Originally hosted on https://illoria.wixsite.com/annamittower/anthology-of-speculative-scribbles
The wind raced down the dusty road, tearing at the lonely traveler's clothes and throwing dust in his face. It seemed to be trying to knock him over in its haste to get wherever it was going. The traveler leaned into the wind so as to get his balance, and surveyed the road and the darkening sky ahead. He was so frail that it appeared as if the wind might get the better of him and really blow him away. Wrinkles lined the aged face gazing out from under a ragged hood. Bony, veined hands clutched a ragged cloak even tighter. His clothes, which had once been rich, were now dust covered and well worn with long use, dark reds and blues faded with the years. The old man leaned upon his knobby and crooked staff, dragging his feet as he slowly made his way off the road to the shelter of a nearby grove of trees. Sliding off his pack, he sat down out of the wind. He took out a lute and cradled it in his frail arms, protecting it from the savage wind-driven dirt with his body. The lute looked as old as he and was in disrepair. All but one of its strings were broken off at various lengths, and the once glossy varnish was dull, flaking off at the slightest touch. Even so, it had the feeling that it was well loved and well used.
The old traveler looked up at the sound of hoof beats echoing along the road. Out of the dust came a young man astride what must have been a white stallion, though its coat now had a slightly reddish hue because of the dust storm. They still made a magnificent pair, what with the fine leather tack on the horse and the rich clothes that the young man wore. The bright colors of his clothes could be seen even through the swirling dust. He sported a rapier at his side, carried, presumably, for defense if needed but mostly for show. The horse and rider were headed for the same grove for a similar purpose, to get out of the wind and dust. The young man dismounted with an energetic leap and started as the old man rose from his seated position. The young man looped his horse's reins about a small tree. Turning to the old man curiously, a question formed on his lips.
The old man stopped him and wordlessly handed over a sheaf of papers. As the young man read, he realized that this was the song of the minstrel. Not just a song that a minstrel would sing, but the song that captured in its lyrics the essence of every minstrel's being. He was puzzled that there were no notes or music on the pages, just words. As he kept reading it dawned on him that this must also be the pledge with which minstrels were sworn in. He felt the old minstrel tap him on the arm and turn the pages to the very last one. With a crooked finger, he pointed out the words of the last verse and indicated that the young man was to read them aloud. The young man looked twice at the minstrel to make sure that he understood him correctly and then began to read the words that the minstrel had indicated.
"So though I journey far and wide,
Still I will keep this song by my side,
Song of old,
Song of gold,
Song of everlasting meaning,
This I sing to pledge me to my minstrel's singing."
The young man paused as he realized the significance of the words he was speaking. The minstrel gestured for him to continue so he took a deep breath and began again.
"I sing this eternally in my heart, my mind,
And my soul, forever,
And I pledge to keep this song alive,
In the hearts of minstrels far and wide,
Forever."
He finished the verse, his voice fading away into silence. The old minstrel looked satisfied and, stooping, lifted something from the ground. He turned back and in his hands lay the lute, but, wonders of wonders, it was now transformed. Neither old nor broken any more, now it looked like new and the strings were whole, as if they had never been broken. The young minstrel took it in his hands and he too cradled it, stroking it as gently as if it was a baby. The old minstrel finally spoke.
"I have kept my pledge to sing this song,
Now I give it to another,
For him to pass it on.
The old has passed away,
And the new has come to stay."
His speech faded away. The young minstrel turned to thank him for the lute, but he was gone. The only thing left was the lute and the sheaf of paper. The young minstrel gazed at the lyrics again and now he understood why there was no music on the pages. He had no need of any. As he read the words, he heard and felt the music in his head and in his heart. A merry tune it was, sounding both carefree and powerful, soft and thunderous at the same time. It was the song that embodied life itself, truly a song of everlasting meaning. With this realization he fully shouldered the responsibility that had been placed on his shoulders. The wind had died down now and the dust had settled. He remounted his stallion and rode off humming the song which now filled his entire inner being.
END