Dreams of the Compass Rose (30 page)

Annaelit smiled. And then, maybe because she was contemplating some inner joke, she snorted and chuckled.

“
I’ll tell you the true purpose of fleas. But only if you promise to keep it a great secret, and tell no one else. Fleas are a mixed blessing, little goslings. They were given to us so that we could scratch ourselves like monkeys, and amuse the gods, as we pick these little monsters off each other. And in the process, as we make the gods laugh, we also grow closer to one another in friendship. That is the one thing the wicked puny god never had in mind when he created fleas.”

“
But why is this such a great secret?” asked another child. “Why can’t I tell this to Grandmother?”

“
Well, you could. But you might not want to, at least not until you’d thought about it long enough,” said Annaelit. “All stories have a curious and even dangerous power. They are manifestations of truth—yours and mine. And truth is all at once the most wonderful yet terrifying thing in the world, which makes it nearly impossible to handle. It is such a great responsibility that it’s best not to tell a story at all unless you know you can do it right. You must be very careful, or without knowing it you can change the world.”

“
Then why do you tell stories, Annaelit? Aren’t you afraid?”

Annaelit smiled. “Of course I am afraid, little one. Each story I tell runs in through my heart and out through my mouth, and plucks a bit of myself with it. And, yes, it hurts. But the gods decided to make me a storyteller, and there is nothing I can do to alter it.”

As the children thought about it, the room grew quiet.

“
Oh, and another thing about that changing the world business,” said Annaelit. “I tell the story to you now, but in each telling the story itself changes a little, changes direction, and that in turn changes you and me. So be very careful not only in how you repeat it but in how you remember it, goslings. More often than you realize it, the world is shaped by two things—stories told and the memories they leave behind.”

* * *

W
hen Annaelit was done, and had sent the children scampering to bed in their neighborhood hovels and caravanserai on the fringes of the city, it was more than an hour after sundown. But she was far from done for the evening. The storyteller had another appointment that night, one that was not to be postponed or denied.

Tonight, in the heart of the great city, Lord Ostavi was holding a feast in honor of his esteemed visitor, Lord Dava, who had come here from another, even greater city, and was negotiating new and profitable contracts of trade. If all went well, dozens of rich caravans would embark on regular journeys between here and there. Salt and spices and oil and silk, fruits of the vine and fruits of the quarry—all would be carried from East to West and back again.

From this arrangement everyone would profit, especially the fathers of those poor children to whom Annaelit told tales without ever charging a single coin. These men would drive the caravans and earn bread for their families. Thin children would grow round and glowing with health. Smiles would grow, without any need for stories to take their minds off the lack of food.

Annaelit lit a pair of candles, and in the growing dusk she pried the lid off her old clothing chest and rummaged through it, illuminated by the flickering golden light. At the very bottom, concealed by plain cotton dresses and shawls, she found a heavy caftan of deep jade silk, embroidered with rosy pearls and fine delicate mosaic patterns, and trimmed with gold thread at the sleeves and around the collar.

The caftan was long, nearly down to her ankles, and she put on underneath it a fine silk shirt of pale amber yellow, with a collar tied demurely high at her throat, and matching pants. Rummaging further in the clothes chest, she found a pair of similar heavy jade slippers, also trimmed with fine gold thread.

These and none other could support her properly as she would stand later tonight and speak the truth of the world.

Next, Annaelit took out a wooden comb and unpinned her dark auburn hair from a bun at the nape of her neck. She brushed it with a hundred strokes until sparks of electricity came dancing from the tips and her hair nearly stood on end in a halo of gossamer. It would add a strange shine to any tale told.

From a basket underneath her poor bed she took out a box in which were a small hand mirror, tiny fluted glass jars of perfumed oils, paints, and sticks of kohl. Sitting on a squat footstool, she applied the kohl with sure hands in an outline around her eyes, watching their lapis color dance in sudden pallor against the dark paint and reflect back at her from the mirror. Her eyes were filled with stories, and this was the only time that they could be seen properly, since at other times she walked with her face downcast, as was appropriate for simple serving women.

To complete the transformation of her face, she dabbed a bit of rose powder on her cheeks and took out a deep agate-red oil which she applied in a gloss over her lips. This last detail was particularly important, because truth would now have an easier time as it ventured forth between her lips and out of her mouth.

Finally, from a pouch of white silk she took out her greatest treasure, a net of gold chain and pearls that she placed over her forehead and her hair, letting a jeweled fringe dangle over her temples and a single long cascade of pearl emerge from the center of her forehead to rest between her eyes.

Her words would also cascade gracefully and be well framed tonight.

She straightened, looking at herself in the hand mirror, and a smile like a new story tested the slippery smoothness of her lips. Then Annaelit took a plain floor-length shawl and drew it around her, over her glittering hair and close over her face, which was now charged with the ability to change worlds. The shawl obscured her form and would serve to protect her in the uncertain streets of the city.

At last, with a puff she blew out the candles and the room of the hovel was submerged in bluish darkness.

The door creaked, and like a shadow in the dusk the storyteller was gone.

L
ord Ostavi’s Palace stood on a rise, a natural cliffside, and overlooked most of the city. The walls of the Palace were of heavy rose granite, brought here from a distant quarry by caravan. Within the outer walls, the Palace structure itself was a work of carved frieze and slender colonnades, and everywhere rhythmic beating fountains of clear cool water.

It was night, and the fountains were illuminated by rows of oil lamps and the brightly lit windows of the Palace. From within came the sounds of music, and in the grand central hall was an extravagant feast.

Handsome young Lord Dava, dressed like a savage in a garish finery of persimmon, crimson and violet silk, with a circlet of gold around his dark hair, sat in a place of honor upon a mountain of soft cushions—exactly across the room from his host, the opulent Lord Ostavi.

