Activity

(so this is set in the future of my book, so y’all don’t know Fenwick, but you don’t really have to to enjoy the story.)

 

FENWICK’S TALE — THE WANING DAWN

Fenwick settled himself between the roots of the lichen covered tree. He grinned his gappy grin, and there was a twinkle in his eyes as he clasped his hands and rocked back and forth on his haunches. “Well,” he said in his raspy voice. “What is it you wish for me to tell you?”

A dozen children sat in a half-circle around him on the soft, mossy floor of the swamp. Vines hung from the black trees, and little dots of sunlight danced on their heads. Bright pink flowers waved their petals, and the exotic birds chirped happily. Despite its many dangers, the Savarti Swamps were beautiful.

One little girl named Ermentine raised her small, rosy hand and said, “tell us the one about the pretty princess and the nasty goblins.” A couple of the other girls nodded their heads, but the boys shook theirs.

“Nah!” cried one. “That’s for sissies. Tell us about the island of treasure and the pirates and Long John Silver — and all the killing and death!”

“No! We heard that last week!” argued another. “How about the one with flying starships and laser swords — and lots of killing and death!”

The other children turned to look at him in disgust. “Hank,” Posie, a serious little girl said, “we have heard that a dozen times and have gotten space-sick. We are all ready for something new. Mr. Fenwick, DO you have something new — without a whole lot of killing and death?”

“Killing and death is what makes a story good,” Hank muttered to himself.

Fenwick looked the small crowd over and rubbed his bristly chin. He cleared his throat and looked up at the thick canopy. Andette glanced at Nadia, but the girl only smiled. “Just wait,” she said. “They do this every time.”

Andette watched the children. They all waited patiently, even Lark. Again she was reminded of how he was still just a child. The boy was scratching his armpit, and the monkey beside him was doing the same. Andette rolled her eyes, and Fenwick cleared his throat again. He smiled at the children.

“How about a tale about Davion Rocha-pal?”

The response from the children was not what Andette expected. They groaned and shook their curly heads. “No!” they said. “We have heard all the tales of his that there are to tell.” Andette again looked at Nadia questionaly.

“Davion Rocha-pal is our native folk-hero,” the girl said. “Almost all the old stories are about him, and the children think they know all there is to know about Davion. But Fenwick seems to always have another story up his sleeve. Listen.”

The spry old man bobbed his head and clapped his hands. “Silence, I say! Quiet!” The children stopped their bickering, and sheepishly looked down at their feet. “Have you ever heard the tale of The Waning Dawn? I doubt you have.”

The children shook their heads, and so did the monkey. “Then,” Fenwick continued, “I had best tell you.” He cleared his throat for the hundredth time, but when he spoke his voice was as clear as crystals and as smooth as running water. It was beautiful and seemed to hang in the air. It was an amazing transformation, and Andette had to check herself to make sure Fenwick was actually the man speaking.

“Long ago, as we all know, the world was quite new and fresh. Rondona was a quiet land, and Venedor was unknown to us; we doubted there ever was another land across the sea. Auboron was just a quaint little village, unlike the bustling and crowded city it is now . But us in the Savarti Swamps were as productive as ever, and Davion Rocha-pal ruled us wisely. His cloak of swamp leaves and his crown of twisted black trees made him look magnificent indeed. Before the rise of Auboron, and its king, Davion was the greatest of the tribe-leaders.

“There was great Hawkwing of the Mohacai {Mo-ha (as in ha ha!) kay} Plains Indians; Charton {Shar-tan (rhyming with baton)} the leader of the woodsmen of the Sleepy Wood; Hadai-Uhfer {Hay-day  U-fer} of the villages; and the dreaded Mont-Killdor of the brutish savages of the Lethal Mounts, a man and tribe feared by all. But above these was Davion Rocha-pal {Row-cha (as in cha cha!) pal (as in friend, my pal)}, and we were quite safe — as we have always been.

