A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.8: Fearful Expedition

He did not explore for the rest of the day, too shaken to bear even going down the crooked steps. Instead, he fashioned a small sheath out of cloth and fastened it to his rope belt which he weaved between his belt loops and tied at the front; and he wrapped his wounded hand tightly in cloth after cleaning it with snow that froze both his hands.

Sighing, he finally laid back and gave Bast some water before reading to her until it was too dark to read. He slept his fitful and dreamless sleep, waking again, freezing, only to walk to the stage and create himself another story with which to keep himself warm before he slept until sunrise.

For many days, he wrote and read and practiced card tricks and played guitar and slept and only when it was nightfall did he dare creep out to the stage and recite his stories. The two men had scared him too badly to do much else.

He was even so bored that he not only redrew the map twice, marked off shops and what he'd found in them, and marked down each name of each stage; but he drew a third map of what the festival looked like now, what with everything packed away, complete with all his notes.

He kept the first map, the one copied directly from the worn one he found, in a hidden pocket of his satchel for the fall when he might once again need it. If he was around then, that is. He had less than half a loaf of bread left even though he had no need to provide Bast with food since she began to hunt the everpresent infestation of mice on her own, he was constantly plagued with great pains in his stomach from hunger and he figured it may be time to escape the fairgrounds and use his scarce money, perhaps find an odd job if his face were not around in the news. He did not think it would be, his Master would be enraged but if he were to look for him he'd send his own men. Skylos was sure of it.

Still, he stuck around, not willing to leave the place he had come to think of as home so soon. Eager to use his new map, he gathered up his courage and climbed down the crooked steps with weak knees, Bast trailing him faithfully, and they waited at the bottom, listening, looking; he kept his fingers on the stage, just in case. Bast licked his fingers from where she sat on the stage and he smiled. His hand was still bandaged, but he wielded his sword nonetheless with a small sheath for it next to the one for his knife and he kept that knife surely at his waist, within reach at the flick of his hand. He reminded himself to learn it well, if only for his own comfort.

He couldn't learn to use his knife properly yet, much to his annoyance, given that his hand was still in a great deal of pain and the bandage would be too bulky. He hoped it would heal soon, simply so he'd have more use.

It was warmer out today as he made his way down the steps. He made a quick note in his notebook, adding that it must be later in March.

He knew he'd left on the 13th. It had been maybe five or six nights from then, maybe even seven or eight, but he couldn't be sure. He'd lost track in his paranoia. He decided he'd find a newspaper when he went to the nearest town for food. 'I can look for a job, too,' he added. He nodded firmly, as if making a deal with himself.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, he set off towards the Joust Track, North, making a wide circle around Legend Stage since he was not ready to see the trail of stained wood he'd left in his wake. He'd already decided that he should take a quick look around and become more familiar with his surroundings and make changes to his map as needed.

He made his way around Bad Manor Island, then towards the Folkestone Pub, North again. His compass rattled in his hand as he made sure, double checking his map every once in a while. He paused to add a few more empty shops that he'd missed on the worn map to his own while Bast chased her tail.

"You'll catch it someday," he assured her when she followed his path once again, seemingly disappointed.

Staying around the perimeter, but still away from Legend Stage, he made his way South-West around the perimeter, pausing to make adjustments as needed. He paid special attention to the Queen's Gate, North-North-West from Oaktale Compass, marking the exact position of the gate blocking his "emergency exit" as he'd labeled it. He marked down the shops that were well guarded with their sheets, placing a small X on their square. He may be starving and desperate, but not that desperate. He was no animal. He was no thief.

After a few tedious hours of marking his map, he made his way back to Oaktale Compass. He resigned to look more at the insides of the grounds another day. For now, he picked up his guitar and strummed some chords aimlessly. Bast curled up on his lap and he sang her a soft lullaby before picking up his notebook and writing down a story until there wasn't enough light to see and his hand ached.

He repeated his nightly routine of sleeping until he woke up freezing and made his way down to the stage, playing out his newest story, or continuing an old one, until the sword fights warmed him and he could once again fall to sleep.