The Bard
Thick smoke rose from the glowing stone fireplace in the middle of the Kingsman’s Tavern. The smell of roasted pig and too much onion moved through the building and filled the nostrils of the patrons eating and talking to one other. It was the type of smell that made you realize you were hungry, despite not thinking about it for hours. The tavern was in disrepair, most likely from being abandoned during the war so many years ago. An old man named John bought the building in his twenties and repaired it by hand. He wasn’t a handy man by any means. But there is quite a bit of charm in the mediocrity of his craft. He did make one hell of an ale though.
John was a gentle spirit. Quiet. Kept to himself. He was the type of man who would rather stick to working behind the scenes than to be out greeting customers and sharing stories. He married the love of his life shortly after opening the Kingsman right here at one of the tables. Quite a damsel in distress story. She had been running from an old flame for months and stumbled into his broken down tavern, followed by a brute of a man the size of an oak tree. Ol’ John here laid him out in one punch. We’ve never seen that man show his face in here again. That was the moment this kind Irish woman knew she found her forever and ever. A few months later they married and welcomed their son Tadhg into the world. They loved him to death even though he was a troublemaker. Always out making a mess of things only for his parents to swoop in and handle the aftermath. He was a good kid at heart though. Maybe we forget to look for a person’s heart because we are too busy looking at their hands or their feet.
I think people ask too many questions about what a person does or where they’ve been. I’ve sat in this tavern hundreds of times and all I hear is stories of a hero traveling from distant lands, slaying the heads of dragons, saving dozens of women and riding off into the sunset. Surely, not every story ends with a brave knight heading west and settling down. That village could not withstand the ego of that many men. I love stories as much as everyone else sitting here but what happened to the gritty version of life that we all experience everyday? While I may never know the strength it takes to slay a dragon, I do know what it feels like to face what seems like an unbeatable foe. An enemy that seems so capable in its ability to scare me to my core; to make me freeze. That kind of obstacle isn’t always a giant lizard guarding a hidden treasure. Perhaps the one commonality they share is that no matter the foe, they need to be slain. That’s what makes the hero a hero. It doesn’t matter who or what that foe is. We all crave the feeling of overcoming the enemies of our lives. We all want to know how we might find the strength to slay the enemy that seems too big for us to fight. Whether that be fighting a dragon, or fighting the fear of loneliness. I suppose only the former gets the parade. Nonetheless, the fact that an unstoppable foe was slain merits the title of “hero”. We all want to hear the stories of heroes so we too might know what it’s like to be one.
“Are you just going to monologue us all day?” a grumpy old man yelled from across the room. “I’ve been waiting for another ale for twenty minutes now. I’m sick of your stories boy”.
“Coming right up sir”, I politely said as I turned towards the backroom to fetch another glass. These people don’t appreciate my worldview. One day they will.
“No we won’t” the man yelled back. “Stop saying everything that pops into that head of yours”.
“Sorry sir. I’ll be right back with your drink”, I said. You know the life of a tapster isn’t what I envisioned for my life. I think it’s probably what my own parents thought I’d fall into. But from an early age I just wanted to share my thoughts with people. As much as I don’t like the stories shared around the Kingsman’s hearthfire, I do appreciate a good, emotional tale of someone overcoming the odds and rising to the occasion. There’s hope in that story. And only our great Lord in heaven knows I am in need of hope.
The moon was hovering above the wooded area surrounding the tavern, giving it a soft white glow as you walked out the front door. It was about midnight when most of our customers had left. A few drunks had to be scraped off the floor and tossed into the moon-lit wilderness before I could start cleaning up for the night. You could hear the nocturnal night life echo through the trees almost as if they were coming from every direction you turned. The moon and stars only shed enough light to see in front of you. After that, you were left to your imagination to what was beyond what your eyes could see. My usual night time shift consisted of sweeping the floors and cleaning up the leftover food at the tables. My co-worker and friend Blaine cooked all the food as was his passion to serve those who hungered for more than just slop. Little did he know that drunks don’t taste the same way noblemen do in their grand banquet halls. But he was young and aspired to prove himself to all those who would eat from him. He was a rather thin man, especially for someone who loved food. Flour and fat residue caked his clothes and mixed with sweat dripping down from his curly black hair. His eyes were brown, almost like an almond.