The latter reposed like a tastefully attired wine barrel upon an equally grand mountain of cushions and fine throw rugs. A long crimson carpet was strewn on the marble floor between them, stretching from one cushion mountain to the other, and armies of servants ran back and forth between them, offering delicacy after delicacy, piled on gold platters, and endless jugs of fine wine.

At the same time, a number of female dancers, clad in fine gauze veils and twined ropes of gold, twirled and pranced between the two Lords. They swayed to the beat of the drums, narrowly missing the rushing servants with their trays, and their gymnastic feats of avoidance would have amazed any a properly attentive and aware audience.

“
Hello there, Lord Dava!” cried out Lord Ostavi over the great din and the music and the dancing beauties, all the way across the grand hall. “How are you enjoying the feast, my dearest friend?”

“
What?” yelled back Lord Dava. “What did you say?”

“
I said, how is the feast? Are the food and the drink and the entertainment to your liking?”

“
Yes, she is!” replied Lord Dava. “I particularly like her buttocks!”

As Lord Ostavi sat back to better consider this reply, a high-ranked servant crawled up the mountain of cushions to whisper in his ear, “The Teller of Tales is here, my Lord, as you requested. Shall I bring her in?”

“
Huh?” said the noble host, still visualizing someone’s buttocks, and then the meaning reached him. “Ah, yes! Bring her in immediately!”

He clapped his hands together loudly. Tambourine players at all ends of the hall made an even louder racket to signify that the Lord was calling for attention, and after some moments the cacophony came to a halt. The dancers retreated to the edges of the hall, delicately pulling their veils over their faces, and the servants with platters grew still and then wilted into obeisant kneeling positions on the floor.

“
Now then,” said Lord Ostavi in the sudden silence, clearing his throat dramatically, “we have a special treat prepared for my dear guest Lord Dava. A storyteller of great talent and wisdom is at our disposal tonight. She will pour forth stories like honey song, and you will be enthralled, I promise you.”

In reply, on the other end of the hall, atop his pillow mountain, Lord Dava yawned. “Does she tell tales of sorrowful romance, Lord Ostavi? Or is it silly comedies we are to endure?”

“
Endure? Come now, you have not heard the fruits of the wondrous sweet tongue of Annaelit. Listen to her this once and, I promise, you will be in love!”

“
I am in love already,” Lord Dava retorted petulantly from across the hall, and echoes rang all around him for emphasis. “I am hopelessly in love with a goddess of this city’s High Court, whose lovely form I saw yesterday morning in the marketplace when I was on my way here to you, my Lord. They tell me her name is Makeia, and she is the third daughter of some Lord or another. What does it matter? She is the one I must have, else my heart pines away into oblivion, and my reason darkens. . . .”

“
That would be the effect of the plum wine, my Lord,” came a sudden bright voice. “True love has quite a different influence upon the reason and the heart.”

Annaelit, the Teller of Tales stood between the two cushion mountains, in the center of the red carpet that ran from one Lord to the other.

“
Oh, is that so?” Lord Dava sat up on his elbows, and took in the rather curiously pleasant female form before him.

“
Ah, Annaelit, there you are,” said Lord Ostavi in the meantime. “Your appearance is fortunate as always, clever girl, I say—”

But Annaelit bowed very curtly before the host, and then immediately returned her attention to the guest. “Yes, it is so,” she replied in a firm voice, as though reassuring a child, and surprisingly her tones acted soothingly upon Lord Dava, so that he settled back down on the cushions, taking a swig of wine from his carved goblet.

“
Now,” said Annaelit. “Since you, my Lord, are so curious about the nature of love, let me tell you a true story. It is the same story I told Princess Makeia when I was at her feast two days ago, and I think you too will find it enlightening. And after I am done—”

“
Wait!” exclaimed Lord Dava. “Did you say you were actually in the presence of my divine beauty two days ago?”

“
Well,” said Annaelit, “you do look ravishing in that silk, Lord Dava, but I wouldn’t use those words to describe your particular looks. And no, regretfully, I was not in your company at that point.”

“
Not me, woman! I mean Makeia—she is the divine beauty of whom I speak!” said Lord Dava.

Lord Ostavi cleared his throat, and motioned for a servant to refill his goblet of wine.

Interesting,
Annaelit thought.
Too many verbal asides tonight. I cannot seem to get started with the story. Is it me or them?

Indeed, there was something a little different about this evening—an inexplicable sense of mischief and suspense in the air. Annaelit could almost feel a cloud of randomness over their heads, a shifting of control by minuscule degrees. But she could not quite identify it, could not pinpoint what it was exactly that was causing everyone’s words, including her own, to get subtly off track. . . .

“
I see,” she said. “In that case, my answer would be yes. And now, my Lord will be made very happy to know that I will be attending a gathering which includes Princess Makeia, once again tomorrow evening.”

“
What? Your Lord?” said Lord Dava, wrinkling his brows. “And who would that be?”

“
Why that would be you, Lord Dava. It is but a figure of speech. In a form similar to divine beauty. But—allow me to return back to the Tale I am about to tell.”

“
Very well,” said Lord Dava, beginning to take another deep swallow of the wine that swirled in his goblet but instead managing to release a pungent burp into the aforementioned container. “But first you must describe to me the Princess Makeia in close detail, for I can listen to nothing else without first reaffirming my ailing spirit with the vision of her loveliness. . . .”

In reply, Annaelit lifted her right hand dramatically and began to pace like a dancer in the center of the great hall. She was about to take control and imbue this evening with storytelling enchantment. Only why was it that her normally lightning-quick mind was drawing a blank?

She paced thus, saying nothing, gathering her panicking thoughts, for the duration of several long breaths. And then, just as suddenly, she stopped.