Location: Montaven
Timeline: Sixth Age, 46th Year, Autumn
Ah, yes. The tale of human love and loss. How utterly tragic. And by tragic, of course, I mean hilarious. I also think it is an education. Let’s begin.
As most of the backwater hamlet of Monthaven prepared for another gloomy winter in the near future, Emcorae Azop, sit on the porch of his parents’ house, his face a mask of what you mortals call “nostalgia.”
How many times have I played in this yard? his little mind whined.
He recalled wrestling with his father, Alboris, while his mother, Beckali, and his sister laughed. He remembered racing with his fat, lumbering friend, Curk, in and out of their little wooden cottage. He considered it a triumph that he had developed an “outstanding ability to run like the wind” to avoid being pinned. A triumph! As if a man, a future warrior of the Azora, should pride himself on running away. Truly, the audacity of these creatures knows no bounds.
Good times, the boy sighed. And now it’s over. Is this really happening to me? I’m going to become an Azora?!?
He smiled ruefully, this little pea-brain, reveling in the excitement of a destiny that the gods had so carefully manufactured for him, yet at the same time, feeling the “absurdity” of it all.
Me, little Emcorae Azop, a big, bad Azora? How am I supposed to be a great warrior when I probably can’t even lift one of their swords?
He truly had no idea. The boy, in his innocence, believes he is about to become a hero. But a true warrior isn’t defined by the size of his sword. A warrior is a pawn, a weapon to be used, and this boy, with the secret destiny that Alyssa placed upon him, was destined to be a far more deadly weapon than any blade ever forged.
His musings were interrupted by the smell of supper, a primal call to a man-child’s stomach. Mmmm, galunkis, his mind mused. And so, the future of the world lumbered toward the kitchen, eager to secure his place at a dinner table.
“Yip, yip, yip,” a furry little beast of a dog, Chich, ran to the door, confronting the intruder of her domain with a high-pitched bark. “Yap, yap, yap.” When she saw who it was, the dog stopped barking and laboriously executed a roll onto her back, exposing her disgustingly chubby stomach. She whined piteously until the boy knelt down to pet her. It was a familiar ritual, one that reeked of mindless devotion. Like the rest of the family, the boy loved this fat little dog. I found her history infinitely more interesting than her present condition, however. It had been years since his father Alboris had brought her home. At the time, Emcorae’s father had been away chopping wood for a new altar that Pastor Kastelli had commissioned of him. Since the priest had insisted on only the finest cherry wood for the altar, Alboris had to travel about twenty miles south of town to collect it. When he returned, he not only had a cart full of the sought-after wood but also their new family pet—Chich.
Alboris’s story was a transparent lie, of course. He claimed he found the pooch on the roadway a day after a traveling circus from Mersia had passed by his campsite. He claimed he woke up early to the sound of incessant barking coming from the nearby road and when he went to see who or what was making all the noise he found Chich. Thinking she must have fallen from one of the circus wagons—all of which were now long gone—Alboris said he felt sorry for the dog and couldn’t bear to leave the tiny creature alone, fearing she’d be quickly scooped up by a hawk or similar bird of prey.
Thus, Emcorae’s father said he had ‘no choice’ but to bring Chich home with him. Now this story was all well and fine, but not even Emcorae ever really believed it. Like the rest of the family, the boy knew his father well: it didn’t take a fortnight to travel just twenty miles, chop some wood, and return home. Obviously, Alboris had been to Primcitta to visit the taverns, and since one can buy just about anything there, Emcorae and his family guessed that Alboris had picked up Chich at one of the numerous market stands. A petty, predictable lie. Mortals are so terribly unoriginal in their deceptions.
“Honey, did you get finished stacking the firewood?” Emcorae’s mother, Beckali, called from the kitchen. “Can you please go to the garden and get us more lettuce?”
“Yes, mama. But then can I go see Curk? He and I are supposed to go hunting tomorr-“
“Oh Em,” his mother interrupted as she emerged from the kitchen, “I don’t know if I like the idea of you going hunting tomorrow. You’re not even packed and that man will be here any day now.”
“He’s not a man, mom. He’s an Amorosi elf.” The boy corrected. “And I don’t have much to pack. This might be the last time I get to see Curk for a long time, gee whiz, lemme live a little.”
