The Voice and the Valley

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” the Storyteller began, his voice dropping so deeply, I wondered if it rested in his stomach and not his throat.

I climbed on a barstool quickly and watched the crowd. Sentences weren’t finished, laughter cut short; the only sound was the scraping of stools and chairs and whispered admonition to any trying to finish a thought. The common room of The Lion’s Share had never quieted so quickly. He waited for the last clinkings of mugs and plates, for the people at the tables to lean in, for the exact right moment to continue.

“But then, Storgos of Evrion once told me it wasn’t always a valley.”

Murmurs of Storgos floated through the inn, though none had actually head him Tell. Behind me, a cook gave one of the waitresses hell for mixing up a plate. Several people turned to shush him, but of course he couldn’t hear them. The bartender threw his rag onto his shoulder and went to the swinging door leading to the kitchen.

“Ay, Bugger! Shut up!”

Another round of shhhhh. The Storyteller waited. For the first time, I understood how silence could have presence. Not just a lack of sound—a palpable reality hanging over us, pressing in on us. I found myself leaning as well.

Far longer than I expected, he sat there on the raised platform with one foot on the ground and one hooked under a support for the stool. As he shifted his weight, we could hear the worn leather of his boots creak, the whirr of his forest green pantlegs rubbing at his thighs, the whisper of his chest hair against the canary yellow cheesemaker’s smock. His blue eyes seemed to turn grey as we saw him fold in on himself, bow his head so that wisps of white hair fell across his forehead. Pensive, mulling over his meeting with Storgos or maybe his sense of loss for whatever preceded the Valley.

Just when I could no longer stand it, he looked up at us, piercing us, shackling us to our seats. I was physically stunned by the pain in his eyes. “When the Mists of Power were still shielding the new earth from the elements, and the first trees were tiny sprouts among the grasses, a green sloping swath swept up into the majestic crags and passes of a lonely mountain. Where other peaks shared the heights with brothers and sisters, this glorious mix of high ridges and deep gorges, lofty aeries for Rocs and eagles, home for the sleek mountain lion and the agile goat, stood alone among the rolling hills.

“He was called Mount Thrassus, and he was the King of the Mountains.”

I looked over at Penny Two-Pockets and smiled. She was a hopeless thief, a liar, ten stones of trouble. The dishwater color of her hair and eyes made her disappear to most, but not to me. Those average eyes turned on me, a glint of excitement in them like sunshine on muddy water. Had she been taller, I might have been interested in more than her friendship. I would’ve hated that.

She made to say something to me, thought better of it. Reaching inside her vest to her secret pocket, she pulled out four coins and winked. Poor bastard in front of her. He would need someone else to cover his tab tonight. I smiled and shook my head, admiring her courage. He was the Mayor of the Valley, after all.

“For a thousand millenia he stood, a beacon to wise men and a boon for the local hunters. The bountiful prey blessed the former; for the latter, the counsel of Saint Thrassus. Once a year, in the dead of winter, on the Celebration of the First Day, pilgrims from every land came to the King of the Mountains and climbed his treacherous passes. They looked for the Cave that Spawned All Wisdom, hoping to ask one question of Saint Thrassus, the Voice of Unfathomable Depth.”

I snickered at that, which brought threatening glances from several listeners near me. The Voice of Unfathomable Depth (we could hear the tall letters at the start of each word when he said them) was a bit much, wasn’t it? I was still enjoying him, but I turned to wink at Penny and she rolled her eyes. I guess we were too fond of manipulation ourselves.

Suddenly, I realized the silence in the room had changed. I looked up and found myself staring directly into the Storyteller’s eyes. He was not displeased. Curious, though. Definitely curious. I looked back at Penny to avoid his gaze.

Some bumpkin near the front honestly thought the Storyteller was waiting for someone to ask. He’s a good man, Delman Fingall, but dense. He pulled on his scally cap and leaned back as if to gain the courage to speak out loud, then stretched his vast frame forward again to let his strained tenor break the tension.

“What happened to it? The mountain? Ain’t there no more, it ain’t.”

SHHHHHHHH and other such remonstrances. But the Storyteller smiled as if he really had been waiting for the question. I mentally applauded his witty shift of thought.

“Ah, yes. Yes. Sadly, my friend, not all who sought the Voice were already wise. One such was a man like us. Simple. Thoughtless. Daft. He knew only that the Voice had power over the people and wanted it for himself. He listened to the tales, asked after those who sought the Voice, and finally was satisfied he knew where to find it. As the First Day of the new year approached, he provisioned himself and hired an ass to guide him up Mount Thrassus.”

Penny leaned in and whispered, “Delman is the ass.”

