give them these final days of his–which is what these days were turning out to be–then he would have to offer them something better, something like his life or the promise of it after he made the long trek back home. He could not explain that to the many he encountered on his travels. They could understand the desperation of a dying man, certainly, but Darvix remained convinced that somehow, some way, his plight was unique. This wasn’t true, but he still held firm that it was. 

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It made for quite the pitiful site, though that was far from the intention. Regardless, it was enough for a young doctor in a large town weeks away from Darvix’s home to utter a phrase they never thought they’ would say aloud.

“Maybe,” they started before the bitterness of the notion rose up in their mouth. 

There was a moment when the young doctor questioned if it was worth finishing the thought. It was not something a person of science should ever mention in polite conversation. But they looked at Darvix again. They saw the desperation in the man’s eyes beneath the lingering regalness and power of the great scholar that he had once been before his illness struck him down. Legendary, some might say, though the doctor was not so impressed with the deeds but the nature of the man himself. They could not explain what inspired it, but an urge rose up in their throat. Even that urge did not have a name. Regardless, they knew that setting aside their own pride–a carefully instilled pride from their own teachers and masters–would be best. It would mean nurturing and protecting something worth saving, though they could not say what this thing was. 

And so, the young down choked down their own hesitation. “Have you heard the rumors of the old woman who lives in the jewel studded tree some way out of this city?”

“You ask that question like you don’t believe in her abilities,” Darvix replied.

“And you do?” The doctor spun, refusing to be the one questioned.

“I believe there are many things which I cannot know or cannot be shown to me in a way that I might comprehend them.”

“I don’t. I don’t believe in such… ” They caught themselves before they said something regrettable to a man who had been so kind and gratuitous to all, real and hypothetical. “I don’t believe in magic spells.” 

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Darvix did not react. The doctor’s disbelief had proved to be comforting in some way, an unexpected way. Darvix had known many who did believe but who used that belief to destroy the weak and vulnerable. Perhaps it was better that these beliefs die or not be so clear as to be discussed. It would mean the world protects those who would have been first in line for the fires in the village square. So he did not interrupt the doctor, though he wondered if he did not know what they were about to say and what that would mean for him.

The doctor went on, undisturbed if not a bit self-righteous. “I believe in logical explanations for the things people claim that she can do. But magic or logic, she may be able to help you. If you can muster the trust that such a thing is possible.”

Darvix did think that–in general–such a thing was possible. But he knew the rumors better than the doctor. The jewels on Lady Lorelea’s tree did not grow on it or appear as a result of a spell she cast; they were tributes. Payments, if one were to be a bit less generous with their word choice. Regardless of the terminology, those jewels were left by the client Lady Lorelea’s skills had served. She was prolific, the rumors said. She did the impossible, the rumors would add. 

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And what is the price of the impossible, Darvix had started to ask himself. Uncharacteristically, he spurned the answer. He knew it would be above what he could offer. He might have found the life of a scholar fulfilling, but it was not a monetarily rich life. Up until his illness, he would have said he had more than enough: enough for his son, enough for his wife, and enough to carry his wife’s family–now his family–through the worst of their financial woes. For so long he had wanted for nothing, and now he wanted for everything, just to use it to barter for his life.

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Darvix left the doctor’s home with every intention of visiting Lady Lorelea, but he knew what the visit would require. Namely begging. On the surface, he would be begging to be seen without payment, but the truth of it was that he would be begging for his life. No matter the argument he came up with, he worried he would come up short. No matter that he was a trained elocutionist, he was still a beggar in that moment, and he e saw how the beggars back in Helmfeld were treated. Only the women accused of being witches had it worse as they were burned at the stake. But the beggars faced a slower and indirect torture. They were kicked about the town and starved across years while their neighbors mocked them. Darvix would offer them a few coins for them, but it was never enough. No one, on their own, could ever offer up enough.

