I will always find you, p.9
I Will Always Find You, page 9
And as he had dreaded, the blissful sensation vanished as swiftly as it had come upon him. In its wake, it left a palpable emptiness that enveloped the space around his heart, as if the joy had been siphoned away, leaving only a hollow void inside him.
Damn it! Was it no more than a spiritual hiccup? Did this cheerful place once harbour the man I seek, but no longer? Am I simply sensitive to this residual energy, as I have been so many times before? Again, I fear I am too late. The damnable Wheel is a potent adversary this time around. But you will not stop me, wretched fate-maker. I will find him or die in the attempt!
Feeling discouraged and ravenously hungry, the Romani witch set out to find an inn to partake of a meal, perhaps even some amiable company for conversation, before setting out for Athens. He also deemed it wise to seek out a cobbler to repair his well-worn boots, now dulled and scuffed from countless journeys across Europe, Éire, and parts of the Maghreb.
As the Grecian town was modest in size, the Romani witch found his way to a rather welcoming-looking establishment in no time. The building’s stone chimney puffed thick plumes of smoke that spiralled into the balmy air. Rich and savoury aromas drifted from every nook and cranny of the inn’s weathered wooden facade, inviting him closer to the source of such fragrant culinary delights.
Though this may be the only establishment in town that serves libations, this is a popular place, well-tended and bright. From the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen, I can see why patrons come for more than strong mead, good wine, and a cheery atmosphere.
“Welcome, stranger,” greeted a shapely woman with an olive complexion and a cherubic face. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, loosely tied with a vibrant blue ribbon that matched her apron. Her warm smile and inviting demeanour added a touch of charm to the cozy atmosphere around her. “You’ve arrived at a special time, though this is the final night of a week-long celebration.”
With a mix of urgency and fervour, the animated server divulged to the Romani witch that her quaint town had endured a harrowing siege one year past. A ruthless band of vagabonds had descended upon them in the night, vulgarly shouting their intent to dispossess the townsfolk of their coin and any possessions they desired. And that before they left, they planned to set the beloved homes of the residents ablaze, leaving death and destruction in their wake.
Having seen no signs of lasting damage to the town on his way in, the Romani witch scrunched up his face, suspicious of the seemingly tall tale.
“I see doubt in your eyes, handsome stranger, but I speak the truth!”
The Romani witch did not wish to be discourteous to the woman, but he was hungry for food, not for embellished ramblings.
“Young Astraia does express herself with a fervent passion, good sir, and though she might be a bit overly exuberant in her delivery, she speaks truthfully.”
The Romani witch turned his head to the left to see who possessed the husky, pleasant voice speaking on behalf of the server. A handsome, older gentleman with a congenial face, stark white hair and a beard to match approached his table. He held a flagon of mead that looked quite tasty and refreshing to the thirsty traveller.
“May I sit and join you, stranger?”
The Romani witch smiled widely and gestured for the older man to take a seat. “Please do. It has been a while since I have had the pleasure of conversation and friendly company.”
Following a brief exchange of names, the Romani witch placed his food and drink order, prompting Astraia to make her way to the bustling kitchen hastily. The older of the two men, Anastasios—who had already dined—inquired about the Romani witch’s solitary status. “Do you often travel alone, my new friend? Do you have a wife, children or any family waiting for you somewhere?”
“No wife or family, and I shall remain alone until I find the man I have been tirelessly searching for. He means a great deal to me, and we have been sadly separated by oceans of time and distance. Though I am close to finding him. I am sure of it. I feel it in my bones.”
The Romani witch was determined not to let his thoughts drift into wishful thinking. He needed to maintain this belief in finding Aeneas as a firm and resolute outcome, always. He feared that the Wheel of Destiny would interpret frustration as a lack of conviction. That could ultimately work to the Wheel’s advantage, ensuring that dark fate ruled over his life and kept him from Aeneas until the day the Romani witch took his final breath.
