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I began writing this not knowing what it should be about, or even how to begin. But I wrote, wrote, wrote, blindly, until amidst my indecisive ramblings an idea stood forth, a topic for my tale. This, I must confess, is therefore not the original beginning; that page was ripped out. While I suppose it had its charm, maybe, it was simply too unintelligible to be used. Perhaps it shall see the light of day again once I have rendered it tolerably readable, if I can ever be bothered. But I fear I ramble again; hope you can forgive a poor writer for not getting to the point. I said a topic stood forth, and it was myself.
I am commonly named a Fool, but I am not fool enough to think that mine is the greatest of tales, or even a good one. No, I lay no claims on being in any way remarkable and my life is hardly worth more than a line in grandfather’s family record, if even so much; but maybe, maybe an episode or two from it could serve to brighten somebody’s day with a smile or even a laugh. That is my hope in penning it. But then again, maybe it shall only get me accused of leading the youth astray.


Rivers of ale flowed from Od Brelfare‘s kegs that evening. There were the usual drinking, talking, singing, shouting, boasting, gossiping, bumbling, rumbling, lying, joking, laughing, merry, half witless crowd. There were the ones who were not quite so loud and boisterous or otherwise noticeable but who enjoyed themselves nevertheless. And there were the strangers; people from the more obscure little corners of this land, weather-beaten, dusty wanderers making a brief stop, odd-looking foreigners, fugitives from whatever place for whichever reason, or just a new face off the street. All were heartily welcomed, as long as they could pay and knew how to behave - one young rogue from abroad had just been hurled out the door – missing me by only a hair’s breadth – and was tumbling on the cobble as I entered. On inquiring about it I learnt that the man had – can you believe it – tried to lift the purse of a certain wealthy, important, highly esteemed and unfortunately quite sober burgher. Marking the man in question, his haughty and contemptuous countenance, and marking that he was still quite sober, I went to sit awhile with a couple of people I know.
The evening was happily chatted, sung, laughed away, but there were people who did not enjoy it quite so much as I did. I am thinking of our friend the burgher. The irony! For him the evening ended like for the other thief: on the cobble. I choose to write the other thief on purpose, for our esteemed friend was, by luck or maybe a whispered tip, found to have lifted a purse himself. Were it but a bit quieter, his screams of protest as he was shown the way out would surely still be echoing in the room. I believe that at that moment I looked terribly smug, but nobody took notice.
I left the tavern about midnight.

There is something special with a warm summer night. The streets are empty, the windows dark, everything save for yourself, the night watch and one or two flitting shadows on a rooftop sleeps peacefully, it is quiet. You are alone. You get the feeling that the streets are yours, your own. The summer night is your own, yours and the moon’s.
There is one place I especially like. At day it is bustling with people, being a little market square in the heart of the city. Four tall elms grow there, providing refreshing shade, and there is a little font where running water softly plays and pigeons like to rest. But at night, at night it is the quietest, most restful place in the city, especially when the moon is out and its pale light shoots through the leafy ceiling and glitters in the dark, clear fountain. Maybe distant singing from an alehouse somewhere is to be heard, maybe it is altogether silent. Tonight, however, another sound broke the silence, one I found at the same time strange and familiar.
Borne on the slumbering air, a melody came to my ear from afar. I listened; it was a pleasant tune, played on a simple tin whistle. I would lie if I said I tried to fight my curiosity, and after only a short while I was on my feet to follow the sound. A patrol of watchmen happened to pass just as I left the little square, I looked at them; they seemed not to mark the whistle. I continued down the street, across another, into an alley, round a few corners until I came into a blind alley. The melody was very close, it came from above. I raised my gaze and there, on the rooftop, the whistler herself was dancing, a short figure in a wildly fluttering cloak. I dare call her a she, for though she was but a dark silhouette against the moon, my co-proprietor of the night, I was convinced and I still am. I looked on her in wonder for a long time. I imagined, maybe vainly, that she took notice of me too. Maybe – and this I believe now was a very vain thought – she played for me, for had the watch not walked past without even noticing? Standing thus enchanted I suddenly became aware that we were not alone.
When another patrol passed nearby, unheeding of both me and the whistler on the roof, the light from their torches reflected in a pair of eyes at the end of the alley. You can imagine my surprise – here I had been standing for I do not know how long, observed all the time from but a few paces’ distance without knowing it! The owner of the eyes, a thin girl of probably no more than seventeen summers, was startled at being discovered, but I smiled and beckoned to come closer and pointed to the roof. She timidly rose and walked to me. I saw her clothes were simple and nearly reduced to rags after much wear and her hair was tousled and rough. As the tattered skirt reached no farther than just below her knees I also could not help to notice she was barefoot. The girl opened her mouth, but before a sound could escape it I said a low shh! and pointed again at the roof. We stood in silence with our eyes lifted, listening, marvelling.
How long we remained like that I cannot say, for it seemed like an instant and yet an eternity. All I know is that the whistler was suddenly gone, vanished like a dream when the lark cries morning. Neither could I say how long we had looked at nothing and listened to a tune which existed but in our own ears, neither of us could. She looked upon me shyly, saying nothing. The east was already pale with the oncoming morning when I tossed her the burgher’s pouch, bade her good night.

That was the only money I had, but her smile was worth it.


(Edit: Sigh... Seems this board ate my formatting.)

 

Hey dont be so harsh on yourself it was a nice little story, a good break from the usuaul hack and slash vilance that appears on the board, :cough: shura :cough: and it brought a smile to my face, so i say, well dont to you.

 

Thanks. But... where do you see me being harsh on myself?

 

At the start, saying that your story would be rubbish.

 

I think that was a part of the story, the character speaking I mean.

A very good story by the way, well written too.

 

Yep, that's part of the story. There was another beginning originally though, so that much is true.

 

That was a very good story, well written and nicly done please do continue.