From the Chronicles of Other Lands . . .

Finger-Talker

To the One who sees past my seeing. . .

and to the Silver Gaze.
Thanks, Julie.

ater rippled softly over the smooth stones in the bed of the Brook of Meeting with just enough intonation to suggest speech, but not enough for it to be distinguished, as if it were struggling to tell us all a tale though our ears were too dull for the hearing. Frolic the Frog sat squatted at the edge of the Brook while Mr. Hawk perched himself precariously at the end of an overhanging branch. Bubba the Bear sat quietly against the thick trunk of the great oak tree with his jar of honey before him, a flask of ale slung from his shoulder, and cups off to the side. Herbie the Snail had made himself comfortable sitting next to Frolic, for he liked Frolic, although Frolic's humor was a bit too dry. Old Lightfoot the Rabbit was also there, reclined in the grass chewing on a sprig of one of the longer blades. Me — my name is Balmer, the Squirrel — I sat atop the Speakers' Rock with my quill and parchment, for the fading Light promised another tale from the Storyteller, who was in the Land once again to visit and converse as the evening's Rest approached.

"Tell us a tale, Storyteller," Herbie requested eagerly, almost as anxious as Hahhlik, the son of Lightfoot, would be in the presence of a teller of tales.

"What kind of tale do you want to hear?" asked the Storyteller quickly.

"Tell us an adventure," Herbie replied, his face lighting up and his eyes getting bigger with just the anticipation of the story,

"Eager a bit, aren't you, Herbie?" Bubba put in, teasing the snail.

"Hee-heeeee! The boy's bit by the traveling bug, I do believe," laughed old Lightfoot with his distinctive laugh. "But that's good, I say. Kinda fun, those adventure stories. Like stories ought to be, But no offense meant, Balmer, about those histories you write. You write 'em as excitin' as anybody ever wrote 'em. The Traveler says so himself. And I believe it. Those history tales he brought in those books of his are pretty dull. No life at all, I say. Ain't that right, Storyteller?"

"Well, pretty much so, Lightfoot. People on My Side don't have the same appreciation for adventure and stories of other Lands as your people have. But we do tell about a lot of things that happen to us."

"Your own adventures?" Herbie asked, cutting in on the Storyteller's comments.

"Yeah, our own adventures. We like to tell people about what we've done in life. But sometimes we exaggerate a little; I guess it makes the story better."

"To make it more heroic, you mean," Frolic rumbled in his low bass voice.

"Something like that. To make ourselves look a little better somehow, or at least not as bad."

"Figures. So, what adventures have you had?" Frolic asked, both the most skeptical and the least gullible person in the Enchanted Land. One might have a difficult time of trying to convince Frolic of a thing, so he was never taken in by tomfoolery. In many instances, his character had been an invaluable asset for the Land.

"Not many, I guess, at least as Herbie would count adventure. But there was this one thing that happened to me. That, my friends, was an adventure."

"You saved your whole world, I suppose," muttered Frolic.

"No, no, Frolic," the Storyteller replied, familiar with the frog's sarcasm. "This adventure happened in another world, like the Enchanted Land, on one of my trips."

"So you saved that world, right, Storyteller?" Bubba interjected, his nervous paws thumping a light beat on his knees as he became more and more eager for the tale-telling.

"No," the Storyteller laughed lightly in reply, "no, Bubba, I didn't save that world, either. Instead, it was a servant of the King, one who talked with her fingers."

Frolic's laugh at this statement was a bellow which spread over the Brook's waters in a nocturnal song. With a smile still in his eye, he said to me, "Listen closely, Balmer. This will be a good one."

With a wink from Mr. Hawk, the Storyteller continued.

"In this adventure I was mostly just a spectator, and a cumbersome one at that. But I did have my share, and it's one of my most poignant memories. It happened at a time when I was a young man, full of zeal, and curiosity, but lacking in discretion. Back then I was a bit greedy and a little too unseeing to be wise. It happened in the days when I first started to carry my lyre in these strange new worlds, when I first sang the songs of a bard for a meal, a mug of ale, or a night's lodging. As a man grows older, providing he grows, he learns many lessons. On that trip in a strange, new world I learned a small truth of great value: the unreined desire of a heart misleads and the practiced eye sees beauty in the plain. But I tell the tale simply because it was exciting and hope that it will entertain."

