and thus soothed his unhappy soul.
Slowly they strolled,
lazily they lolled,
(for Quenton could naught but waddle),
and as they walked the long, long way,
Eliza asked for a story.
“Tell me, Quenton,
from where do the Nymphs come?
How did they begin?
For in the world that I am from,
(where, till yesterday I did think
that magic was completely gone),
I have never seen a single one!”
Quenton laughed a genial laugh
(and then began to wheeze)
“Magic is never gone for good,
it only waits ’till men believe.
While it waits, the faeries sleep
amidst the deepest, darkest wood,
or in the calmest, clearest stream
till children find their childhood.
My Nymph, my holy golden grail,
is a Naiad of these hilly streams;
she shares a Mother with every Nymph
with which this whole region teems.
For long, long ago,
when magic was still gathered up
in the hands of nasty, evil beings,
there lived a Daemon in a cave
high up in the mountains.
This Daemon wore the form
of a beautiful, young, charming boy,
but underneath was a blackened worm
that fed off mankind’s greed and fear;
he had gathered up ten-thousand rubies,
each as tiny as a tear.
With the rubies this Daemon would
corrupt the purest of men's souls,
a single handful could sway a priest
to give the evil spirit control;
and with each triumph over good
evil swelled like a river in March,
and the world fell into a terrible state
as vice swallowed and virtue parched.
One day there was a beautiful girl,
fair and free from evil's touch;
while gathering lilies a storm swept in
stranding her in the mountaintops.
She fled to an overhang of massive granite,
laughing and breathing the cleansing air,
then noticed the black gaping maw
that led to the Daemon’s lair.
As the storm grew violent and the rain colder,
she knew she must find some shelter,
and as her nerves steeled, her heart grew bolder,
(for she learned bravery from her father);
the beautiful girl ventured forward
into the darkness farther and farther
until she saw a light shining bright
as the air grew ever danker
and the aura from the Daemon
emanated endless rage and rancor.
“Be not scared of beast nor brute,”
the girl repeated to herself
and stepped out into the lanterns glow,
and the Daemon, with a chilling smile
rose and slightly bowed,
“Hello.
How beautiful you are, young lady!
I have traveled far, ’tis true,
but so rare an allure have I ever found,
like a cherry tree in full bloom.
Yet how fleeting is a young girl's beauty!
How quick it is to flight!
If you keep it for a time,
perhaps a prince you’ll luckily find.
But if it disappears tomorrow,
runs off with the setting sun,
perhaps you’ll be married to an ogre
or a mad-hatter’s son!
What if you lose your looks
and your love runs off with a younger lass
who’s more beautiful than you ever were
and you are left alone! Alas!
Yes, how fleeting is a young girl's beauty!
How quick it is to flight!
My dandelion, I have a deal to propose,
with but the smallest amount you must requite.
See these rubies here?
They are as magic as the Elfin-queen;
take but a handful, and forevermore,
your fairness will remain pristine.
But spend them slow,
take your time! my little huckleberry-sprout;
for when you’ve spent the very last one
I’ll come collect the debt, no doubt!”
The young girl listened close,
and smiled at the end,
and holding out her hand she said
“Then I want all of them.”
“No, no, little girl!
That is quite unnecessary!”
“Then back off home I must go,
in such a storm I mustn’t tarry.”
“Wait, wait!”
the Daemon cried,
feeling a burst of desperation;
than any other in the nation
and to turn her childlike heart to greed
would be a most delicious, malicious action.
“I will give you half of all I have,
your beauty is certainly worth no more.”
“I suppose I should be heading home, then;
I no longer hear the rain’s roaring pour.”
“Wait, wait!”
the Daemon cried,
gathering all his rubies up
and placed them in a basket,
“Ten-thousand rubies, all right here!
Ten-thousand rubies, my little tasket!”
She smiled and took them all,
and the Daemon called as she walked away,
“Remember when you have used them all
that will be your last day!”
But this little girl,
though beautiful it's true,
had learned from her Mother’s lap
to see through such daemonic ballyhoo.
Up, up, into the mountains
the little girl did walk
till she found the highest waterfall
bursting through the tallest rock.
Up, up, into the mountains
until she was at the very top
where was the source of every river
that watered every farmers crop.
She took the basket and submerged her hand
grabbing a hundred little rubies
and holding them over the water-spout
released the Daemons tear-drop trophies.
A hellish scream pierced her ear;
the Daemon in a flash did appear,
writhing in anger, his face in a sneer,
stamping and shouting something severe.
