Of Lutes and Lore: Chapter I

In the small village, in a small blue house, there lived a man. He was average, and middle-aged, and alone; no spouse nor children had he. By our standards today he might seem a lonely fellow, but this is the opposite. In order to feel lonely, one must enjoy being around people, and this was something definitely most not enjoyed by him.

In his solitude, he was tasked with the simple purpose of creating lutes. Although the word had not been invented yet, so about this little village they were known as ‘strap-strings’ as one could only play it if it was secured around their shoulder. The instrument could vary from being medium-sized to rather large, but no one in town required a nine-foot-long strap-string. Besides, something like that would also take months or a year to make!

On this morning though, as he rose, William Tremont was not really in the mood to create any new strap-strings today. He might varnish one, or repair slight damage to another, and maybe even tune three or four. But creating? A dull sort of melancholy was held in his head as he rose and prepared his morning tea. The white-green light of lune-stones helped him amble about the dark house as he readied the fireplace.

He yawned, contemplating. It would be morning soon, and the sunlight would pierce through the windows. It would dazzle one’s eyes as it kissed the green grass, and the leaves of the trees which were of many colours; yellow, green, red, and orange. If the village had had the term for autumn or fall then it would be called as such, but the season never changed; it merely was. So far as William know, it always had been like this in the village, even before he had moved here long ago.

His stomach grumbled and he knew it was time to set about making the morning meal. Wearily he rubbed his eyes, sighed, and got to it, but only after lighting candles about the kitchen. On his stone counter near the sink were four depressions in which one could light a small fire for cooking, and this is what he did. A metal pan was oiled, fresh spinach was fried, tomatoes were crushed and heated; finally, two eggs were cracked. It had taken him many years to learn to get it just right so that the yolks were still runny.

Normally he’d have placed the bread by the fire to warm it but he was too impatient. Slathering a couple slices with a grey spread known as sweet-butter, he filled his empty stomach. Meal-making, to him, was as much a delicate form of creation as making or repairing an instrument. One savored a sound with their ears, or appreciated a painting or the night sky with their eyes. Could it not be the same for one’s mouth and belly? Within minutes he had finished and a smile was on his face. Oh, what to do?

By this time, the sunlight had nearly breached the tops of the trees outside. Soon he’d douse the candles, their light unneeded, and place the lune-stones where they could soak in the sunlight. Oh, what to do? He poured himself another mug of tea, contemplating further. It wasn’t that he was bored; it wasn’t that he was tired of the sameness. No two days were alike to him, but just the same, he felt extraordinarily ordinary.

He moved to the red armchair next to the window, thinking that he might doze soon. But what was the point of that, when he’d risen perhaps an hour ago? He would read, but nothing interested him. Perhaps he’d look over the mounts of parchment containing instructions and building-methods for strap-strings or other instruments. But why, when he had much committed to memory already? He finished his mug of tea, and decided to head into his shop.

Down a small hallway past the living-room and through a door lay the place where he spent most of his time. A large room whose walls were decorated by his instruments — either new or repaired — greeted him. This room was lit only by the sun, which was aided through windows and suspended mirrors. No open flames were permitted here — he had learned that the hard way. He took one of the strap-strings from its mount on the wall and plucked. Off, he thought. He was going to try and play a tune when there was a knock at the door. The front door, specifically.

Irritated, he gently set the strap-string back where it belonged and made his way out of the studio, curious. He tried not to scowl even though it might be Ms. Hildson delivering more eggs, or Mr. Tilton with fresh garlic. But of course it wasn’t either of those people. Opening the door, there was a tall man in a black cloak to greet him. Under the hood, he could see a bright smile covered by a short beard. Green eyes glinted.

“Good day to you,” the figure said, bowing slightly. “Might you be up for a travel?” “No,” replied William curtly. He didn’t really like traveling, especially not after his younger days. “Well, might you also want a business prospect?” the man asked, a slight pleading tone in his voice. William thought he sounded desperate. His brows twitched in confusion. “Business? How? I cannot take my business with me. Not all at once.”

“Then take merely one!” the figure said gleefully. “And how would you know what my business is, or that I have one?” William asked defiantly. Or as defiantly as he could muster. He was full and tired, after all. “This is the residence of one William Tremont, he who repairs instruments and creates strap-strings, is it not?” Under the hood, the face frowned. William thought about closing the door haughtily but decided against it. Rats, he thought. “You know me, then; but how is it that I do not know you?”