Frolic muttered a short "humph" under his breath, but did not elaborate, so we turned our attention back to the Storyteller, Mr. Hawk, who — almost unnaturally — had remained absolutely silent, chose the moment of interruption as a time to get his pipe from beneath his wing. The Storyteller paused as we got settled, doodling invisibly in the grass before him, gathered his words, then presented to us one of his rare tales of a trip into another Land.

* * *

On the Other Side there are many doors to many Lands, though most of my People have forsaken any belief in them and, thus, have forfeited the beauty and allure of new worlds. It has been my pleasure, though, to have found several of these doors, one of which leads me here to your Enchanted Land, which I have come to love dearly. It was a miserable, muggy afternoon many years ago when I came across a door I bad never seen before. With the bulk of my studies behind me, and nothing exciting on the horizon of the remainder of the day, I opened the door and entered.

Darkness closed in around me quickly. In some trips to other worlds I have been greeted with brilliant sunlight or the warming light of the sunset, but through that door lay darkness as thick as honey so that it seemed I had to work to walk through it. I groped forward, trying to feel my way. Groping, groping, groping. Perhaps I traveled in circles, but I could not tell. There was nothing for a long while that I could distinguish. Then, finally, the darkness fell aside, nudged away by my approach to some light in the world. Slowly, complete darkness fell away to faint light, faint but growing brighter. The outline of trees appeared, and a sky. Branches materialized out of the shadows, and finally, leaves. However, the shadows fell away only to reveal a deepening dusk in the world.

The trees were in full bloom, but their flowers were closed for the evening, The Land itself seemed to be closed; for there were no sounds from insects, no chirping from birds, no rattling of the leaves in the trees. Closed. Quiet. As quiet as the Forbidden Desert, although the beauty of t e Land still spoke softly through the shadows. The world seemed as empty as the desert's river bed. The silence warned me to silence and I strode lightly through the trees.

* * *

The Storyteller looked up from his doodling, where he had bent the blades of grass to make outlines like a map. Mr. Hawk, who had closed his eyes to concentrate on the story, opened them at this unexpected pause.

"The story is vivid in my memory, so it's telling is long; too long, I'm afraid."

Frolic muttered another "humph" and closed his eyes as if he were tired already. With a sharp look to Frolic, Mr. Hawk replied, "Much better for the telling, then, Mr. Storyteller. A good tale deserves good time, does it not?" And with another glance at Frolic, he added, "But continue, lest we lose a member of our audience."

With a soft laugh, and his eyes flickering between us, the Storyteller continued.

* * *

As the woods became more and more distinct through the shadows of the late and deepening dusk, I slowed down to a tentative pace, almost feeling with my feet across the ground in order to avoid snapping the twigs and branches which had fallen. Once, I paused beside a thick trunk to peer into the gathering gloom of the woods, and a footfall — very soft in the tender humus on the ground — sounded just ahead of me and off to my left. Distinct only as a moving shadow among the permanent sentinels, the figure cut across my path, then paused, turning slowly in a circle without a sound, checking in all directions for someone or something. I had leaned toward the trunk of the tree, hoping to integrate whatever he might see of my shadow into that of the tree. In the tension I held my breath, the figure held its breath, and the wind continued to hold its breath as he turned toward me,

The world had warned me to silence and in obedience I was holding my breath, even closing my eyes, feeling scared. Then the electricity in the air melted like snow at the emergence of the sun and flowed with the figure into the deeper shadows of the wood. But in its place flowed the cools damp chill of evening and I shivered. With only a light shirt on, and no undershirt beneath it, I was ill prepared to spend a night in the dampness; so I moved on quietly, but quickly, attempting to find shelter before the colder night caught me in its grip.

However, shelter was not quickly forthcoming. As the evening stretched into night, I was beginning to consider trying to scoop up leaves into a bed before I stumbled into another figure in the night, or before I caught a cold. But before I could pause to consider it, the woods abruptly gave way to a clearing and I found myself in an encampment — a fairly large encampment — free of sheltering woods. Fortunately, though, the camp was asleep. Men could be discerned rolled up in some sort of covering against the chill of the air and hardness of the ground. To one side of me a group of forty or fifty horses were tethered for the night. Their gentle neighing covered the sounds of my steps as I moved about the camp. Toward the center of the camp stood a large tent with a fire burning low in front of it. Once again the silence of the world assailed me and I slowed almost to a creeping pace.

