Trading tales

It burned going down his throat. He supposed it was the good kind of burn that only the oldest and best caused. Still he couldn’t help but wonder what kind of harm he was doing. The first danger man learned was the burn of fire.  The second danger was trying to harness fire without burning.

“To those we call ‘muse'” he called out, almost ritualistically.  “And those we curse as the same,” came the reply, along with a hearty hand clapping him on the back.

“May they ever lead us astray, o’er rocky paths and true, till at last, broken, bleeding and happy…”

“Our treasure we may find. Salud!”

He tilted another one down his throat, feeling again the burn, but caring less about the consequences. Tonight was a celebration, and he would certainly never embarrass or burden his companion with the thoughts and troubles plaguing his fast escaping mind.

“I wish that we did not have to part so soon, my friend,” he said, signalling to receive another round for the two.

“And yet, who knows where the morrow must take me, if not surely away from here. The warlords are coming down from the hills and if I do not make trade, then I must make war. And then it will be trade of a different sort: the butcher’s” He sighed, looking into his again emptied cup.

“If it comes to that, who then shall be trussed up? Surely you’ll have the best and brightest at your back?”

“I know not, to be honest. They are not truly human, the hill-men. And who can say what a beast, when cornered, when fighting for its life, will do? No, if they like not my story then I will be forced to find fault with their ways.”

“Who has crafted the tale this year?”

“I should not say, if we go agley there could be consequences for the poor fellow.”

“So it is a man that writes this year?”

“Look at you mine my words as though born with a pickaxe rather than a silver spoon in your mouth!” His companion laughed deeply at his own joke.  The mirth was infectious and a chuckle escaped his lips ere he could silence it with another draught. Truly his companion’s regal bearing would have been evident no matter what he had worn, but tonight he let it flaunt for all the world to embrace. His high collar and rich silks wrapped him in the airs of the upper class.

“Be that as it may, I’ve not found a name and I will fully admit that it kills me with curiosity.”

“Before this is done, it may be more than curiosity beating down your door, good sir. And if it comes to that, I could name you seven generations and still it bring naught but ill. I pray you to let it rest at this: The tale is the best I have heard, the muse has visited our savior of the year and planted upon them visions and stories to buy us the peace of another year. If I may be so bold, I’d almost be tempted to try to buy us two years for tales such as these.”

“What do they do with the tales up there? Simply tell them?”

“How are we to know? All I know is that they refer to it as the time of prophecy. I think they want peace as much as we. I once heard a Hill-man say that without what we have, they would be rudderless in their storm. Whatever that means.”

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer. One last drink for the end of the line.”

“May it come with a pot of gold, a fair dame, and a happy ending for all.”

“To a happy ending for all!” His companion swallowed and left the bar. The man sat and contemplated the meaning of life, and finally decided that if the bottom of the cup could not tell him, then perhaps he was simply not meant to know.