“I hope you know that I love your stories”, Blaine said as he helped me pick up the dirty plates covering the tables. “You see the world a lot differently than other people. I think the world needs that”.
“Thanks bud”, I replied. “It was a rough crowd today. Tomorrow will be better. I’m sure of it.”
“Well you can always share your weird outlooks on life with me. If there’s one thing this village needs it’s an appreciation for art. Look at my poor pig coffins. I spent all day mincing this pork and they took 3 bites. What a waste”.
I took one of the savory meat pies from a nearby table with no visible bite marks and took a bite. “Their loss. These things are delicious!” I said with my mouth full of delicious seasoned pork and onion.
“One of these days, I’m going to cook a majestic feast for a King”, Blaine said as he begrudgingly threw food scraps onto a trash pile. “That’s my dream. I don’t care how long it takes me.” Blaine paused for a few minutes and the room grew silent except the noise of clanging dinnerware and wooden chairs being dragged along the stone floor. “What’s your dream?” he asked.
“To be heard”, I replied. “I just want to be heard for once.”
“Then tell me a story worth hearing” yelled a man sitting in a dark corner.
“Lord Jesus,” Blaine shouted. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought everyone had left.”
The man picked himself up from his corner table and slowly moved towards the center of the tavern where the hearthfire continued to blaze. He moved sluggishly, caused by a limp in his left leg. We both watched him inch closer to us in angst, not knowing what his intentions were this late at night and not knowing how much he had to drink. He was wearing a dark cloak with tears up and down the seams like he hadn’t changed in a few months. I couldn’t see his eyes but I could feel his gaze locked onto me. He suddenly stopped in front of the fire, his clothes radiating with an orange glow as the flames danced under the mantle. He reached his hands out to it, almost as if he wanted to shake the hands with the very arms that waved over the logs. After a silence that felt like an eternity, he sat down in a nearby chair, took off his hooded cloak and looked me straight in the eye. “I’m waiting”, he said.
You ever wonder why poets rhythmically craft each line to rhyme? It’s easier for the listener to remember the tune or the words being shared when it can be whimsical and light. It’s why we always sing the same songs every night before bedtime or whistle the same melody when we’re out in the field by ourselves. We are creatures of habit and if something as simply as a rhyme can help you remember a story or a song, then it might live on forever. While humanity may never taste immortality until the Day of our Lord, our songs may live on for generations to come. But a song is just another way to share an emotion. I would argue that emotions are what drive us to feel what another human being has felt and in turn, drive us to connect more, to listen more, and to understand more than what we thought we knew. We don’t need only a simple rhyme to make someone remember something that we shared, but the core of what makes something memorable is the way it makes you feel in your heart.
Like the story of a young boy raised by a tough father and a warm caring mother. Every boy grows up trying to balance the pleasures and toils both parents offer in his journey to adulthood. On one hand, the boy wants to become as strong as his father but knows that he must endure hardships and pain, discipline and scolding to be molded into a strong man worthy of his own family. The father puts food on the table. He sacrifices time and energy to care and provide everything his household may need. He must be ready to jump into action at the sound of danger and lay his life on the line if something threatens those who he loves. A father shows strength in their ability to care for the physical needs of his family. There’s a burden in that role that you must be willing to bear. However, too much of this burden can weigh so heavily on the shoulders of the young boy and make him aggressive and stubborn. It can cause strain on the body and mind, never really knowing what it’s like to feel anything other than “there’s work to be done.” On the other hand, the young boy’s mother provides her son with comfort and gentleness that soothes his heart in times of trouble. If he feels overwhelmed he knows that he can run back into her arms and be emotionally recharged. His mother is his first love; always close by and a touch never too far away. A mother knows how to care for her children and provide them with a type of nurture you cannot go and buy or gain from someone else. A mother shows strength in her ability to care for the emotional needs of her family. Too much however and you can become complacent to the painless lifestyle of being pampered and cared for without the urgency of providing for yourself and others. This can cause timidness to change, never willing to step out and face uncertainty or possible failure. A mother’s mending care should not be used as an excuse to avoid pain, but as a reminder that you have the capacity to overcome it. This young boy wants to become as strong as his father but he doesn’t feel like he can live up to his father’s expectations. He wants to cling to his mother who gives him the comfort and reassurance he needs when things start falling apart.