Beckali didn’t object and instead hugged her son. Emcorae had seen twelve summers, yet he was still small for his age and Beckali couldn’t begin to imagine the trials the boy was about to undertake. Although she was still young herself (just thirty-one years old), her brown hair was already showing signs of gray—for Beckali had lived the hard life that was typical of village women of her day. Her brown eyes couldn’t hide the fact that she’d silently suffered through times of sadness. And yet, her path had been chosen long ago and she knew there was naught she could do to change it.
Still holding her son, she wondered where his life’s journey would take him. At last she said, “Em, you know that it’s OUR last days with you too, right? We need our time too. Here now, why don’t you go get your dad and granddad from Brandonale. Tell those two rascals that it’s time for dinner. They’ve had enough to drink for today.” Beckali smiled as she added, “how fast do you think you could run over there and back? I’ll give you an extra cherry tart if you can make it back before gram and I set the table.”
“You’re on!” Emcorae accepted the challenge. In a flash, he was out of her arms and through the door.
“But Em,” Beckali tried to stop her son, “don’t forget that…lettuce.”
With Emcorae a blur running down the path, Beckali sighed, “Oh, bother. I suppose I’ll have to get it myself. As if we women don’t do enough around here!”
Yet as the woman began walking towards the garden, the same wave of emotions that had been plaguing her for months rushed back and she fell to her knees on the dirt.
What’s going to happen to my beloved son?!? Her mind wailed, as tears streamed down her face. In a few days her little boy was about to go off with a stranger and Alfranco said Emcorae would not be returning for at least five years. If he ever comes back at all! And it wasn’t even a human who would be escorting him away; it was someone from another race completely: an elf! Beckali definitely didn’t like that idea; even though elves were said to be good-hearted people and even though her father-in-law said he knew this particular elf, none of these facts did anything to ease the mother’s doubts.
My son was saved from a demon this past summer and now I have to let him go again? Can an elf protect Em from a gargoyle? Beckali searched for reasons to keep her boy home. Em has been so unhappy since that terrible ordeal. All his friends have deserted him but Curk and I feel like our neighbors blame us for everything that goes wrong in town. Pastor tells the people God saved Emcorae but I don’t think anyone believes him. I’m not sure I do either—surely we Azops are cursed! How else can it be that a mother should let go of her firstborn son?
I wish that elf man never came to us last summer. Beckali remembered the strange visitor who brought a letter to her father-in-law Alfranco. Yet the missive wasn’t for the old gaffer, but instead offered her son Emcorae the opportunity to train with the warrior elves of Arbola! If I lived 1,000 lives I’d never have expected such a surprise. It don’t make sense.
Of course it doesn’t make sense to a mortal mind, but confronted with a once-in-a-lifetime chance for their child, the Azops hesitated. Beckali recalled the many arguments the family had about whether sending Emcorae to Arbola was a blessing or a curse. She and Pallina were dead set against it. Teree too. Even Alboris didn’t want Emcorae to go. Only Alfranco seemed to be in favor, yet even he seemed unable to mount a convincing case for sending Emcorae off to live with the elves.
In the end, however, the Azops knew they didn’t have much of a choice—they knew the townsfolks would never let Emcorae stay in Monthaven and while the Azops were fine with starting a new life elsewhere in order to remain together, it was clear that Emcorae had already made up his mind—for he seemed drawn to Arbola as if it was his destiny. Furthermore, everyone in the family could see that Emcorae was wilting under the negativity of the town and that the only time he seemed happy was when he talked of leaving—for his face lit up whenever he spoke about his new life. By the end of the summer, Arbola was all Emcorae ever talked about.
And so it must be. Beckali used her apron to wipe away her tears, yet then it was that her thoughts were interrupted by the sudden chirping of a small jay bird.
The little warbler had a wonderful blue plumage and its white underbelly bespoke the picture of good health. It was perched on the overhang of the porch roof just above her, and—based on the continued bobbing of its crested head—it seemed to be trying to get her attention.
How odd. Thought Beckali. Imagine that, a bird talking to me?!?
The little jay continued its banter and as it sang its songs, Beckali experienced a déjà vu—remembering a similar encounter with a similar bird many years past—thinking back to the time when she herself had been a young girl about the same age as Emcorae was now and realizing that she had no choice but to let her child go, in search of his own fate in life… one that she hoped would lead to a destiny more fulfilling than her own.
