Minstrels' Guild of Drachenwald

December 07, 2003

by Ingeborg Thorulfsdottir

Once upon a time there was a king who had lost his kingdom and was set to wandering the world in the guise of a scholar, a scribe or a sage. And one day he came to a town by the sea which was peaceful and prosperous and there he decided to stay.

He set up a business of counselling people about the law and soon became known as a man of great wisdom and honour. Before long he had become councillor to the magistrate and used his knowledge of affairs of the state to the good of all because he was a firm believer in the law and the welfare of the people.

In the same town now there lived a bard, a grizzled man, who had travelled far and wide in his youth. He was well-known in the town and, for the most part, well-liked. He could play the fiddle and the bagpipe and often played at weddings or parties or on the Spring Day when the stormy season was over and the fishing boats set out to sea again, proud and shining in their new coats of paint, or at Fall Market when the traders returned home, laden with treasures and wonders from all four corners of the world. But most often he was found in a tavern or at a street corner, playing his old harp with the silver strings (made out of mermaid's hair, some said, while others scoffed at the idea), singing his songs with the voice of a man who had seen a lot through the years, who knew loss and sorrow but still retained a love for live that would outshine any darkness. And his music could make people cry and laugh, it could make mortal enemies sit down and keep their peace, rekindle love lost and melt hearts frozen in fear or greed or despair.

Over the course of the years the councillor gained high honours and finally the magistrate appointed him judge and law-maker of the city. It was the only office he would take.

Before, the merchants of the city had been busy cheating each other, the nobles had been busy fighting duels and arguing on matters of honour, the magistrate had been occupied with politics and intrigue, the poor people with making ends meet and the thieves with stealing from everyone less clever or daring than they. But now the law reigned and everyone knew their places and did their jobs and there was no more fighting and cheating, everyone had enough to get by and the thieves got honest jobs or left the city for greener pastures.

But one day, the daughter of a baker who was to marry the baker's help ran away with a handsome young sailor, claiming that she loved him and would not live without love. They fled the city on a fishing boat during the stormy season, and on Spring Day her body was washed to the shore. Her father, the baker, was sick with grief and rage for she had been his only child and he had loved her very much. And each time he walked down the streets and heard any bard or minstrel sing of true love he felt his temper rise. So, finally, he went to the magistrate and brought a charge against the minstrels who had led his daughter astray with their songs.

The judge listened carefully to the baker's claims. He, too, had seen people rush headlong into their ruin by chasing things beyond their reach, had seen kingdoms lost in the strife for perfection where only compromise was to be had, he had seen wise men of the church fall into madness when they tried too hard to be close to God.

So a law was passed that forbade frivolous talk and songs and encouraged artists to praise the virtues of patience, honesty and modesty. And the artists complied, because they, too, liked their warm beds and the streets safe at night, wealthy patrons and two good meals a day. Only the old bard refused to change his songs, and when his friends warned him about the new law, he just laughed.

'It's a fool's law,' he said to anyone who wanted to hear, 'It's made by fools and kept by fools,' and he sang a song about the king of a far land who had lost his throne because he had stopped believing in it.

When the judge heard that, he grew white with fury and everyone who was near shivered in fear, for never had they seen such a look on his face.

'Bring me that insolent bard!' he ordered his guards. 'Bring him to me in chains, for he has broken my law!'

So the bard was brought before the judge, although not in chains for no-one had dared to touch him.

The judge said to the bard: 'People say that you disregard the law that bans tales of vain glory and songs of heroic stupidity. Is that true?'

'It is true,' the bard said, 'that I sang songs of heroes of old who conquered dragons, of girls who bested evil wizards in games of wits and skill, of love outlasting diamonds and of the promise of new horizons. And about a lot of other things neither stupid nor vain. If that is against the law then so be it.'

The judge looked down at him. 'You don't seem to understand the seriousness of your crime,' he said. 'Because of songs like yours, men leave their home and trade to board ships to far countries in search for riches and adventure, and women forget their places and go out hunting for strange beasts! And they die far from home and are buried in foreign soil, because they followed a fool's dream!'