There was a chance, Darvix knew, that Lady Lorelea would present a miracle in this way. That she would spurn the cruelty that not only infected Helmfeld but so many towns that Darvix had been to. Or, in other words, she would be the one person who could offer up enough to save a beggar. But whether or not she would chose to was still an open question.

It was a question Darvix dreaded as someone who was not inclined to be optimistic by nature. However, he did not have a choice. He would be saved or die on the road with only this cheap mule as company. Those were the only two options he had, so he had to try, he decided, and when that resolution faded, he thought of his young son and the many pupils other scholars would cast out on the street who needed someone to believe in them, someone like Darvix. His wife could always remarry, of course, but there were many others who needed him. This fact strengthened him. And he hoped it would prove to be persuasive to the lady as well, but then his cynicism would rise up again, and he would have to disengage, entertaining his mind with anything else while he rode. 

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That, in and of itself, was not easy. The mule did not make for good company and offered no conversation. The scenery was as it had always been during his travels–lively greens of every shade gently blowing in the breeze and reminding him that his vibrant days were passed. A dull ache would rise in his chest followed shortly by a physical pain, worsening each time.

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Lady Lorelea’s tree was–in all likelihood–not an oak. The rumors had gotten that detail wrong, but it was an understandable mistake. The tree simply could not be viewed clearly through the gleam and sparkle of the many gemstones, golden chains, and other ornaments draped across its branches and embedded into the bark of its thick trunk–the width of three healthy warriors and at least five Darvixes. All of it, every bit of it, was covered with jewels, potentially layers of jewels.

With a sense of dread, Darvix dismounted his mule only for the unencumbered beast to scurry away from the light. Darvix made no move to recapture it. The bright lights were tortue to the animal, and it did not deserve to suffer. In any event, it had served its duty to Darvix. It brought him to the end of this road and potentially his life. No matter the outcome of the conversation with Lady Lorelea there would be no more attempts to save himself, no more traveling to yet another town or desperately searching for yet another healer or doctor who may be able to help him. He had accepted the truth. There were no more chances, only her. 

Humility led the way, followed by desperation, and then the man himself. Darvix approached the tree slowly. Though he could catch the faint silhouette of a door in the tree trunk, there was no path for him to walk. This leg of journey was hardly taken. Perhaps it was only a few who could see the riches of the tree and not be put off or frightened into some sort of retreat. After all, she could always kill an unwanted or unpaying visitor. That was never dispelled by any rumor, and certainly no one would think to ask. So, as it stood, much remained possible. Both fortunately and not.

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With a deep breath, Darvix raised a hand to knock on the door, but before knuckles could meet wood, the door swung open. His breath caught in his throat in surprise not just at the movement of the door but how it revealed a grand entryway impossibly large. Right then, he realized he did not know the proper protocol about approaching a witch as powerful as she. Perhaps there was none. No established rules could come out of something like this, something so rare and outright impossible. Darvix exhaled slowly to steady himself before he lowered his head and stepped inside. 

He was not so tall as to fear the threshold and the head injury that could result from not heeding it. Rather, it was an act of humility and submission. One that he was thankful for when he entered the space and felt another presence in the room with him.

At first, he did not raise his gaze. Out of fear, he could not bear to. The presence in the room had a sharpness to it. There was a subtle threat in it, and from there came the intimation he felt. A slight tremble infected his heart, but whether that was the illness or the threat, he could not be sure. He was equally unsure if he was the one who should speak first. What was proper? He should identify himself and state the purpose of his travels, certainly, but when one meets a dignitary or head of state, they wait to be acknowledged before they can speak. Should he wait then? In the presence of someone with just as much if not more power.

It was quickly becoming a moot point. Darvix felt his body lower itself but not out of reverence. The time had come. He was dying.

A meek voice broke through the haze that was quickly flooding his mind. “Teacher,” she said. Ama said, he realized. He would know that voice anywhere: the soft voice of an orphan who only had the three letters to her name, one of them repeated. 