“Other territories are dangerous and deadly, but our Savarti {Sa-var-tee} Swamps beat them all. The Sleepy Wood is a living trap, but if you know a few things you can survive. The plains are quite docile except for the occasional windstorms and rampaging herds of Halmacks. The villages are by far the safest. The Lethal Mounts are cold and stormy; you have to be very tough to survive these — but by far the Swamps are the worst. With brawn you can brave the Mounts, but it’s with wits that you brave the Swamps, and less men come by common sense than might–”

“Sir!” Hank exclaimed. “This is boring. You start all of Davion’s tales this way. Couldn’t you just skip it?”

Fenwick glared at Hank until the boy seemed to shrink into the moss. Then he looked all of the children over sternly. “I tell you this every time because you seem to forget things easily. Our history is important, and without learning anything about it we are doomed to repeat it. So I try to pound it into your young brains for your’s and mankind’s own good. Now shut up.”

No sound was heard except the whisper of the wind in the boughs and the faint trickle of running water. Fenwick began again.

“As I was saying, ours was the greatest tribe at the time, and even now I can’t help but to think it is. Those fierce woodsmen of the Sleepy Wood seem to have become timid with time, and Auboron, why it’s overrun with Mongrels! The Mohacai have vanished from the plains and traveled to the Far Outreaches to escape THE ONE; but I have a feeling that he will be chasing them sooner or later. And the Savages of the Lethal Mounts — now those, they are a mystery. Where they have gone, I do not know.”

The children yawned and nodded sullenly, but Andette had perked up. She watched Fenwick intently. He blinked rapidly, as if to clear away a mist in his eyes. Andette had a feeling the old fellow knew more than he was telling. Andette made a mental note to ask him about it later.

“But there we were, the Natives of the Savarti Swamps, and Davion Rocha-pal our chief. This tale I’m telling you has to do with The Waning Dawn. Now, we all know what a waning dawn is, do we not?”

Fenwick paused, and when no one said anything, he said, “do we not?”

The children jumped, but it was Lark who spoke up. “A waning dawn is, uh, just when the sun casts its last rays over the earth. It’s waning ‘cause it’s goin’ away ever so slowly.”

Fenwick nodded. “Ayha. That’s right. And the waning dawn’s rays are the most bee-u-ti-ful of all. Right purty they are. Now, that’s one type. But there’s another. And that’s the waning dawn songbird. This ain’t one of your usual parakeets. It’s a magical bird, shimmery and soft, though it’s rarely seen, and for that matter, rarely heard. But when you do hear it, ahh. It’s the loveliest sound you’ll ever hear.

“Tis’ like a bubbling brook on a hot summer day; the wind whistling through the trees; the surf against the beach; the lunette played on a spring evening when the fire-flies are flirting; like pie on an autumn afternoon; like all of life’s wonderful things, anything goodness could ever offer us. This little bird’s music makes you remember all the beautiful things that ever happened to you in your life.

“Now, have you ever heard of a Siren? No? Well, she is an evil creature of the deep. I hate to bring her up, but I’m using her as a comparison. This Siren sings an enchanting song that lures unsuspecting sailors to the depths of the ocean, where they drown. I don’t know what her use for them is, but it mustn’t be good. However, she’s just a myth,” he added when he saw the distressed looks on the children’s faces.

“Anyhow, this waning dawn bird is much like that, except that it isn’t evil. One who hears it is drawn to its source, and it leads you to your fate — good or bad; but mark my words, you are only drawn to the fate you deserve. The bird is not evil. Now, Davion often went for early morning walks before his busy days full of settling disputes, working the crops, and hunting dangerous beasts began. He started before the sun had even peeked over the horizon, and it was his favorite thing to walk through the swamp and see it come to life. He would sit on a little knoll that gave him a view above the trees, and there he would watch the sun rise and hear the birds twitter.

“But one morning, things went a little differently.” Here, Fenwick paused. He flicked a piece of food out of his teeth, and leaned back on the tree. The children watched him intently, patiently waiting. But Andette looked at Nadia. “Why did he stop?” she asked. Nadia laughed.

“To see if he has their attention. Fenwick’s stories may start out slow, but even his most boring ones always amount to something.”

Andette nodded and turned her attention back to the grizzled old man, who’s eyes were twinkling. Obviously, he knew he had a good tale.