“No! No! No! No!”
He shouted as loud as a thunderclap.
“What are you doing, foolish girl?”
Each word hit her with a painful slap.
Undeterred, she dropped more
of the rubies in the clear-blue downpour;
with each handful the Daemon steadily grew
along with strengthening his uproar.
He soon was twice, thrice
now five times his size,
and a burning red fire replaced
the once charming, seductive eyes,
all the beauty from his face erased.
The raging storm from hours before
with all its strength came whipping back,
yet despite the Daemon’s burning spells
the young girl would never crack;
handful by handful, she dropped the tears
and the waterfall turned as red as blood,
till but twenty rubies were finally left
at the bottom of the ruby tub..
“Little girl, little girl!
If you throw those out,
your life will be forever mine!
Do not for one second
doubt
this deed will remove my fine!”
One by one, she dropped them in,
and with the last few gems,
the Daemon shrank from his enormous size
down and down and down
‘till smaller than her family's hens.
Now, instead of his powerful shouts
that shook her to the bone,
he squeaked! he squeaked!
like a child’s pout,
and shrank smaller than a finger-bone.
As she picked up the last ruby
and released it to the waterfall
-poof- the Daemon disappeared
squeaky-rage, storm, thunder and all!
Now the waterfall did flow and tumble
all the way down to the valley where we walk,
splitting into a hundred rivers
where deer do drink and wolves do stalk.
Ten-thousand rubies tumbled down
and floated down the mountain river,
and where’ere a ruby touched the ground
there was born a faery-daughter.
Down the brooks, down the springs,
down the courses, down the streams,
a Naiad woke when a gem did land,
their mother the pretty little girl
who a Daemon's temptations did withstand.”
As Quenton finished the faery-story,
Eliza saw a short way down the road
a well-kept wooden Monastery
and a Friar sitting
with eyes quite sorrowed.
Chapter V
The chapel was covered with dark green ivy,
spindly fingers of nature creeping
up the red brick walls overshadowing
the garden that lay beside the abbey.
Only one type of flower shyly sat in the soil:
a bed of yellow daffodils
at the feet of ten stone gargoyles;
over the statues grew a tiny orchard,
two peach trees flanked each monster,
and at the feet of one blossoming trunk
sat the sighing, brooding, despairing Friar.
“Good evening, young sir!”
said our sweet heroine,
“My name is Eliza,
and this is Quenton!”
The Friar looked up with a disconsolate frown,
saying
“Quite good to meet you,
I am Deilos Novalis.
Welcome to my tiny chapel,
though small it is quite cozy.
From here I fill the holy needs
of all the farmers and villagers
and try my best to repair
their various (though often simple) misdeeds.”
Though his words were soft and kind,
his voice lacked any spark of life
and Eliza, (her heart ever so divine!)
wished to know why his heart had no light.
“I do not mean to be too forward
(for I know to that I am inclined),
but why does your soul seem broken and battered?
What sad story weighs down your mind?”
Eliza sat amongst the daffodils
while Quenton with a goofy grin
climbed atop the nearest gargoyle
that looked strangely like his long-lost twin.
“My story is not worth the telling”
said Deilos with a shake of his head.
“But all tales are good tales!”
answered Eliza from the flower-bed.
“If you insist, if you insist,
though I warn you I deserve no pity, no tears,
for I brought my sadness on with my own fears.
A coward am I! A coward am I!
I deserve nothing but jibes and jeers.
But I have gotten ahead of myself,
I have rushed to the end of many years.
As a boy, I kept to myself
I had few friends, even in my teens.
And as I grew, the men found love
while I found naught but daydreams;
my heart hardened, my future bleak,
for no lover's hands did I seek.
I was convinced no heart could be won,
no girl or faery,
neither royal nor common.
So I joined the Friars,
I became a brother,
I found God
yet still no other.
Then, they taught me to read, and my soul was filled;
they opened my eyes
to worlds far beyond these hills,
to legends and romances and dragon-slayings,
to pastures and poems and heartful-idylls
where on grassy plains the girls were pure,
innocent of all evil, all ills.
Such stories! Such stories!
They stole my heart away.
Such glories! Such glories!
But, ah, I thought they were but poet’s play.
No woman such as those could ever exist!
Beauty like that is of what wishes consist.
So my heart, now doubly broken,
these tales dismissed.
That is, until I saw the Shepherdess.
She walked down that very road,
and I spied her from right where I sit,
she walked down that very road,
and I, I did nothing, nothing but sit.