Instinctively, he looked up to see her. But what he saw before him was an older woman–far older than Ama should have been, though she had aged beautifully. Her features were mature, and yet her eyes were young, young and violet. Like Ama’s. They were Ama’s eyes. 

What had she done to her, he was about to ask. (Music cuts) But then the darkness swallowed him up.

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He opened his eyes to find himself back in the halls of his university. It seemed impossible, but he couldn’t doubt that’s where he was. He had spent his life surrounded by those bricks. He would know them anywhere. Darvix looked down and saw a younger, more stable version of his body. With that things made more sense. He wasn’t in his university but in his past. 

The scene was materializing around him slowly. The walls came first, then the people, and then the dread on their faces. Right then, he knew what day this was. The sounds of yelling, screaming, and heavy jeers came next, as if to answer what was not a question. Darvix was right. This was the day the witch hunters invaded the university, convinced they would find a young woman to burn. They made their intentions known, calling out taunts to this mysterious girl while shoving their way through the halls and roughing up anyone who stood in the vicinity of their way. 

He had been walking with Ama–a frail charity case short enough that all he could see when he looked down at her was the top of her head with its thinning chestnut hair. All the same, he could see her fear. She trembled softly. The moment was jarring, certainly, but it wasn’t a general or generic fear she was seized by. He knew as well as she did that they were coming for her.

Quickly, he pulled open his satchel, “Give it to me,” he said. “They won’t search me.”

That wasn’t a promise he could keep. It was true that the witch hunters did not normally suspect men, but they would turn out the bags of anyone who might have something worth taking. Darvix presented himself well. His appearance spoke of comfort if not wealth. They may come for him, but if they found the contraband with him–whatever form it may have taken–they would charge him and assume she was a victim of his malicious influence. Regardless of the lie, the result would be the same: Ama would be safe.

She hesitated as her mind struggled to regain control of her limbs, but with a gentle urging, she did as she was commanded to do, producing a small bundle from her bag and shoving it into his. He shut it and pushed his back against the wall just as the witch hunters came through. 

The four burly men stalked through the hall. The one at the head of this makeshift pack nodded to Darvix, and with that, Darvix ceased to exist to them. They turned to Ama, ripped her bag from her hands and turned it out. A few fruits fell out, softened by time and decay. They broke open against the ground, disgusting the witch hunters who then went on their way.

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“You saved her life,” he heard an old woman say as the moment slowed to a halt.

“But how did you know about that?” he asked.

The image before him fades from view, details and colors slowly disintegrating into the air. The front room replaced it in pieces. Walls and floor first, then the decorations on the wall, odds and ends of furniture, but finally Ama appeared. She was older now, but a childhood of malnourishment left her small. But she wore it differently. She was stronger now, he could tell. 

“She came with a question about a spell and spun me a tale of you. How you saved her.”

“I hate the witch hunters,” he said, dismissing the praise. “I hate all that they stand for. I did what I had to do.”

“You saved her.”

“I’m happy.”

“So is she.”

When Ama left the university, she left the town entirely. She never wrote or sent any sign that she was well. All of which, Darvix preferred. It meant that she had a chance of safety that the town would never have given her. He had begged her to take this step, but he missed her all the same and wept at the thought that she met misfortune.

“She spoke of you to me. Often. I cherished those stories, stories of goodness are far too rare.”

Tears pricked his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, the woman–Lady Lorelea, he now realized–went on.

“I know you are sick. I can see it. But for those stories, for the joys that came from the gifts you gave her, you will have your life. I will give you your life.”

“And a story of her,” he nearly begged. “Of where she is now.”

“Of course.”

(Beep. New music starts)

Cassandra’s Tales and Truths is a production of Miscellany Media Studios. It is written, edited, produced, and performed by MJ Bailey with music from the Sounds like an Earful music supply. Transcripts can be found at oracleofdusk.online. That’s one word. Oracleofdusk.online. Thanks!