From a very early age, this young boy discovers a love for people. The pursuit of curiosity drives him to love getting to know people from all around the world. Born out of that love for people comes a young boy who places his trust in everyone he meets regardless of whether or not they give him a reason to. You could say calling this young boy naive would be an understatement. But you have to understand that as a child trying to balance the influence of both parents, he’s grown much closer to the easing comfort of his mother than the cautiousness of his father. All he knows is the feeling of a deep, unwavering love and it bleeds into every fiber of his being, leading him to feel invincible. He has no known fear but that of discomfort and loss. Two things that he has yet to experience on a personal level. No one person has given him a reason to during his short lifespan so why would he be cautious with meeting someone new? Every new stranger is someone to know. Every new smile is a face to smile back at. The sound of laughter brings joy to this little boy’s soul.
His father grew up more reserved, tested by the patience of another rigid father figure. Generations of strong—willed, stubborn, and withdrawn men created his very nature and temperament, almost as if they were living inside of him. There was no escape from the man he was growing up to be, and the cycle was destined to continue after him. The young boy’s father built his entire life with his bare hands—their home, their business, their lifestyle. A small piece of his heart yearned for a better life than he had, but knew it was too late. He might as well build that life to hand over to the boy he knew had a lot more time than he. Early every morning the father would bring his son with him to care for their livestock on their small farm. These early sunrises were a perfect opportunity for intentional bonding and life lessons. One morning as they were caring for the baby goats, the young boy became visibly upset at the sight of a runt goat struggling to reach his mothers milk while the siblings of the litter pushed him out of the way. Seeing his son frustrated he said to him, “Son, there is going to be a day when you lose your first fight. But if you survive, how you respond to that pain will determine if you win the next one”. The father did not have many enemies as a result of his hard-working attitude and general friendliness to everyone he interacted with. However, with great fortune comes great envy. In a neighboring village, a large gang of bandits were looking to settle some debts they made with a few noblemen. They found out that there was a certain man who had amassed quite a fortune with his many years of hard work. In the middle of a cold winters night, this gang of bandits tore through this nearby village and raided every single home, carrying off loot into their wagon and killing anyone who would stand in the way of their goal.
One of the homes they broke into belonged to this young boy and his mother and father. His father was the first to wake up to the sound of a loud crash at the front door. Four men rushed into the home armed with axes and daggers. They looked around the home and threw luxurious goods out the window and began breaking furniture against the wooden walls of the home. Before walking into the bedrooms, the father jumped out to fight only to be met by four dangerous bandits ready for the kill. The young boy woke up to the sound of screams of pain and anguish from his parents’ room and fear gripped his body to the point of paralysis. The only thing he thought to do was cry out to his mom but something was preventing him from using his voice; he became mute. He heard laughter followed by the unsettling sound of a large crunch, like the sound of a weak wooden branch being snapped in two. His paralysis fell and he began to move to the door, only to hear another scream, this time coming from his mom as terror filled her voice. In fear, he ran back into his room and hid underneath his bed and aggressively pressed his sweaty shaking palms over his ears to block the belting cries of his mother.