My position was not a good one. The night was getting colder and I did not want to spend it without a coat. On the other hands I feared the men sleeping in the camp and would have liked to have been somewhere else. Nevertheless, I was in the middle of its and the low fire offered its warmth, its light glowing through the darkness.

Softly I stepped toward it, crouching, sometimes resting on my hands and knees and other times lying prostrate when I heard any slight noise. Closer and closer I got. Finally, the fire was close enough for me to be warmed by it. As I lay by it, hoping not to attract the attention of anyone who might be out in the shadows, awake, I looked into the entrance of the tent, just twenty feet or so past the fire. A lantern burned softly somewhere within and cast flickering shadows against the inner canvas. Minute by minute passed, and I could discern no movement inside and heard no voices. However, the interior of the tent, colored an elegant purple and reflecting a brassy gleam from several points suggested royalty, I wondered why royalty would travel with such a relatively small entourage. Though there were many men in the encampment, one would expect a much larger group to accompany someone of royal personage.

Quietly, very quietly, I crouched and moved toward the entrance of the tent. My mind had shortly reasoned that there was, perhaps, a cloak or a blanket inside which I could "borrow," leaving my timepiece for compensation. But it was the brassy gleams which more powerfully attracted me. Outside the entrance, I listened intently for a sound, any sound, which would betray the presence of someone inside: the sigh of breathing, or the heavy rise and fall of the sound of sleep, or the creak of someone shifting his weight against the canvass But no sound came forth. After a few minutes passed, I eased into the entrance and found the main chamber empty, with a canvas door leading to quarters further back loosed and lying sleepily across the opening.

A scroll stood in the corner. Not just any scroll, but one with brass bindings and elegant runes carved in the handles. A papyrus scroll by the looks of it — an official documents certainly I stepped over to it in a rush, having forgotten about the cloak and my timepiece, about the night and the cold, I bent down to touch it —

—and a cold voice bellowed from behind me: "Stop, thief! Bind the rogue, Guard, and teach him the manner in which a spy is received!"

* * *

The Storyteller paused, looking around to the eyes of each of his listeners Even Frolic was engrossed now. He continued.

* * *

Of course, no diplomat in any world I've ever traveled to could have convinced them I was not a spy. I protested, but the Guard never blinked an eye, never hesitated for even a second. As he shackled me, my Accuser answered my protestations by relating how he had followed me through the woods and into the camp. The Guard led me out of the tent toward the fire as my Accuser explained.

"And what's going to happen now?" I asked nervously having never been treated roughly, much less put in chains, during any of my previous trips to new Lands,

"You will remain by the fire, that is what is going to happen now. Till morning. Then you will see the Prince. After that, I'd suppose you'll make a trip with us to the palace of the King, although the decision will be made by the Prince. Spies are not treated nicely in the world these days. Wars make life hard, I think."

With this pronouncement of the prospects for my future apparently finished, he and the Guard withdrew into the shadows behind me and left me alone to contemplate the new breath of the night breeze, the declining pops and cracklings of the dying fire, and the immeasurable darkness to be passed before the dawn.

The morning, as it turned out, was not nearly so bad as I had fancied in the hours of darkness. My interview with the Prince consisted merely of the explanation by my Accuser and the simple reply from the Prince, "Find the rogue a mount, and no good one at that, and have him ride with the rest of the scoundrels in the rear to the Palace. Then let them see what kind of reception is given to those who betray a kingdom."

I was hoisted atop a bony, swayback pack-mule and instructed to enjoy the ride, still shackled at the wrists. After the first two hours, I requested to be allowed to walk, being unaccustomed to horseback riding and getting more and more sore, but was told to "shut up and ride that horse."

It seemed to me that my sentence was already beginning to be served.

Through tidbits of conversation throughout the day I learned that the region into which I had wandered in this new Land was ruled by the Deaf King. The Prince was, of course, his son. The Deaf King was at war with a neighboring kingdom over the treatment of peoples inhabiting the border region. Being on both sides of the physical border, the tribes became a point of dispute between the two kingdoms, for the people were forced into the labor of King Talowat. After receiving news of their plea for aid in driving King Talowat's forces out of their community, the Deaf King had sent his own forces in retaliation and freed the community. The men, prisoners, with which I rode were insurrectionists from King Talowat's hand, planted in the community to attempt to sway public opinion back toward King Talowat and against the Deaf King.

"Now. Who by the witch are you?" asked the prisoner who was riding next to me, his brow wrinkled and his eye twitching with the question.

