“Do you know any dark stories?” Harun, the oldest boy, asked. “That last one was nice, but it was a bit…”
The bent old storyteller sipped from his wooden cup and then raised an inquiring eyebrow at Jenrin. Jenrin nodded and then gave Harun a squeeze.
“There’s no women here,” Jenrin said. “Give us something to suit the night.”
Harun looked up and grinned at his father.
Petie shivered and squirmed. He’d enjoyed the story about the huntsman and his missing bride. Outside the circle of firelight it was pitch black, and unlike Harun he didn’t have his pa close by to make him feel safe. Petie’s pa had been killed by bandits just three weeks past, bringing the number of people in the caravan down from seven to just six: Jenrin, Harun, Jenrin's brother Rob, the Torak twins, and little, fatherless Petie.
The storyteller spoke in his thin, croaking voice. “You’ve given me food and shelter on this cold night, and I’d be remiss in my duties as a guest if I didn’t give you what you asked for.” He drained his wine and then, setting down the cup, began to rummage in the sack he kept at his feet. The storyteller groaned as his body bent down, and Petie frowned when Harun stifled a laugh at the storyteller’s contortions. Jenrin pinched his son’s shoulder, silencing him.
The old storyteller found his wine flask and filled his cup, straightening. Petie slid along the ground until he was close as he could get to the fire without being burned. His night vision was spoiled by the flames and he was suddenly conscious of the darkness at his back. He wished for a big log behind him or even one of the caravan wheels, but the wagons were out there, hidden by the night.
“Where to begin?” the storyteller said. “I suppose I’ll start at the discovery.”
~
Once, in the land of Petrya, there was a boy who was smaller than all the other boys his age. Someone called him Fidget, because he was always playing with things, and even though that wasn’t his name, it stuck.
Apologies if I’m telling you what you already know, but Petrya is a land of contests. From a very young age the boys start competing, and this continues on through life. Even old men still fight, and wrestle, and climb, and jump. What about girls? Girls aren’t much valued in Petrya.
Fidget tried hard, but he wasn’t very good at the contests. He would practice in secret, over and again, trying to jump and climb and run. But Fidget was small, and he wasn’t very strong.
Fidget’s father was a warrior in the High Lord’s guard, a very honorable position. He was embarrassed by his weak son and tried to teach the boy, but he finally gave it up as hopeless. Fidget’s mother was kind, but she wasn’t able to stop the other boys from making fun of her child.
As Fidget grew older, he spent more time alone: playing with things, fitting pieces of metal together, forming blocks of wood into figures with his knife. He didn’t know it, but he was good with his hands.
Then Fidget’s mother died, and with no one to protect him, the sport of the other boys turned vicious.
They always hit him where he was covered by his clothes. Once, they broke two ribs. Another time he passed blood for three days. Fidget never told anyone; he was afraid his father thought him a weakling, and he didn’t want to get into trouble.
What’s that? Ah, yes, I mentioned a discovery. Well, one day, when Fidget was far from his village, he came across a cave. It was hidden by scrub, but the entrance was large enough for a man to pass through, and Fidget was able to push the bushes to the side and enter.
He coughed as he walked in, his footsteps raising big clouds of dust. No one had been in the cave for a long time. It was too dark to see, so rather than exploring further Fidget resolved to come back the next day with something to see with.
He stole a pathfinder – one of those seeing devices the Alturan enchanters make – from a strong boy named Tatem, one of his greatest tormenters. Returning to the cave, he activated the pathfinder and started to explore.
It was dark in the cave, outside the light of the pathfinder, and Fidget was scared but he was also curious. The walls of the cave were creviced and jagged, creating strange shadows. He walked slowly forward, finding a few planks of wood and a pile of old cloth but not much more than that. He was about to give up when he rounded a cleft at the back.
Suddenly Fidget froze, and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.
There, at the back of the cave, in the shadows past the pathfinder’s glow, was a man.
Fidget willed his legs to turn him around, but he was too scared. He simply stood, staring at the black form, his eyes wide and his heart hammering in his chest. As he waited for the man to speak, or to come at him, he realized that the figure was completely motionless.