In just a few short minutes, footsteps approached the room he was hiding in. He opened his eyes just barely enough to see leather boots enter the doorway and stop. One of the men had a large scar run the length of his entire right arm. It had to have been a stab wound from the war. His accomplices couldn’t be seen behind him because the shadow of the hallway hid their facial features. They debated checking for survivors but decided not to, saying, “Our strength is measured by what we can take, and there’s nothing here worth taking.” One of the men stepped further into the room, almost waiting for the young boy to make himself known underneath the bed. It took all of his mental and physical strength to hold in his tears and sit incredibly still beneath the short bed. With both eyes closed again he did not even notice the boots walk out of the room. The space grew silent as he waited to make sure all the bandits had moved on to the next house. The last thing he wanted was to make noise wiggling out from under his bed and cause the criminals to race back in for another survivor. So he stayed put for a few more seconds. Then a few more. Seconds turned to minutes, and time seemed to stand still as the sound of a rushing herd of cattle rushed past the house and faded off into the night. He opened his eyes again and was met with a distinct red flicker of light emanating from his family’s front door. Smoke was billowing toward the roof and panic set in. He squirmed out with both arms alternating his lower body up and out from the heavy bed. The young boy rushed into the hallway to see the front of his house in flames, the walls almost falling apart transforming into charcoal that burned so bright you could feel the heat on your face from twenty feet away. His family's heirloom was missing from its place on the wall near the fireplace, a sword that his father kept from his time in the war. The fire left him in a daze but the memory of his parents’ screams snapped him back to the present. Upon turning around, there lay both of his parents dripping in blood the deepest shade of scarlet he’d ever seen. He rushed to his mother first, trying to wake her up but to no avail. She was gone within a few minutes. A deep hole was left in her chest right where her heart used to be. The heart that made this young boy feel like nothing could ever hurt him. He laid his head on her lap, wrapping his arms around her lifeless body, crying out in agony over the woman who protected him all these years. A section of the roof near the front door collapsed and the young boy rose in urgency, knowing time was short. He shifted his gaze to his father, who was still breathing but barely alive or coherent at all. The young boy took to his father’s side, freed his hands that were gripped to a beat-up wooden club, and intertwined his small fingers into his father’s. They both sat against the wall, staring into the same almond colored eyes, only one was losing the ability to keep them open. The boy attempted to shift his father’s body over his shoulder so that he could make an escape out the back entrance of the house. The flames were growing more violent and the smoke seemed to be falling lower and lower, filling the room and the lungs of the two men trying to desperately stay alive. But the father knew his time was up. He did not have the strength to keep going. So the father slowly took his son’s arm that was wrapped around his waist and placed his hand on his ash covered face. With just one look of his father’s watery eyes, he knew what his father was telling him to do. This is the man who taught him to keep moving forward. To be strong. To do whatever it takes to keep fighting when it gets tough. But that man just fought his last fight. Everything he built and fought for was for his son and now it was finally time to pass it on to another.
The painful tragedy this young boy went through weighed on his heart like a thin tree being crushed by the weight of a waterfall. Every cry, every scent of smoke, every fire burning brought him right back to that very night. But it fueled him. He understood now more than ever what his future was going to be centered on—finding the strength to fight back. Over the next several years this young boy trained for that next fight. He remembered the words of his father as a young boy. He didn’t want to freeze ever again. He didn’t want to hide ever again. He was going to win his next fight.
Years later, that same young boy transformed into a young man; strong, sturdy, and determined. His father’s likeness truly shone through his facial features as well as his work ethic. As an orphan he moved in with a distant family relative who had no children of their own so they welcomed him in with open arms, knowing the fragility of his heart. His uncle provided him with everything he needed to move past the heartbreak of his past. They encouraged him to find peace in a hard day's work, or to start a family of his own but to no avail. There was but one path set, one direction that he would not stray from. And every waking moment was another minute he could prepare himself for the day where he would hear those voices again and be ready to strike with all his might.
With every new year brought new strength, new skills, and a growing fire burning in the young man’s heart. He trained diligently with every known weapon—both offensively and defensively. Even the mighty soldiers of the royal army feared going toe to toe with him. Not because his proficiency with a weapon in his hand, but because of the unwavering pursuit to prove himself to his opponent drove him to attack with rage and a spirit of fearlessness. His uncle saw this in the young man’s eyes and was reminded of his brother, the boy’s father when they were young. The uncle witnessed his brother become distant, and fueled with a similar rage after returning from war. Something had happened that his younger brother never spoke about but it changed him. He became stubborn, hard-headed, and always seeking to prove himself. It wasn’t until years later when he found out his brother was the cause of the death of a dear friend of his. It was in battle that he froze, and sacrificed his brothers in arms to save his own life. Now this young man was walking in the same footsteps of his father.