Emcorae is in the bloom of his life. We have to let him flourish. Beckali tried to force herself to smile. Even now, as she approached middle age, Beckali was a fine-looking woman—although her face showed a wrinkle or two, her long brown hair was still soft and wavy, her eyes still held their brightness, and her smile was a joy to behold.
And yet, in exchange for the innocence of her youth, all too often had Beckali received sadness in return. It was not that her life had been extremely hard, nor even that she was terribly sad now, it was simply that the woman had never become truly content, and she doubted she ever would. Her days were filled with chores: taking care of children, tending the garden, cleaning the house, cooking with her mother-in-law Pallina. These tasks helped her to pass the time, but they couldn’t stop her mind from tormenting about her unfulfilling marriage, her lack of the finer things in life, and her seemingly insignificant place in the world.
Yet there was once a time when Beckali was THE most beautiful girl in the Monthaven. Before she married Alboris, Beckali grew up as one of seven children of a nearby farmer named Mo Grenger. No longer now was the farm still standing, and no longer could she easily visit with her brothers or sisters even if she wanted to because Beckali’s family had all long since died or moved away—for Monthaven only held bitter memories for the Grengers.
And yet, before all the terrible memories were made, there was once a time when Beckali had been happy and her father’s farm was one of the best in the area—well known for the quality of his ripe vegetables and deliciously creamy milk.
As the little blue jay continued its song, Beckali remembered the day that changed her life…
It was autumn, a time of dying leaves and encroaching cold. And a time for mortals to get lost in the memories of a better, brighter past. Beckali Azop, the pathetic little woman who was Emcorae’s mother, was awash in them. She was heartbroken, you see, at the prospect of her son Emcorae losing his “innocence,” and so she sought solace in her own lost childhood.
She remembered a market day, two moons before her thirteenth name’s day. A market, where a gaggle of mortals scurries about, hawking their meager goods and pretending their lives have some grand purpose. Her family, the Grengers, were there, selling their vegetables, and she, a foolish, vibrant child, found it all “fun and exciting.”
This day was different, though – the gods made sure of that.
A man, a rich merchant from Primcitta named Master John Stapleton, stepped up to her father’s stall. He was a man well known in these parts for his generosity, a kind soul whose loneliness was as vast as his fortune. He’d traveled the world, searching for a purpose he could never find. He had a mantra, you see: “Ah, my friend, you never know who or what is around the next bend and if you don’t turn those corners in life, well then, you will never find out.” The poor fool. He had been turning corners for decades, all for this one, singular, orchestrated moment.
And then, the moment came. A little jay appeared with a beautiful blue plume. It began flying a series of aerial circles over the head of young Beckali, and it warbled a song of such sweetness that all in the area stopped what they were doing. It was a simple, yet elegant trick. A whisper from the will of a goddess to a fragment of the world’s natural soul. The bird’s rite, once concluded, landed on the shoulder of the merchant and whispered a little something into his ear.
A moment later and the jay was gone – having disappeared into thin air. So suddenly had the bird vanished that the townsfolk began to wonder if the jay was ever really there at all; shaking themselves from their collective stupor, the crowd filtered back out around the market, quickly forgetting about the bird business.
All except Beckali; still glowing with youthful vitality, the girl wondered, Doesn’t anyone care where the beautiful bird went? That’s when little Beckali’s eyes landed upon the man to whom the jay had flown to last. Why is that old man staring at me so?
TThe old man Beckali saw watching her was in fact the rich merchant from Primcitta Jon Stapleton. Prior to the interruption, he’d been haggling prices with Mo Grenger, yet the man forgot all about the farmer’s produce when the bluejay’s song wove its magic upon his psyche. Suddenly he realized h’d found what he been looking for, that one thing his immense wealth could not buy. A “golden aura” he saw all around the farmer’s daughter. And in that moment, in the sleepy little town of Monthaven, his heart’s desire was found and, in the same breath, lost forever – for he saw that Beckali was a child and he realized that The Fates were aligned against him.
But still he persisted. If it’s too good to pass up, don’t let it get away from you, Jon. The man reminded himself of his mantra. Life guarantees you no second chances – sometimes you’re just lucky to even have a first! Then to the farmer he proffered the following, “The corn is fine, my friend, but I’ve taken a fancy to the girl.”
As word got out of what was occurring, the crowds swelled by the Grenger’s stall; the onlookers eager to see the master merchant making his play. The townsfolk were surprised then to see how Jon Stapleton appeared to treat Mo Grenger as an equal.