I could see in her eyes, the love for all her sheep;
I could hear in her voice, beauty strong and deep;
I could feel in my heart, a pull! a pull!
Yet still I did not make a peep.
She sang a song, a mournful song,
she sang a song as she walked along:
it was from one of the tales I had read!
How I wished it would last all day long!
But I am too shy! I am too shy!
I just watched as she walked by.
I am too shy! I am too shy!
She waved. She waved!
And I made no sound,
no move,
neither a nod nor a cry.
She sang a song, a mournful song,
from my favorite faery-tale,
and though she waved as she walked along,
fear over courage easily prevailed.
Why did I not stand and shout?
Why did I not jump up? Dance about?
God sent an angel to wipe out my doubt!
Why did I not stand and shout?
But I am too shy! I am too shy!
I just watched as she walked by.”
Eliza cried out, voice trembling so,
“Another friend! Another friend!
We are now three broken souls!
I chase a Black Knight,
and Quenton here has a Nymph in flight!
Come with us, my cowardly dear.
Come with us to the castle’s Seer!
I hope he points me to my paladin,
and hints what glade holds Quenton’s faery,
perhaps he may find the distant prairie
where your Shepherdess does daily tarry!
Come with us! Come with us!
We will be your new-found courage.
Come with us! Come with us!
Let us find your lost-love’s village!”
As Eliza spoke, Deilos smiled,
a wistful, timid thing,
and rose, inviting Eliza and Quenton
inside for food and drink.
“It is getting late, my friends,
the sun will soon be setting.
If we are to travel together,
it would be best to begin in the morning!”
So as the light from the sun
gave way to the stars,
and the moon opened her eyes
and donned her milk-white garbs,
the party of two
drew one more soul in,
for friendship comes quick
when w
oes are akin.
Chapter VI
They sat in the tiny chapel
that had a tiny room in the loft
where Deilos kept a tiny bed
with one tiny pillow, thick and soft;
and where on Sundays he’d serve communion
was a tiny table with three tiny chairs,
so here he served his two companions
on tiny handmade housewares.
They ate fresh-baked daffodil bread
and a tiny pear-pie;
and each had a tiny glass of wine
as good as any a king could buy.
Deilos spoke with a reverence
that only a priest can possess
of all the men who depended upon him
to both protect and bless.
Though seen in such an awe-filled light
by the simple men who worshiped there,
yet no tinge of pride had pierced his soul
but only the humility that comes
when seeking someone else’s welfare.
As they ate,
Quenton juggled eight tiny pears
then threw a wineglass high up in the air
only to catch it in his left hand with ease
and with the right,
(to Eliza’s giggling delight!)
all the fruit he skillfully seized.
As the passion for dinner began to fail
Eliza asked Deilos to tell the tale
that his Shepherdess had sung as she walked along
singing her mournful faery-song.
“It is the Tale of the Pearl-Teared Girl,
have you heard it told before?”
“Ah, ’tis a heart-breaker,” spoke Quenton,
“But a beautiful story, for sure!”
“Tell me! Tell me!”
clapped Eliza,
(for she loved the saddest of stories),
so Deilos, seeing his cup empty again,
got more wine from the pantry,
then began.
“There once was a young, young girl,
perhaps ten or eleven at most,
her father and mother had both shed their souls
and her brother, too, had become a ghost.
Her life was nothing but sadness!
She lived in terrible poverty,
she was too young to work,
but felt too old to play,
and every night went to bed hungry.
One day she lay in a glade
near a well-traveled road,
and there, as she did every night,
cried! cried!Oh, how her tears flowed.
Every night! Every night!
As the moon peeked down
Every night! Every night!
She could cry till she drowned!
Once, with the darkness, came a horrid imp,
attracted by the cries of our sad little girl,
and such a terrible, evil thought did he have:
‘I shall turn her tears to pearls!’
Now, you may think this sounds like a blessing-
you may say to yourself,
‘Her future is brightening!’
but daemons oft’ use such glimpses of good
to bring down evil that can barely be withstood.
For down the road from where she wept
a rich, heartless merchant walked,
and when her first tear hit the ground
he saw the pearl and hurriedly stopped.
He watched, he watched!
as her tears endlessly flowed,
and when she opened her eyes,
in the moon the pearls glowed.
‘What witchery is this?’
the little girl thought,
for daemon’s work she had been taught to spot.
But before she had a chance to think
the merchant swooped in,
fast as a blink!
The merchant swooped in and carried her away,