Tag: Stormvale

Barmy Blakken and the River of Death

To find Sar’Kata, Barmy had to cross the River of Life and Death. It was a long, long journey, full of twists and turns. Barmy defeated a dozen droth, moved a naiad into a dried-up well, and saved a village from wildcats with the help of Talking Mice. But all of these are other stories for other times.

By Malcolm Schmitz

Malcolm Schmitz is an autistic author who writes about queer people, eldritch angels, nebbish unicorns, and lace-making orcs. His fiction has been published in Crossed Genres, Fusion Fragment, and Sword and Sorcery Magazine; his short story "The Captain's Sphere" made the Long List for the 2015 Otherwise Award.

The Legend of Barmy Blakken
and
the River of Life and Death

Translated from the Talshei Codex
with commentary from Borage of Freeport

Editor's Note: This folktale comes to us from the Talshei Codex, a record of folktales from the Little Folk of the Shey Lands.

The Talshei Codex was most likely composed in the Year of the Dappled Rat by the Traveler, an adventurer from Krygon whose records have long outlived their true name. The Traveler is thought to have been a bard from the Mogul's Imperial Court who was tasked with cataloging the legends of outlying parts of the fledgling Empire -- and, incidentally, rewriting them to better suit the Mogul’s political aims. The Codex therefore takes a condescending Imperial view of the Little Folk that would be considered offensive in cosmopolitan academic contexts today.

The Codex is an unreliable resource for earnest academic discussion of Sheyn folklore, but is quite a revealing look at the political and spiritual views common in the early Empire. Any student of Krygon’s recent history should be aware of the Codex -- and the other works like it.

Very, very long ago, when fleas were barbers and sheyn-goats learned to smoke, there was a little yurt-village on the west slope of nowhere. The village had goats; the village had goatherds.

And the village had its idiot, one Barmy Blakken. (1)

Barmy Blakken was a goatherder, son of a goatherder, grandson of a goatherder. Not a single branch of his family tree had ever grown towards anything more.

But one day, his folks took their goats to Stormvale, the biggest city Barmy had ever seen, and in Stormvale, the Market Street was roped off. A crowd of Big Folks gathered round it, thick as plaster.

"Momma," Barmy said, "what's all that for?"

"There's a parade, Barmy," his momma said. "Pay it no mind."

A trumpet bleated, and a carriage passed through the empty street. A carriage made of shiny gold, and inside was a maiden: a Big Folk maiden with long, black hair and skin as dark as the night sky.

She was the most beautiful woman Barmy had ever seen, and he couldn't help but stare.

"Momma," Barmy said, "I'm gonna marry that girl."

"Like nuts you are, you idiot," his momma said. "That's the Princess of Tarith. You ain't never gonna speak to her."

"Yes, Momma," Barmy said.

"Now hurry up, come help me with the goats," his momma said.

Barmy didn't want to help with the goats. Barmy wanted to follow the Princess and ask her for her hand. So, he helped with the goats, but late that night, he snuck off to the Palace. He climbed up its stepped terraces, pulling himself up brick by brick, until he reached the highest room and the tallest terrace. (2)

A light shone through the window. Barmy had to stand on tiptoe to get a glance inside.

He saw the Princess brushing out her long dark hair. He reached up high as he could and tapped on the frame.

"Who's there?" the Princess said. She looked out the window, but didn't see a soul.

"Down here, Princess!" Barmy said. He waved, so hard he wobbled.

"Oh? What do you want, Little One?" the Princess said.

"I've come... to ask... for your hand... in marriage," Barmy said, trying to keep his balance.

"You asked me?" The Princess raised her perfect eyebrows.

"If you're wanting," Barmy said. "My momma has the biggest goat herd in the village. I could treat you right."

The Princess laughed, covering her rosebud mouth.  

"How... sweet of you," she said, "but my father won't allow it."

"Your father?" Barmy blinked. "What's he got to do with the price of goats?"

"If you want to marry me," the Princess said, "you have to ask my father for my hand. And he thinks no man is good enough for me, not in all of Talmenor."

"Well, that's dumb," Barmy said.

 

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The Doom of Tarek

“Just look around: you’ll find something to laugh about under any rock. The world doesn’t make sense anymore… What else is left for us to do except to drink and laugh away our sorrow… If death is around the corner, then I want to face Him with a tankard in my hand and a smile on my face.” 

By Hristijan Pavlovski

Hristijan Pavlovski is a professor of Philosophy who loves art as much as he loves wisdom. His philosophy is that no other medium can summon the full range of human emotion quite like the literary arts can, and it is his goal to explore the extent of that.

My dearest sister,

I am writing you this final letter to announce my coming home. The months have been hard on me here in the Shey Lands, but I have prospered.

How is everything in Stormvale country? 

Ahh, silly me. I got so used to asking you this question with every letter that I forgot that your reply would not reach me here. Yet, I am not sad at the thought of your reply not reaching me, for I will be elated to hear all that news from you personally. 

The lands here are cold, vicious even. Yet, I was left with no choice after Father died. I had to find prosperity somewhere, for I could no longer bear to look into your eyes anymore. The way the light dimmed each time I had to reveal to you that there would be no food that day. I could not stand it anymore. 

