‘A Minstrel’s Tale’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

A Minstrel’s Tale

The tale begins on a lonesome day just as the birds awoke and the sun began to peek above the distant tree line. The wind blew softly, bringing with it the air of adventure. A grand quest lay ahead that would cost the hero greatly. Dangerous beasts of legend walked along the path he would have to take and guarded the way to the treasure of mythology as spectacular as the holy grail. Lions of unnatural strength and power wandered those woods, ever searching for their next prey and hideous sea serpents wove through the poisoned waters that crossed the route.

And if the hero were brave and strong enough to pass those trials and make it to the cave where the treasure lay, he would have to face the greatest threat of them all. The dragon with shining scales like the gold he horded and with teeth as sharp as the swords that guarded the entrance. Getting past that creature would be the most terrifying trial of them all and the hero was sure to meet certain death.

“What are you doing?”

“I am telling your story.”

The hero of this tale was a man named Lothar. Contrary to his name, he was fairly weak and not at all warrior-like. His dark hair fell in butchered locks to his shoulders and his thin face displayed sharp bones of his cheeks and jaws, but not necessarily in a handsome way.

“Shut up, Emil.”

Ignore the rude comments emanating from blank space of this document.

“What are you going on about?”

The poor man crudely named by his desperate mother in hopes of a great savior packed his bags as he prepared for the journey that lay ahead of him.

“What did you say about my mother?”

“Just pack your bags Lothar.”

A difficult journey he would soon trek, and so for many days’ adventure he must prepare.

He packed up dried fruits and bread and tucked away his bow and a quiver full of arrows. How he planned to draw the bow with those feeble arms, one would never know.

“Now you’re just being mean.”

The trunk in the corner of the room, though already mostly bare, he emptied as he carefully folded away his worn trousers and shirts and pulled around his shoulders a thick woolen cloak. With everything all nicely packed, he stood and took one last scan around the room. His moldy bed and itchy blankets were crumpled to the side and in front of the fireplace where he had comfortably slept through the winter. His cozy home, bright with the spring sun with greenery bursting in bright colors through the windows would be difficult to leave and greatly missed. He took one last final breath, drawing in the sweet scents of spring, the sharp aroma of smoke-stained brick, and the musty familiarity of a leaky roof.

“Must you be so dramatic?”

“Yes.”

He reached down and in one smooth motion swept his pack onto his back and in the same smooth motion went tumbling into the soft dirt floor.

“I didn’t fall.”

“I said you tumbled.”

Regaining his balance, the lean Lothar strapped on his pack and set out into the rising sun. The darkened sky lightened to beautiful violets and golds as the bird awoke to bid farewell to the lonely traveler.

“Not lonely enough. Must you insist on following me?”

“Yes, a minstrel must always accompany a quest for it is their duty to remember the tale.”

“What nonsense are you uttering?”

“I am a minstrel, and it is my duty, as a minstrel, to accompany you on your quest.”

“No, it’s not. And if you’re a minstrel where’s your instrument?”

“I don’t need one.”

The dirt path he followed wound its way through the cheery town, unaware of the dangers that lurked so near, for the village was surrounded by a darkened forest where only misery lurked. Shadows haunted the grounds and bathed the woods in its dreadful glare. Guarded was the entrance by two towering oaks and overgrown were the paths that lay for none dared to traverse through its treacherous gates.

“Seriously? It’s just a normal forest.”

“Of death.”

“Well then you are more than welcome to stay behind.”

“I will not hear of it, for who else will recount your gruesome death?”

“And who will recount your justified murder?”

Still on the brave traveler went through the gates of death, for if he had nothing of strength or dignity, he had bravery bordering on stupidity.

“I hate you.”

The darkness wrapped around him like a cloak and extinguished the light from above as the branches wove a thick tapestry overhead. This was a darkness you could feel, clenching at your chest and straining the frail heart, making even the slightest breath difficult. The air was thick and moist, smelling strongly of a trickling stream and of freshly blooming leaves that offered some comfort in the fog. Vines reached out their sly hands to wrap around the unfortunate victims that fell into its grasp and the growth flowing along the ground stretched its limbs to tangle and trip.

The farther into the woods he journeyed the bushier the growth sprouted and the more closely knit the trees became. Talls weeds ran over the trampled dirt and threatened to choke out the path until it was no more, and the traveler would be lost to the vastness of the wilderness.