He also planned to keep much about himself private from these townsfolk, revealing no more than he already had. Given the unpredictable and often bigoted attitudes towards two men in love, even in Greece—which was once quite supportive, or at least non-intrusive, towards such relationships—he felt it best to be cautious with his actions and careful with his words.
Attitudes had shifted ever further in the direction of intolerance over the centuries throughout Europe, leading to greater hostility toward anything that deviated from the traditional Adam and Eve story; Christianity, as always, was no friend to the divergent mind and heart. And to admit to being a witch, a practitioner of the old ways, a follower of nature, of Terra! Well, that was a death sentence in many lands.
The Romani witch had grown quite powerful since Pompeii. He could protect himself and Aeneas when necessary, when his beloved’s magic had not followed him into a new life. Still, he was not a god, and there were limits to what he could do against a large force of religious fanatics, be they an angry mob or an army.
Anastasios gently patted the hand of the Romani witch and smiled warmly. “I understand,” he said softly. “I understand.” He then winked and turned his head toward another table, where a bald-headed, older man with a kind face, a thick mustache, and a round belly laughed heartily; everyone at his table joined in, bursting into laughter and sharing a joyous camaraderie.
“My Nicholas. He is the boisterous one of the two of us, but a bigger, more loyal heart you will not find in any man. This establishment is ours. We run it together, oh, going on thirty-odd years now. We are blessed here, known by all, and protected by all. Respected. But I shall follow your lead, for your story, your truth, is yours to tell, young man, not mine. Just know that you are among friends here.”
The Romani witch placed a gentle hand on Anastasios’ shoulder, his smile warm and inviting. “Good to know,” he stated, a broad grin spreading across his face. “Ah, I see my drink has arrived.”
With a flourish, Astraia set the nearly overflowing flagon down on the table, a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, Anastasios,” she leaned in closer, her voice playful, “did you finally share the tale that I was too jittery with excitement to get out?”
“Sassing your elders!” the old man laughed. “Fresh! I was just about to. Now off with you, you silly lass, and get the man his dinner.”
The Romani witch sensed no annoyance or irritation in Anastasios’ voice; everything he said and every mannerism was intended playfully. Even the girl laughs. Everyone here is so at ease with one another. It is a family made of friends—a true fellowship. That anyone would seek to ruin what these people have here, to destroy their little slice of paradise, aggrieves me immensely. Oh, if only I had been present in town that night! I would have unleashed hell upon those fiends!
“Anastasios, I implore you to share the gripping tale of the siege for the sake of that poor girl’s nerves.”
The two men laughed riotously.
“Well, if you’re sure,” the white-haired man snickered.
“I’m all ears,” declared the Romani witch enthusiastically.
“One year ago, on this very night,” Anastasios began, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “a band of ruffians—worse, bandits and killers, came through town with evil in their hearts and wicked intentions. We are not a town of trained warriors, though we will fiercely fight to protect what is ours. These villains brandished weapons of good steel and rode mounts of powerful horse flesh. Even with our best intentions for self-preservation, we knew we were in trouble.
“However, upon that night, a twist of fate and the embrace of good fortune cast a benevolent glow upon us. Within this very inn, at the same table where you and I now sit, a small group of interesting travellers sat drinking and carousing. They caused no trouble, keeping to themselves. These men had fortuitously arrived in our town earlier that day.
“Now, I say ‘interesting’ because these were no ordinary wanderers, adventurers or simple journeymen. There was an air of mystery about these men, though nothing dishonest or menacing. On the contrary. Upon first meeting them, I thought, ‘There be a touch of magic about these men, a whiff of enchantment, something of the old ways!’ I knew how silly that sounded in my head, so I kept that sentiment to myself. Still, by god, how true to that intuitive impression I was.”
“Magic, you say!”
The Romani witch was a little overzealous in his statement; it piqued the old man’s interest.