Luckily, Sar’Kata grinned at us. Had that foreman not passed through our village looking for able-bodied men, then I fear what our fates would have been. Father, for all the good he did, was a prideful man. He never wanted to teach me the family craft, because he feared I’d surpass him one day. He was a good carpenter but not a very good father. He was a good husband at least: he never once struck mother. I hope that she is doing well. She couldn’t offer us much, but at least she taught us to read and write the Sailor's Speech.

The work here is hard, it drives a man to his breaking point. The foreman cares for us; I believe his heart is benevolent, but the master of the land keeps asking for more and more. Each time we manage to chop down 14 timbers, the master demands 15 the next day. We barely have time to mourn those who fall. For we know that, as soon as we bury the body, we’ll have to get back to work. You become unsure which you mourn more: his death, or that you have to continue working without an extra pair of hands to assist you. 

Simeon’s death struck us the most. He was a good kid, came all the way from Timberfalls country. He was experienced at hewing the wood, but we all cherished him for his wit. Especially on the hardest days, he would always manage to cheer us up. Being separated from one's nest for so long tends to eat at a man’s heart. 

The food, well, it is palatable. On some days we eat good -- on others, you get sick from the barley and turnips. On the good days, the hunters might bring in a mountain goat. Sometimes we get hare, or lemmings if the hunter’s dogs manage to dig them up. But on the days that they don’t manage to catch anything, we get that gods-awful barley. I swear, as soon as I come back, we will never, ever, cook barley again in our house. 

Over the months, I have managed to save up two satchels worth of coins. That should last us until next year at least, we just have to be frugal about it. When I come back, I intend to propose to Ignes, my beloved. Please do not spoil the surprise by revealing this news to her! I want to see the smile upon her face. Her smile is what I have missed the most since I came here. In my free time, I play our favorite songs on the flute that I brought along with me. Her favorite was always “Prancing Meadows.” I remember singing it to her last summer as we sat upon the hillside staring down at the meadows. 

“Dancing, prancing meadows / call you today. Dancing, prancing meadows / call you to play. The hare is out, the fox about, the song is in the wind. Will you join us for a dance: a dance until the end…”

I cannot wait to embrace her once more and profess my love to her. The only ones I’ve embraced in the past few months are the stinking lumbermen. You have to. When the wind starts blowing upon our shack in the evening hours, we begin to pray that the whole thing doesn’t come down right on top of us. The creaking of the shingles sends us off to sleep each and every night; after a while, it becomes almost like a melody.

But now, with the winter months soon approaching, we have to deal with the snow as well. The living conditions are becoming unbearable.  Every time it hails, we have to patch up the shack in the morning. I grow tired of plugging holes. And the food is becoming more and more scarce, as most of the animals have begun hibernating. The only thing left are a few roots, some grasses, and that damned barley. 

I’d wish I could write more about my situation, but I do not live a very exciting life. The life of the common man has always been constrained to poetry and song. I guess no lord wishes to see upon their walls the “filthy peasants” underneath him going about their day. They prefer to grace their murals and tapestries with prettier sights. 

So, I leave you with a poem I wrote. It helps me accept my fate. 

 

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The Treeless Tundra Road

A small light coming from behind me catches my attention; getting ever closer, the distinct sound of boots compacting the snow restores some of my hope. A tall cloaked figure approaches me. I can’t see what they look like through the snow, but I focus on the lantern in their hand and what sounds like a bell clinking with every step they take.

“You’re going to die if you stay out here.” A man’s voice calls out to me from behind the shield of falling snow. A harsh voice, an unused voice.

The Treeless Tundra Road

By Kizzie Le Carpentier

Kizzie Le Carpentier is a graduate of Plymouth University in the U.K. She published her first book, “The Walk Back Home” in June of 2021.

I love books, movies and stories that unravel a new world with new creatures. I love it when a writer makes up something completely new and unreal – but I love it even more when a writer can convince me that their fantasy world could be real.

Kizzie Le Carpentier

“Goodnight; sweet dreams.” I lean in to place a kiss on my child’s forehead and tuck the sheets into the bed. My dark hair falls over my shoulders and drapes over the bedsheets. 

“Where are you going, Mummy?” My little girl looks into my eyes and then at my thick fur-lined cloak.

“I’m just going out for a bit. I’ll be back. If you need anything at all, just ask your brother.” I stroke my daughter’s head with my gloved hand.

The wind outside was hitting the hut and making the wooden shutters shake. I stand up and walk over to my son, waiting patiently at the door, and place my hand on his cheek, stroking it with my thumb.

“You make sure to look after your sister while I’m gone.”

“Yes, mother.” His eyes are watery; it is obvious from his clenched jaw that he’s fighting back the tears. His remaining parent is about to leave in the same manner as his negligent father. He coughs into his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon. Make sure you get some sleep too.” I walk over to the bedroom door, which is also the front door, and slide my fur boots on. 

I look over at the countertops, making sure there is food and water on the side and then look to make sure all the shutters are closed and that the key was where my seven-year-old could reach it. The cold made the dampness on the ceiling reek and the air harsh. The fire is raging, but it does little for comfort.

“Make sure to lock the door behind me. And don’t answer for anyone other than me.” I open the door, and a freezing gust of wind blows into the hut as I step outside into the darkness. Continue reading “The Treeless Tundra Road”