Page 21 of I Will Always Find You
The Romani witch sensed no annoyance or irritation in Anastasios’ voice; everything he said and every mannerism was intended playfully.Even the girl laughs. Everyone here is so at ease with one another. It is a family made of friends—a true fellowship. That anyone would seek to ruin what these people have here, to destroy their little slice of paradise, aggrieves me immensely. Oh, if only I had been present in town that night! I would have unleashed hell upon those fiends!
“Anastasios, I implore you to share the gripping tale of the siege for the sake of that poor girl’s nerves.”
The two men laughed riotously.
“Well, if you’re sure,” the white-haired man snickered.
“I’m all ears,” declared the Romani witch enthusiastically.
“One year ago, on this very night,” Anastasios began, lowering his voice for dramatic effect, “a band of ruffians—worse, bandits and killers, came through town with evil in their hearts and wicked intentions. We are not a town of trained warriors, though we will fiercely fight to protect what is ours. These villains brandished weapons of good steel and rode mounts of powerful horse flesh. Even with our best intentions for self-preservation, we knew we were in trouble.
“However, upon that night, a twist of fate and the embrace of good fortune cast a benevolent glow upon us. Within this veryinn, at the same table where you and I now sit, a small group ofinterestingtravellers sat drinking and carousing. They caused no trouble, keeping to themselves. These men had fortuitously arrived in our town earlier that day.
“Now, I say ‘interesting’ because these were no ordinary wanderers, adventurers or simple journeymen. There was an air of mystery about these men, though nothing dishonest or menacing. On the contrary. Upon first meeting them, I thought, ‘There be a touch of magic about these men, a whiff of enchantment, something of the old ways!’ I knew how silly that sounded in my head, so I kept that sentiment to myself. Still, by god, how true to that intuitive impression I was.”
“Magic, you say!”
The Romani witch was a little overzealous in his statement; it piqued the old man’s interest.
“Yes, that is the word I used. Do you believe in such things as witchcraft, sorcery, and miracles? In many places, my friend, speaking so openly about these matters is unwise. The Church does not tolerate such beliefs, labelling them all heresy. However, we know differently in our town, for it was magic that saved us that night, not prayer.”
The Romani witch’s eyes widened in astonishment as he stared at the white-haired man, captivated by what he had just said.
Could Anastasios be speaking of Aeneas, the man he is in this life? But who are his travel companions? Have I been following this troupe for years, always a step or two behind? Has their magic given them an advantage all this time, keeping them ahead of any who seek them, whether for good or ill, including me?
“It is just that you have captured my interest! Please continue. I would very much like to hear more!”
Anastasios smiled and nodded. “A thrilling story it is, yes. And while I am glad it is entertaining, this is no fiction I spin. I am not a liar and speak of what truly happened that night. It does seem quite unbelievable, especially in these times when the gods of old have all but disappeared. And the wild magic that once flowed inside the earth, within the rivers and lakes, even upon the air—our long-dead ancestors wrote that they could taste it upon their tongues—has all but vanished.
“But that fateful night, the echoes of the old world stirred to life; magic, in the form of man, surged forth to deliver us salvation.”
“I do believe you, good fellow. I do.”
“I am pleased to hear this, as it assures me that you are receptive to what I am about to share with you, for it is the stuff of myth and fable made real.”
With vivid detail, Anastasios described the battle to the Romani witch. With blazing fire and formidable force, swirling winds and crackling lightning, the sorcerers wielded their spellcraft alongside mysterious wonders beyond the comprehension of the townsfolk, who could only label them as miracles. In that moment of desperation, these extraordinary feats performed by courageous strangers saved their town and preserved their lives.
“And when all was said and done,” the white-haired man spoke with a palpable sense of wonder in every word, “and the battle was won in our favour, these mystics asked for nothing in return. Well, save for a hot bath for each, lodging for the night, and a hearty meal in the morning to fill their bellies before they set out for Athens. And we were glad to provide these!
“Not once did they express a desire for payment from the town elders. The topic of coin and gold never left their lips. Nicholas and I never once considered charging them for our services. We owed them much more than just material comfort. We owedthem our very lives! We even offered to return the money they had already spent on spirits and dinner, but they refused to accept it.
“These were valiant men of pure heart, possessing wisdom and strong moral character. They were true heroes from a long-gone age. And I fear we will never see others of their ilk again. It was truly a magical night when virtue clashed with evil. Although some lives were lost, goodness prevailed in the end.”
“So, it seems that not all the villains were driven away. Some met their end in the chaos of the skirmish?”
“Yes, in every conflict, no matter how grand or small, the harsh reality remains that sacrifices are inevitable, and the toll of human life is a tragic certainty, whether those lives are well-lived or not. We buried those outlaws in a field far from here, with no markers. Sadly, there was—”
“Gather ’round, all who seek to hear a tale this night,” Nicholas bellowed, his voice cutting through the sociable, bustling atmosphere of the inn like a knife. He stood tall, commanding attention, beckoning those near and far to pause their conversations and draw closer, eager to listen to the story he was about to tell.
Shrugging his shoulders, Anastasios grinned and patted the Romani witch’s hand again.
“There is no use resisting Nicholas when he feels inspired to share history, tell a story or spin a wild yarn. His booming voice could awaken the dead. Let us pause our conversation and listen, for I assure you, we are excellent storytellers in this town, whether we speak the truth or weave fantastical tales.”
The Romani witch was more than happy to indulge his newfound friend. He appreciated a good yarn as much as the next man. He had already heard one gripping tale that night and was keen to hear more. As the rich, aromatic steam from his dinner curled into the air, he took a sip of the mead, its flavoursdancing on his palate, perfectly complementing the warmth of the setting. He turned his attention back to the amiable, stout innkeeper.
“In our long past, in ancient Greece,” Nicholas began exuberantly, “storytellers, called rhapsodes, played an essential role in the culture of our great people, acting as living records of history and heritage. These skilled performers entertained audiences at public gatherings and festivals, reciting epic poems and captivating tales infused with the richness of our country’s mythology and moral lessons.
“With their melodic voices and expressive gestures, these storytellers breathed life into the narratives of gods and heroes, bringing a sense of shared identity among all who listened. As the custodians of Greek cultural memory, rhapsodes ensured that these stories not only endured the passage of time but also fostered a collective understanding of our civilization’s values, beliefs, and triumphs across many countries and generations.