I quickly covered my mouth to avoid the embarrassment of being shushed twice during the tale.

“Up he went, letting the creature guide him. They entered the southern pass and followed the trail until a raven landed on a solitary rock, then turned east on a shallow goat path invisible to the unobservant. Once, they had to jump across a crevice eight feet wide…”

“Wait, a donkey jump a crevice?” Delman scratched his head through his cap. “That ain’t right.”

“Who said the guide was a donkey?”

Laughter filled the room. Only Delman misunderstood how the Storyteller had duped him. I turned with admiration to Penny, who wore that smug grin she gets when she figures something out. I love the way it brings out the dimple in her cheek. Maybe I had been too quick to shirk thoughts of romance. She turned quickly away from me and I realized I was blushing.

Now who is the ass?

“The Cave yawned before them, and as they stepped inside, a foul stench filled the air.”

Another deft ruse by the Storyteller. Here we were, cramped sweaty in an inn, stale beer mingling with cabbage soup. Calling up our olfactory senses made us believe we were there. Right there in the Cave ourselves. I looked up and once again stared straight into his eyes. This time, I knew it was no accident. Part of me was terrified of that gaze, and part of me was thrilled.

Delman let the silence go this time. It didn’t last as long.

“Stepping in, he chanted the rhyme that drew the Voice. Once, this verse was lost to mankind, but Storgos heard it in a dream and wrote it down for me when last I saw him. It goes like this.”

He stood up to reach into the pocket of his britches and pull out a wrinkled and stained bit of parchment. Looking it over once as if trying for the hundredth time to memorize it, he held it in his right hand and lifted his left hand over his head with his fingers splayed out.

“Where ignorance dwells, no man can know.

It hides from him to make him slow.

Where wisdom grows, no man can say.

It bides in him and makes him gray.”

Right on cue, a few of the candles spluttered, then grew strong again, then brightened. The Storyteller smiled grimly. He was lost in the story himself.

“The Cave brightened, and there, before them, was Saint Thrassus. Golden scales and claws at the end of each leg. A thin blanket made of ebony skin covered his back and sides. The ass looked on in wonder as the pilgrim chanted the verse. Thrassus bid the pilgrim ask his one question. Wrinkling his brow, the pilgrim hooked his thumbs in his belt and considered.

“Finally, he asked, ‘Oh Saint Thrassus, Voice of Unfathomable Depth, you are great and powerful. Are you doomed forever to be stuck in this Cave?’

“In answer, the black membranous cover on Thrassus’ back spread high into wings so that the pilgrim and the ass could appreciate his glory and witness without words the answer to the question. In that moment, as the creature’s chest was exposed, the pilgrim saw his chance.”

Shaking his head, the Storyteller’s face fell. A plain face, few wrinkles but nothing dramatic to set him apart from most of the farmers in the room. Why was I so drawn to it?

“He believed, I tell you, truly he did, that by killing Saint Thrassus—as well as the ass who accompanied him—he would be free to take on the role of wisdom for mankind. The power he would have! The rites they would perform for his blessing! The bounty they would leave to pay for his every word!

“Reaching into his belt with both hands, he plunged a knife under the rib of the ass with his left and cast the other spinning toward Saint Thrassus with his right. The first blade hit home, as did the second. The first was a killing blow. The second bounced harmlessly off the breast of the Voice of Unfathomable Depth.”

Gasps around the room. Someone pulled back too sharply. A stray elbow hit a mug and sent it spinning, spilling its contents. Not one person seated at the table moved. I marveled at the power the Storyteller had over them.

“As you already guessed, Saint Thrassus was the king of all dragons. When a poor representative of mankind sought to take his life, his response was to call up his children with a roar and fire to exact vengeance. Red dragons and white, black dragons and green, all dragonkind stretched wings and poured out of the Cave. When they were done, Mount Thrassus, King of the Mountains, had been turned into a Valley, and many of the people slaughtered.”

“That’s impossible,” Delman said. “Where did all the rock go?”

“You have heard of the mountain range called The Northern Thrust?”

Delman’s eyes grew large as he stared at the man, slack jawed. He couldn’t help himself. “What happened to the pilgrim?”

This time, the Storyteller was expecting the question. “Do you really want to know?”

A chorus of replies in the affirmative, including Penny’s breathless yes. But I already knew. This time I didn’t flinch from the man’s eyes when they rested on me.

“He became the first Storyteller,” I said.

The girl on my left elbowed me. Delman turned a furious glance my way. Penny turned with the same admiration I had given her earlier.

The Storyteller? He sat back on his stool, clapped his hands together once and said, "Just so."