A series of howls echoed and bounded, growing gradually louder then fading to a soft whisper in hopes of confusing the listener on its whereabouts. Heavy crunching of twigs and leaves signaled the approach of something bigger, something far more terrifying than the distant howling of wolves. A lion was surely lurking ever nearer in the foliage, creeping upon his lonely victim, and ready to grip its prey in its razor-sharp teeth.

“A lion, really?”

“Yes, a lion. Now stop interrupting, you’re ruining the story.”

“You mean my story which is currently happening while you uselessly narrate.”

“I am not uselessly narrating. I am saying it out loud so may remember the adventure later and be able to properly write it down in a book.”

“Just continue your stupid story.”

The leaves rustled and the bushes shook violently. Nothing small could have made that great of noise, so something big was lurking not far behind, tracing his very steps. With the terrifying leap the beast bounded out of the shrubs and out into the open to face its enemy.

“That’s a deer Emil.”

“It could have been a lion.”

“There are no lions in the forests of Medieval England.”

Lother let his shoulders relax and released a sigh. He steadied his cumbersome pack and continued on his journey.

“You know what, now seems a good time for a rest.”

“How can you say that when I just said you continued on your journey. Fine, be that way.”

The weary hero dropped his pack deciding that this was a good and not at all terrifying neck of the woods to have a brief respite. He searched through his pack and brought out some dried strips of fruit and a handful of nuts to snack on. His rest was long and refreshing as he savored his precious time and ate his food painfully slow.

“Could you go any faster?”

“Nope.”

Lother chewed thoughtfully on his mouthful of fruit, his sharp jaws working at the tough leathery skins. He stared down the minstrel with his frightful gaze as he clumsily twirled the knife in his hands as a silent threat to the innocent storyteller. Having finally finished his food and tucking the blade away in his belt he was at once ready to…lay down and take a nap?

Seriously?

This is correct, contrary to Arthurian Legend. However, I highly suggest searching Medieval drawings of lions. They are quite something.

Well now this lonely minstrel must learn to occupy himself by composing exciting poetry to later share with a crowd of curious onlookers as he received his fame for his lively performance.

Upon these haunted ground must trek

The brave and fearless hero…named Jeff?

To start a journey so profound

That its tale shall ever resound.

A heavy burden laid on his neck.

And his pride he must keep in check.

“You suck at poetry.”

“I’m sorry, who is the literary expert here?”

“Obviously not you.”

The journey continued the next day after the hero had arisen, and with terrible bed head I might add.

“Why are you still here?”

On he went through the thick of the woods, his heavy pack weighing his shoulders and slowing the already difficult journey.

“If anything is slowing my journey, it’s you.”

The slender trail marked out by the hooves of a deer wound in twisting patterns around the bulky trunks of trees and led up to a rushing stream. Water rushed over moss covered stones and threatened to carry away the grassy weeds clinging to the bank. Lothar examined the slippery rocks and shallow straight for the best route to cross. It might very well prove to be difficult.

“Or we can use the bridge that is not even ten paces away.”

“But that doesn’t sound at all heroic.”

“Well, you are welcome to try crossing the stream this way, I’m taking the bridge.”

The hero, taking the easy way out, chose to take the treacherous rope bridge extending out over a deep cavern where heavy rapids lay below.

“You’re unbelievable.”

The bridge wobbled precariously under his foot and each step could very well be his last.

“We are literally three feet above the little stream.”

The bridge swayed dangerously in the rough wind and the hero gripped the ropes for dear life, his hands getting scraped and burned as his delicate grip slipped. He cried out for help, but none was to be found. The bridge jerked and he almost went over the edge.

“If anyone is going over the edge, it’s you.”

His bravery waned and his spirit gave up. He began to sob.

“Ack.”

“How’s the water?”

“Cold.”

“I did warn you.”

H-having b-barely made it to the end of the b-bridge, the hero c-collapsed.

“Hard to speak when you’re shivering, ay.”

The arrogant hero pranced along, placing the near-death experience out of his mind as if he had not been miraculously saved by God himself.

“Would you stop blabbering already. We’re almost there.”

And so, the hero trekked on, quickly approaching his doom as the great and terrifying cave lurked menacingly in the distant mountain.

“What mountain? It’s a cottage.”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m literally just visiting my grandmother.”

“You’ve ruined my story.”

“Just say the end and be done.”

“Fine.”

He reached the treasure safely for the dragon had already been written out of the story.

And they all lived happily ever after.

THE END!!!!

“Happy?”

“Very.”

Ariel Chenowith recently graduated with two bachelor’s degrees and hopes to pursue a career in writing. She enjoys learning new things and exploring new art forms.