"Jerome," I answered quickly, though not in complete truth, My real name is Jeremy, you know; but it was time to appear more elite than Jeremy sounds. "I come from a distant kingdom not known in your world."

"Not known!" he chortled, then turned to the man at his right and repeated it again as if that man couldn't hear, "'Not known' he says, as if I'd never been out of my mother's home. 'Not known!'"

Both men laughed a long, deep laugh, leaving me feeling a little foolish in my knowledge. Shortly, the first man turned back to me.

"Now. What's the name of this place not known in my world?"

"The Land of the Free."

He wrinkled his brow again, thought for a few seconds, then turned back to his compatriot and looked steadily at him for a few seconds in a silent powwow. Finally he shrugged his shoulders and turned back toward me. It was my turn to laugh, but only to myself.

"'Okay. So you're a spy. Don't look for no pity from the Prince. The stakes are high right now and you'll be lucky to get out with your head."

With this statement the man moved on and I contemplated my future in silence.

After we had set up comp for the night, I tumbled tiredly into my bedroll (someone had spared an extra blanket for me), but I couldn't sleep, The ground was too rough and the future too uncertain to allow me the luxury of sleep. So I closed my eyes and tried to rest, Thoughts of a hundred different scenarios passed through my mind to entertain me. Some of them weren't so pleasant.

Some time an hour or so later the prisoner nearest to me began to toss fitfully, Obviously, he couldn't sleep either— or was having a pretty bad dream. After a few minutes someone else near me exclaimed lowly, "Dargle, will you please quit thrashing around. How do you expect anyone to sleep?"

"Sorry, Berle," he replied in a rather mousy tone. I can't sleep for all the dreams of this fine deal you've gotten us into this time, "I . . . ."

"Hush! The night might have ears, you know."

"Not likely in this deserted place. . . . 'No big deal,' you said, as if killing a king were no more than stealing an apple from a neighbor's tree," said the one called Dargle in a raspy whisper.

"I said: shhhh!" insisted the first, Berle. "If the Prince or one of his Guards hears, it's off with our heads!"

"But I say it's off with our heads no matter what. When the Prince begins this takeover we're dead. Do you really think he'll let us live to talk?"

"Shut up, Dargle!" came the low exclamation again. "He's giving us and the rest of these guys blue starfires and a safe escort to the border. We won't have a chance to talk, and he'll be safe. Where else will you be able to get blue starfires in your lifetime? He'll have half the Guard soon. It'll be over as quick as lightning. Now go to sleep!"

There was a bit more rustling as the two settled back down to sleep. The conversation had been mostly whispers and even I, being so close, had almost not heard it. Quickly, silence filled the void of conversation and the night was again tranquil. They slept. I did not — at least not until deep into the night.

The Palace was an immense rectangular structure occupying the center of the fortified city into which we entered. It was set far back into the city, on higher ground, against the instep of the sheers towering cliffs of a magnificent mountain. For hundreds of feet the cliffs rose skyward and stood tall, stern, erect, as if a huge blade had sliced off any rocks departing from the vertical. Near the top, the face of the cliffs were tiered, each face retreating farther inward from the cliffs to the summit, a plateau showing traces of green against the deep blue sky. Below again, against the backdrop of these majestic cliffs, the Palace gleamed a creamy whites rising several levels, each tiered like the clifftops above. Around the outer walls of the Palace, and around the top walls of the top tier, colorful flags waved and popped in the breezes Intermittently, they rose and fell against their posts as the breeze flowed and ebbed,

As we entered the Palace walls, passing through tally thick iron gates, each man in out small company looked at the Palace and beyond it to the cliffs, and finally upward to the summit. I clung a little tighter to my horses feeling a tinge of vertigo from the heights. The Prince and his Guard led us across the parade grounds as if we were making a state visits down the smooth stone pathway to the floral gardens which encompassed the entrance to the palace. There we were dismounted and assembled into a company as if we were foot-soldiers, orders were given to lead us to the lower levels to await our hearings.

"Guard!" barked the Prince as he dismounted.

"Yes, my Lord?" answered his Second Officer, the Guard who had first shackled me.

"Take these rogues to the lower levels to be detained. Some time later they will be sent for. Perhaps after noon." He paused, then smiled. 'Then they will be heard and sentenced. Insurrectionists and spies. Maybe tomorrow we'll see a few heads roll."