“Yes, that is the word I used. Do you believe in such things as witchcraft, sorcery, and miracles? In many places, my friend, speaking so openly about these matters is unwise. The Church does not tolerate such beliefs, labelling them all heresy. However, we know differently in our town, for it was magic that saved us that night, not prayer.”
The Romani witch’s eyes widened in astonishment as he stared at the white-haired man, captivated by what he had just said.
Could Anastasios be speaking of Aeneas, the man he is in this life? But who are his travel companions? Have I been following this troupe for years, always a step or two behind? Has their magic given them an advantage all this time, keeping them ahead of any who seek them, whether for good or ill, including me?
“It is just that you have captured my interest! Please continue. I would very much like to hear more!”
Anastasios smiled and nodded. “A thrilling story it is, yes. And while I am glad it is entertaining, this is no fiction I spin. I am not a liar and speak of what truly happened that night. It does seem quite unbelievable, especially in these times when the gods of old have all but disappeared. And the wild magic that once flowed inside the earth, within the rivers and lakes, even upon the air—our long-dead ancestors wrote that they could taste it upon their tongues—has all but vanished.
“But that fateful night, the echoes of the old world stirred to life; magic, in the form of man, surged forth to deliver us salvation.”
“I do believe you, good fellow. I do.”
“I am pleased to hear this, as it assures me that you are receptive to what I am about to share with you, for it is the stuff of myth and fable made real.”
With vivid detail, Anastasios described the battle to the Romani witch. With blazing fire and formidable force, swirling winds and crackling lightning, the sorcerers wielded their spellcraft alongside mysterious wonders beyond the comprehension of the townsfolk, who could only label them as miracles. In that moment of desperation, these extraordinary feats performed by courageous strangers saved their town and preserved their lives.
“And when all was said and done,” the white-haired man spoke with a palpable sense of wonder in every word, “and the battle was won in our favour, these mystics asked for nothing in return. Well, save for a hot bath for each, lodging for the night, and a hearty meal in the morning to fill their bellies before they set out for Athens. And we were glad to provide these!
“Not once did they express a desire for payment from the town elders. The topic of coin and gold never left their lips. Nicholas and I never once considered charging them for our services. We owed them much more than just material comfort. We owed them our very lives! We even offered to return the money they had already spent on spirits and dinner, but they refused to accept it.
“These were valiant men of pure heart, possessing wisdom and strong moral character. They were true heroes from a long-gone age. And I fear we will never see others of their ilk again. It was truly a magical night when virtue clashed with evil. Although some lives were lost, goodness prevailed in the end.”
“So, it seems that not all the villains were driven away. Some met their end in the chaos of the skirmish?”
“Yes, in every conflict, no matter how grand or small, the harsh reality remains that sacrifices are inevitable, and the toll of human life is a tragic certainty, whether those lives are well-lived or not. We buried those outlaws in a field far from here, with no markers. Sadly, there was—”
“Gather ’round, all who seek to hear a tale this night,” Nicholas bellowed, his voice cutting through the sociable, bustling atmosphere of the inn like a knife. He stood tall, commanding attention, beckoning those near and far to pause their conversations and draw closer, eager to listen to the story he was about to tell.
Shrugging his shoulders, Anastasios grinned and patted the Romani witch’s hand again.
“There is no use resisting Nicholas when he feels inspired to share history, tell a story or spin a wild yarn. His booming voice could awaken the dead. Let us pause our conversation and listen, for I assure you, we are excellent storytellers in this town, whether we speak the truth or weave fantastical tales.”
The Romani witch was more than happy to indulge his newfound friend. He appreciated a good yarn as much as the next man. He had already heard one gripping tale that night and was keen to hear more. As the rich, aromatic steam from his dinner curled into the air, he took a sip of the mead, its flavours dancing on his palate, perfectly complementing the warmth of the setting. He turned his attention back to the amiable, stout innkeeper.
