A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.28: Climbing the Main Mast

When his watch read August 15th, people stopped showing up. He camped out behind the Witchwood Stage, hiding in the woods and observing the performers and shopkeepers as he'd been doing for three more days before he dared to venture back to the Oaktale Compass.

The first thing he noticed was the upright boards that had been set up on the stage. One facing at an angle on the right side, another facing straight out, and finally a spinning wheel that angled on the left. All made of blood red wood. He cocked his head at them with a playful smile dancing on his lips but did no more than look. He headed up the stairs, hoping to find his camp organized at the very least.

A few instruments were laid out, but most staggering and most prominent were the knives, similar to his own although his was a bit more elegant looking. The tape around the hilt was much different as well, solid and neat black instead of the different strips of color. He admired them for some time, seeing next the axes and other weapons he did not know the names of. He did not dare touch them.

He gathered the little supplies he had hidden, although some of it had been revealed when those that truly belonged on the stage had moved the folding table from the wall, he set off to admire the festival. It was set up almost fully now, and he could almost see the bustle that would overtake in only a few days. He did not know how long, although he hoped soon. He'd just run out of jerky crumbs and Bast could not hunt for the both of them.

As he wandered over to Legend Stage, he heard voices behind him. Two shopkeepers were walking on the other side of Shepherd's Green, engaged in deep conversation. The boy grimaced, knowing there were no stacks of benches to protect him and he did not have as much time as he did once before. He cursed the stage silently as he headed towards it, knowing that he could hide once again in the barrel that had saved him once before.

He was horribly disappointed to find the barrel missing, presumably thrown out after the handprint was discovered. A few dull stains where it was obvious someone had tried to mop his blood still lingered on the stage and he looked ruefully at the long scar that now decorated his palm.

He could now see the two shopkeepers almost clearly. They were too engaged to see him as he took his throwing knife between his teeth and scaled the large mast of the stage, using the nimble skills he had learned from climbing trees on Beaver Bay.

There were two women below him, both carrying small baskets which he presumed carried whatever they were selling. He perched in the crow's nest, ducking down as far as he could. His breath created a fog on the throwing knife's bright blade. He could not see them, and he could barely hear them over his heavy breathing and heart racing.

It was a long time before he dared to peer over the edge, seeing that the coast was clear. He knew it wouldn't be for long and raced to scurry down the mast but paused, foot braced on the beam just below the crow's nest, fingers held tight to the edge. He took the throwing knife from his teeth, eyes raking over the sight before him.

Close to the entire festival grounds were visible to him. The trees that were close to changing colors; the paths with new footprints soon to be erased; the empty stages, ready for their boards to be filled with life. He saw it all displayed before him in a shocking array of color and light and pent up joy waiting to once again roam free.

Seeing far off figures that would surely wonder at the dark figure atop the mast, he reluctantly slid down the beam and, rolling foolishly as a dismount, he straightened with a grin to find Bast waiting patiently at the bottom. She greeted him with an exasperated meow and they set off once again, hiding back at their camp behind the Witchwood Stage in hopes that it would remain as forgotten as it was.

Very few people had arrived and they carried very little equipment in tow. They had not arrived for many days, it seemed only the several that had come during the first days he had hidden were to be there and they would not return. As the sun was not yet setting, nor was it past high noon. So, he took out his notebook and wrote of his adventures on the main mast, addressing it to a pirate named Jack, and tucked the letter away when he was done only to write another for a noble mariner named Captain Henry Charles Taylor. He wrote his stories to each of them until he could not see his letters on the page.