“She’ll be a welcome addition to my humble home,” Master Stapleton explained. “And I can personally assured you her innocence will be protected. She’ll grow up with every advantage, want for nothing, and live a life of luxury.” After calling over one of his attendants, he took a bulky purse from the man and then hefted it onto the Grenger’s table – it landed with a jingle (the sound quickly attracting more onlookers). Stapleton tried to open the bag so that only the farmer could see, yet as soon as a yellow glint was visible, the crowds erupted.
The crowd, a chorus of avarice, erupted. “That’s gold!” they cried. “He means to buy the girl with a bag of gold!” They saw a chance for wealth, for a life of ease, and they fully expected the farmer to take it.
When the farmer stood in front of Beckali and failed to reply, the merchant tried again, “It’s a winning trade, friend. Like the girl, you’ll never want for anything in life ever again. They’ll be no need to farm the land yourself, when you can hire others. You’re family will be not only be secure for your lifetime but for generations to come.”
These kinds of transactions, while not common in a small town like Monthaven, were also not unheard of, and since the townsfolk could see that the merchant appeared to be negotiating in good faith – offering far more than anyone could have expected and in truth, perhaps enough to buy the entire town – everyone waited with baited breath, fully expecting the farmer to accept the exorbitant offer.
“Friend. I ‘appen to like farmin.’” Mo Grenger spoke calmly but forcefully. “And I love my daughter e’en more.”
How sentimental. And how stupid.
The crowd erupted at the unexpected rebuttal.
“I’ll sell you my daughter.” A fellow pushed forward, dragging an adolescent girl with him.
“Me too! I’ll give you all three for half that price!” A morbidly obese farmer from two stands down called out. Pushing back his straw hat and grinning coyly he added, “Lord knows I can always make more.”
The onlookers burst into laughter as the catcalls grew more baudy, yet Mo Grenger held his daughter close as her brothers now came forward to stand around her, sheltering Beckali from the unwanted exposure.
The sweat of his looming defeat showing on his brow, the merchant tried to control his breathing as he said words he’d never uttered before, “Name your price, sir.”
“Like I says, friend. My daughter ain’t fer sale, but if ye be wantin to buy some of my fine produce I’ll be glad to sell ya some.” And here Mo pulled an ear of corn out of its stalk so that he could hold it out to the merchant and thus show off its premium color and texture. Then he added, “heck, if it’ll help you out I’ll even give ya ten crates for the price of four. Won’t that make ya feel a little better? You bein a businessman and all, I can’t see how ya can turn down a deal like that, neh?”
But Jon Stapleton had suddenly lost his appetite. With a sigh then, he waved away the corn the farmer was holding out and instead took one last look at Beckali. That she was The One he’d been looking for was without question – and yet, The Fates seemed aligned against him. With sad regret, the merchant left The Grenger’s stall; his spirit crushed, he left Monthaven that evening with his servants in tow – donating all the purchases he’d made in town to the local church, for he couldn’t bear to bring these reminders of a failed mission with him.
This marked the final time Jon Stapleton ever visited the town of Monthaven.
I’ll let you in on a little secret: upon returning to his estates in Primcitta, Jon Stapleton chose to end his world travels, deciding to live out his remaining days in seclusion. For the world no longer held joy for him and the allure of discovery was lost. In time, he sold off his business dealings to his partners and lived the life of a recluse – lounging in his quiet gardens and dreaming back to the time when he had seen an angel. Until one day, seven years after first seeing Beckali, a real angel appeared to the merchant, granting him a glimpse of his greatest desire: the sight of Beckali as he last saw her. The angel called him to leave the world of Substance and join her – it was an offer that Jon Stapleton gladly accepted – one that allowed the still lonely man die with a smile on his face and peace in his heart.
After that I ate his soul for dinner with some fava beans. Mmmm.
Meanwhile the grumblings about Those Crazy Grengers began almost immediately.
“How could Mo turn down such a price for his child?” Someone asked later that night at The Brandonale.
“Especially when he has six others?” Another added.
“It’s a bad sign to make Master Stapleton angry.” The general store owner worried. “That man’s done a lot to help our town.”
“It don’t bode well for the future, that’s for sure!” The barkeep concluded.
Four more years of harvests passed.