“In our long past, in ancient Greece,” Nicholas began exuberantly, “storytellers, called rhapsodes, played an essential role in the culture of our great people, acting as living records of history and heritage. These skilled performers entertained audiences at public gatherings and festivals, reciting epic poems and captivating tales infused with the richness of our country’s mythology and moral lessons.
“With their melodic voices and expressive gestures, these storytellers breathed life into the narratives of gods and heroes, bringing a sense of shared identity among all who listened. As the custodians of Greek cultural memory, rhapsodes ensured that these stories not only endured the passage of time but also fostered a collective understanding of our civilization’s values, beliefs, and triumphs across many countries and generations.
“I will now tell you the story of Pythias and his friend Damon, both followers of the philosopher Pythagoras, who travelled to Syracuse during the reign of the tyrant Dionysius I. Good Pythias was accused of plotting against the tyrant, which was not true, but the despot would hear no protestations. Blinded by lies and a cold heart, he sentenced Pythias—to death!”
The women in the audience gasped softly, their eyes wide with shock as the story unfolded. A few men echoed their horrified sentiments, but most of the male patrons, thoroughly in their cups, pounded their flagons against the sturdy wooden tables, creating a rhythmic thunder that filled the room. Their boisterous cheers roared in support of the animated storyteller, who spun a potentially grim narrative with captivating flair, leaving everyone on the edge of their seats, eager for the next twist in the tale.
Nicholas narrowed his eyes into a piercing gaze and furrowed his brow as he continued his story.
“Accepting his sentence, Pythias requested to be allowed to return home one last time to settle his affairs and bid farewell to his mother and father. The stern king refused, not wanting to appear foolish, believing Pythias would flee and never return once released.
“Damon stepped forward with a noble heart, offering himself up as a hostage during the absence of his dear friend, Pythias. With a stern gaze, the king proclaimed that if he agreed to this, should Pythias fail to return by the appointed hour, Damon would meet his fate at the gallows in his friend’s stead.
“Possessing a steadfast resolve, Damon accepted this perilous bargain. As the chains of destiny tightened, the bond of friendship between the two men shone ever brighter. Pythias, his heart nearly overflowing with gratitude, could not thank his loyal and courageous friend enough, tears welling in his eyes.
“Dionysius, a man devoid of love in his heart, moved through life unburdened by the warmth of true friendship or the selflessness of altruism. He was a figure shrouded in cynicism, his eyes ever glinting with doubt upon his fellow man; he fixated on his unwavering certainty that Pythias was a scoundrel and would not return.
“And when that fateful day arrived, the one Pythias had vowed to come back on, and the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows over the land, the tyrant grew impatient. With a cruel disposition, Dionysius summoned the grim executioner, his cold voice laced with authority, ordering the immediate execution of poor Damon.”
“No!” Astraia exclaimed, her voice cutting through the near silence of the tavern.
Once thick with tension, the room burst into hearty laughter that echoed off the wooden beams overhead.
Astraia scoffed at the crowd’s mockery and resumed her work. She pretended to be uninterested in anything the innkeeper had left of his story to reveal, though all knew she continued to listen intently.
“Quiet down,” Anastasios shouted, and the room quickly obeyed. “Please continue, Nicholas.”
Nicholas shot a mischievous wink toward the man who held his heart. Before returning to his story, he cast off the vibrant warmth of his expression, replacing it once more with the dramatic grimace he had donned earlier.
“The executioner was garbed in a black, hooded robe, which made him look like Charon, the ancient ferryman who transports the souls of the dead across the river Styx to meet Hades, King of the Underworld. This dark sentinel of death raised his weapon, an axe stained with the blood of both the guilty and the innocent, ready, perhaps even eager, to shatter the bond between the two friends forever.
“But wait—!”
Nicholas turned his head from one table to the next, gazing briefly but intently into the wide-eyed faces of the inn’s patrons. Many at each table held their breath, the tension palpable as the storyteller appeared to look into their very souls.