With a quick glance over us, the Prince turned and walked easily to the main entrance. Then we were ordered to walk west toward the stables and toward the entrance to the lower levels. As we entered, the sunlight died and torch light was born. Stone steps led down a level and into a large conference or reception area. A long, roughly-hewn wooden plank table ran the length of the chamber. Benches had been placed on both sides of it. This room marked the end of our journey to the Palace and we waited in silences trying to find some comfortable positions in which to sit or recline on the stone floor or on the benches. Some paced in impatience. I tried to think — quickly, because time was winning my race; I might be dead the next day,

However, I knew of a plot against the King's life, and that knowledge might prove to be my redemption from an almost certain death. Nevertheless, there seemed to be no way to inform the King of the plot. The Prince had mentioned a hearings but how long would I live if I publicly announced the plot to the King while the one accused of the charge stood nearby? Would the information of a suspected spy be believed anyway?

But I had no opportunity to ponder the questions for a messenger arrived at that moment, less than half an hour after we had entered the chambers. The King was going to hear us immediately.

The Throne-room was shaped like a horseshoe, the open end being the large entrance through which we passed. There were no doors in the entrance, merely a tall, sweeping archway in the stone wall of the Great Hall. The Prince strode proudly through the archway and up to the throne where he took his place below and to the right of the dais. There were six platforms forming the dais, tiered like the Cliffs outside, on top of which the throne was placed.

With his royal robes around him and the crown on his head, the King sat majestically on the thrones keen-eyed and observant, watching our progress toward him. Behind him, around the circular portion of the horseshoe stood the King's Guard. To the sides and throughout the rest of the room were more of the Guard, royal aides, messengers, and dignitaries. The High Council were convened It appeared that our hearing had drawn a rather large audiences but perhaps the Throne room was full at all hearings. When we had reached a point some thirty feet or so from the throne, the Guard leading us ordered us to bend the knee and bow before the King, Obviously, those who depended on the King's mercy for their lives would bow, but suddenly my mind pictured the scene with some who stubbornly would not bend the knee. But that day all the prisoners bowed.

A Guard prodded me to the front row as we had walked up to the Throne-room from below. Because I was to be heard apart from the others, I had supposed. A good guess as it turned out. And that factor may have been one of the two that got me out of that kingdom alive. The second was the young woman who sat at the foot of the throne on the second platform of the dais, at the King's feet.

When I next looked up to the throne, the young servant (as I supposed her to be; she was in fact the King's niece, as I found out later) quietly conversed with him in a language of those who cannot hear; we named it sign language in my world. She sat sideways on the dais so that she could easily turn to the King and translate what was being spoken and just as easily relate his responses, As she conversed with the King in that moment before the hearing began, her face spoke the emotion of her words while her fingers and hands formed the signs and signals which served as the words to him. She spoke with her fingers as we speak with our tongues and conveyed the emotion we sometimes leave in our hearts. He smiled at her last word before the hearing began. She served her King well.

She turned toward us and gave us words he had signed to her.

"'Let this hearing begin. The High Council stands convened. Those accused kneel before us. News of darkness in the kingdom has reached our ears. Who will come forward and speak of it?"

The Prince and one of the Guard turned to face the King and began to relate the story of the capture of the prisoners and their plot to create an insurrection against the King. As each spoke, the young woman's fingers gestured speaking as they spoke, interpreting almost as quickly as the words were spoken. I lost track of what was actually being said as I watched her because my thoughts were turning almost as fast as she was interpreting. An idea began to take shape. In my world I had learned a single phrase in sign language, and it occurred to me that perhaps in just the right moment, when she was looking directly at me, I could sign that phrase to her. It would make no sense to her, but hopefully it would attract her curiosity. She had a direct link to the King. If I could somehow tell her about the real news of darkness in the kingdom, she could warn the King without creating any alarm and without the Prince hearing of it.

At the end of the testimony of the Prince and the prisoners, in accusation and defenses there was a long period of silence in which the High Council conferred together. When the High Council had reached a decision, the most elderly among them came forward.

"It is the conclusion of this High Council, our Lord the King, that the accused have sought to enrage the people of this kingdom, have plotted treachery against our King, and were intent upon carrying out their scheme against His person. In our judgment the accused have shown enough malice and pose a potential threat in the future large enough to warrant the sentence of death. This is the judgment and advisement we give to the King."

With this pronouncement the Elder walked back to his seat with the High Council. A hush of finality swept through the room, leaving one scarcely able to breathe.

... Click for PART TWO ...