'And what if they hadn't,' said the bard, 'what if they had never dreamed, in a safe little world where there's nothing left to strife for, where all days melt into a constant now and no thought of change ever comes, a world that ends at the shore of the sea, at the edge of the forest because no one dares cross the borders to find the secrets beyond, scorning jewels for fear they might be a hungry tiger's eyes!'

'So you say,' the judge replied, 'but a man's or woman's duty does not lie in finding jewels and tigers. Instead, it lies with their family and their homes, to the people that raised and protected them, and in turn they serve them, for that is the way towns and kingdoms are kept alive, through hands and minds that work for the good of all.'

'But I,' said the bard, 'I have seen kingdoms fall for lack of dreams and towns crumble to ruin cause the people stopped believing in them. And you, judge of this Seaside City, have seen it, too, or you wouldn't be here.'

The judge didn't answer to that. Instead he said: 'I see that you have indeed broken the law and by your own words you will continue to do so and will not see reason.'

And so it was decided that the bard was guilty of disturbing the peace and furthering unrest and rebellion amongst the populace, and he was sentenced to hang when the sun set on the following day.

But during the trial, a great number of people had gathered in front of the City Hall, and while the judge wouldn't have hesitated to tell the verdict aloud to all of them – for thus was the law that every man and woman in town had a right to hear the decisions of the magistrate – the magistrate was afraid that the people would revolt. So the magistrate argued with the judge for a while, until the bard stepped forward.

'Far be it from me to break the city's peace,' said the bard, 'and there shall no innocent blood be shed in my name! So I appeal to you, judge and magistrate, to allow me to sing for the people one last time and I give you my word that they won't rise in rebellion against you.'

And so he did, he went out on the market place and started singing, he sang of roads not travelled and of things left unsaid, of the passing of time and the running of rivers. And the people sang with him, and they sang of the ships and the spring and the sea, and beer appeared and bagpipes and a fiddler, and a young couple started dancing and old courting songs were sung and ballads of true and not-so-true lovers, and before long everyone on the square was dancing and singing. Everyone but the judge and the magistrate who watched from the city hall but dared not intervene.

But the day passed and the sun turned to the sea, and the judge entered the place with his guards. And the bard welcomed him as if he hadn't a care in the world and sang one last song, a song about music and dreams and flying away on the wings of a song. Again, everyone joined in – and when the song ended, the bard was gone. No one had seen him leave, everyone could swear that he had stood in the middle of the square and not moved an inch – but gone he was, as if spirited away by his own song. And no one, the guards at the gates swore, had left the town but a gypsy woman with her ancient father, whose skin had been dark with age and his hair as white as snow.

So the bard was gone. He left the city to the judge and the magistrate, to its diligent artisans and honest traders, its lords and ladies, its workers and sailors and tavern keepers, and took to the road, never to be seen again in the city. But tales were told about an old man with a harp with strings of mermaids' hair, a gypsy or a wizard, who didn't stay long in any town, bringing laughter to the coldest of hearts and hope to the weariest minds and telling tales of wonders just beyond the horizon.

That is my tale, which is not as large or glorious or full of fire as the tales of old used to be, just like there aren't any more giants left today and no-one has truly claimed to have seen a unicorn in many lifetimes, and even the dragons have gone old and lazy on their hoards and melted back into the stones, into the mountains, where they came from. But the sea and the sky remember, and so shall we.

For in a world without myth or magic... is there any point left to life itself?

---

Author's Notes & Documentation
This story was strongly inspired by Sylvia Volk's "Tall Tale" and Cathy Butterfield's "Risk" (I won't link, but you can google), as well as by certain events of the year which made me feel very uncharitably about those who would find "uses" for dreams.

The story has neither been beta'd nor proof-read by a native speaker of English, sorry. All misspellings, grammatical errors and weird uses of language are mine, too. You may tell or re-tell this story as you see fit. If you want to put it down in written form for other than personal use (i.e., on a webpage or in a newsletter), please ask!

© Ingeborg Denner, 1999

Posted by Jehan de Lorraine at December 7, 2003 11:23 PM