The figure lifted his hood, allowing his face to be seen. Short black hair hung about ear-length on his head; it was shaggy and unkempt. “Renald the recorder, at your service,” he offered, inclining his head. Ah, thought William; now he had a face to the name. He frowned inwardly. “The librologist?” he asked, confused, and here Renald smiled. “The one and same, fond of travel and recording history. And learning.”

“Well, what’s that to do with me? I’m not the same as any of those things,” William said crossly. All he wanted to do was drink more tea and sit by the soothing flames of the fireplace. “Incorrect. How you see you and how others see you are two different things. May I join you inside to explain more?” William knew the unspoken: if someone was at your door and they showed an interest of any kind, it was best to just let them in. “Tea for two,” he said with false gusto, and they both were settled in the living room before long.

From one of the pockets of his cloak, Renald produced a large satchel from which he took folded parchments. “Thank you,” he said gratefully as William placed a steaming mug as well as little oat cakes on a table between them both. “Delicious,” the recorder said in admiration as he bit into a moist morsel. “So, my travels have taken me far and wide. Far enough, in fact, where no one has heard of your creation.”

“Well, it’s not my creation,” William corrected. “I just make them. I didn’t make them up.” Didn’t everyone know this? “Well, you might as well have! From this small village to the mountains east and north, or regions south and west, there might be other makers. But none with your quality. To those folk, you are a mystery. And do you know what pairs well with mystery?”

“Even more mystery?” William guessed. “No,” said Renald in a disappointed tone. “Heroism! A great act, perhaps. “Do you expect to die within the next year or so?” William spat out his tea in shock. “Why?” he asked, incredulous. Smirking to himself, Renald consulted his parchments. “A common question. Usually an unwilling hero always has some other sort of commitment or constraint or is fighting against something. Does this describe you?”

“Right now I’m fighting the urge to send you on your merry way,” William seethed. “And not in a merrily fashion.” But this only made the recorder smile more. He’d heard a bit about Renald and folk like him; mysterious people in the pursuit of knowledge who were rumored to try and expand their lives unnaturally so they could see all of history and record it more accurately. But this man appeared no more than a decade to fifteen years younger than William.

“An apt response. Well, my fine fellow, I’m not going to force you on this adventure which has been planned. One small act may prevent quite the catastrophe, truth be told. And often such acts can be influenced by those most unexpected.” William pondered. “I just repair instruments. What good is that?” Surprisingly Renald sternly looked at him. “All the good in civilization! What would music be without instruments? Those who write, those who play, and those who make are deserving of their own sanctity. Wouldn’t you say the same of those who make books? Or read to others?”

William had to admit that he had a point. He wasn’t ever bored with his tasks, but at the same time he was too busy to contemplate what the village would be like without him, or without those who played his strap-strings or repaired straight-winds. “Well, music isn’t the only important thing,” he protested. “Food. Books, like you said. Having shelter. Even those who tend to animals.” “Yes, yes,” Renald said impatiently. “Again: I won’t force you. But I insist you join me later today and perhaps you’ll be further convinced. At the inn, around mid-day, please; you will find us there.”

“Us?” asked William, alarmed. People soured his mood quickly, and this fellow had soured it slightly more than usual. The tall man only nodded and rose from his chair. “Hmm; it may rain soon,” he advised, his hands gripping his knees and an uncomfortable look on his face. “I bid you good morning, Mr. Tremont. Do consider our meeting, please.” Though a request, it was more of an insistence. He insists, he thought was he escorted the recorder through his door. He insists, he thought as he made his way back to his studio in contemplation.

The strap-string was still slightly off, its tone buzzing in a way it normally shouldn’t. “It’s just one string; easy fix,” he said to himself. He strummed what we’d call a chord, but what the village called a ‘manitone’ as it was many tones at one time. He adjusted the string til everything was superb; how the notes resonated about the room.

*Yet still he was rather glum, and a melody came to mind. It was a local tune, invented by one unknown to him.* He’d have written it down if such notation was practice for him, but the musical notation of the small village looked much different from that of today. He played, alone with the notes and his own thoughts, contemplating what may come.