Despite bumper crops, Jon Stapleton and his merchant friends never returned to Monthaven. Lack of buyers drove the prices of the farmers’ produce down. Lack of visitors also reduced the income of the local inn and tavern.
Naturally people blamed the Grengers for the cause of all these problems. Soon nobody would buy the family’s produce at the markets. Not long after that the town elders told Mo that his family was no longer welcome in Monthaven.
From the Grengers’ perspective, life went on. Their farm was nestled just across the bridge on River Run road and apart from the village proper so maintaining a goodly social distance wasn’t difficult. The Grenger’s lands were fertile and their vegetable farms and animal herds provided them with everything the family needed to live to be self-sufficient. Although they no longer gained the extra income from the market events, they also realized they didn’t miss the bustle of the town. Thus Mo Grenger and his family lived in peace and happiness – even if their neighbors in town wished them ill.
And then things took a turn for the worse.
A “mysterious illness” struck down Mo Grenger. His mortal form to waste away, feeding on his despair and the despair of his family. The local doctor refused to help, citing “The Grengers’ Plague.” How amusing. Pastor Kastelli, ever the opportunistic fool, gave a sermon about it, claiming that Mo’s suffering was retribution from Yahway for his foolish rejection of Stapleton’s “generous” offer. The town, in their small-minded piety, believed him. They had found a reason for their own failures, a scapegoat to blame for their own misfortune. It was a most satisfying display of hypocrisy.
Mo held out for a time, but soon died.
Ma Grenger’s private grief eventually overwhelmed her. It began with the death of her husband. Next came Beckali’s unexpected pregnancy and subsequent marriage one of the little known families in town (The Azops). Meanwhile, many of the other Grenger children moved away to find a mate or escape the ill will of Monthaven. Eventually, when only two of her sons remained with her at the farm, Ma Grenger succombed to the constant hounding of Henri Perballi – a farmer’s whose smaller lands abutted The Grengers and who’d been trying to buy the latter’s lands for years in order to expand his own holdings.
“Let’s us just git away from here” Jim and Jon Grenger encouraged their mother to sell to Farmer Perballi. “There ain’t nothing fer our kind in these parts any longer, Ma. Why don’t we all just git ourselves to them woods where we belong? Them animals is all the company we’d ever need anyway. What do ya say?”
Giving in to her sons’ requests, Ma Grenger sold her farm to her neighbor, accepting a ‘generous’ offer from Farmer Perballi for what the latter said was ‘blighted’ lands. In fact the Grenger’s farmland was the most fertile in the entire region and Farmer Perballi well knew that. The shrewd farmer also knew how much The Grengers wanted to sell and therefore he used that to drive the price lower. In addition to picking up some of the most valuable land in town, Farmer Perballi was proclaimed a hero by the people of Monthaven for the part he played in liberating the town from the ill-fated Grengers.
And so, the farm sold, Beckali’s mother moved with her two sons to a location deeper into the woods, miles north of town. In the years that followed, Beckali had only seen her mother and brothers one time. The new Grenger homestead was far from Monthaven and there weren’t any trails to make the going any easier, but somehow Beckali had talked her new husband Alboris Azop into visiting her family the first spring after their son Emcorae was born. The visit was a happy one for Beckali, yet it was a journey she’d never made again.
And now, today, on that fall day in 46, Beckali’s memories came to a final, tragic climax. She remembered back when she last sat by her father’s bedside, watching him waste away. She was helpless, just as she had been when she was a child at the market. Her father, once a symbol of protection, was now just “skin and bones.” In his last moments, he looked at her with an understanding she had never seen before. She knew he was about to die, and she was frozen in place, a tear running down her cheek.
He spoke, his voice slurred, but she understood every word. A secret he had carried for years, a final confession on his deathbed.
But the moment, of course, was ruined.
“They’re coming mom! Did I make it in time? You know I did, huh?”
It was Emcorae – he’d came racing up the path. He was full of the false bravado of youth and in this moment he’d distracted his mother from her grief, breaking her out of a trance that was both beautiful and agonizing. He never saw the tear she quickly brushed away, a tear for her lost innocence, for her dead father, for her pathetic husband and father-in-law who were walking up the path behind him, drunk once again.
And so the cycle continued. A family broken. A boy soon to be lost. A town filled with hypocrites and cowards. The more things change, the more they stay the same, right?
The Apocrypha of Azazel 