It was just after the boy’s twenty-fifth birthday when his village learned of a growing unrest among the people. There was news of a gang of bandits in a nearby town that laid waste to the people and robbed every home, leaving no survivors. Hearing this news, the boy had a painful flashback, fifteen years of pain and anger bubbled to the surface of his entire being. He rushed home and told his uncle of the news, urging him to suit up in armor and fight together when they arrived. His plan was simple; evacuate the people of their village and set a trap in their home for the bandits and attack them while they are busy stealing the planted treasures. The boy was enraged to hear his uncle’s disapproval of not only the plan, but for the boy’s intentions for revenge against his parent’s attackers. Despite the uncle’s warnings, the plan won the favor of the public and they made preparations for the night. With the help of all the men in the village, everyone was evacuated to the east while some former soldiers of the war stayed back to help set the trap. The boy insisted on staying alone to save every life he could, but in reality he wanted to secure every kill for himself out of a hunger for vengeance. Night came and torches emerged from the tree line like the eyes of a pack of wolves. The flames stilled in the shadows, waiting patiently to strike as a group on the hunt. Suddenly, the lights broke the tree line in a rush at the sound of a deep shofar.
The pack of bandits wasted no time breaking into homes and upon realizing everyone was missing, they spent extra time inside each house and dropped their guards by leaving their weapons on their horses—everything was going according to plan. In similar fashion, every home they left was lit on fire with torches wrapped in cloth and oil on each corner of the house. The young man watched from the roof of his uncle's home, shielded by a tall tree that hung over the top of the thatch. He watched their movements carefully, waiting for the perfect time to strike. There were around five bandits who moved together, never leaving each other’s sides except to haul stolen goods from the homes. This was his moment. When they entered his uncle’s house, he planned to take each one by surprise in a room that was stocked with extra gold and heavy chests—something they intentionally planned for.
As the group approached this home, the surrounding flames gave enough light for him to notice one of the bandits wielding his father’s sword. That man had a scar, stretching across the length of his right arm—finally. The door beneath him was quickly broken down and all five men rushed in. Murmuring could be heard underneath him, likely from the greedy excitement at the sight of the treasures they found hidden within the walls. The young man quickly rappelled down from the roof toward the back of the house, hiding beneath the back window. A few of the bandits filled their arms with jewelry, weapons, and clothing, walking with pride and self-assurance. At a certain point, some of them had to take their stolen goods to their wagon on the other side of the village because the satchels on their horses became too full. This was the perfect opportunity to pick off a couple unsuspecting bandits venturing further from the rest of the group. Now was the time to strike. The young man swiftly made his way behind the tree line into the shadows of the night towards the other side of his village to attack the incoming men. He reached the wagon first and without being detected, slid underneath the wagon, crouching below a wheel with his sword drawn back ready to thrust at a moment's notice. The bandits arrived, laughing ignorantly as they threw their loot onto the wooden platform. In a matter of seconds, the two bandits fell to the dusty ground, holding their chests as blood began seeping out from under their clothes. Before they could scream out for help they were struck on the head and dragged back into the dark forest behind them. The plan was in motion and there was no time to lose. The other three men would quickly notice their accomplices missing so the young man travelled back the same way he came and hid underneath the back window again, listening in to their conversation. He immediately recognized their voices as the same group that stood outside his old bedroom fifteen years ago. They were old and doddering. It was a miracle they stayed in this line of work after so many years; perhaps more of a miracle was that they never got caught—until now. While the three men engaged in conversation, the young man lit two of the men's torches from their wagon and placed them on the back wall, immediately catching it ablaze, making the front entrance the only way out. He hurried to the other side of the house as the men realized the flames growing up the back wall and ran to the front door.
The three men stared at him, not realizing who stood in front of them. Their leader was still holding his father’s sword but the other two men reached for their weapons only to realize they left them outside attached to the horses. Despite their lack of weaponry, it was still three to one and they lunged forward in an attempt to pin him down for the easy kill. The young man waited for this very moment for years—all the training that left him bleeding, the fury of anger, and the memory of his parents embrace lost forever rose to the top as he skillfully tore down his opponents leaving them bleeding and crawling away. The leader looked on with unbelief and froze with the same fear in his eyes as the young man did at ten years old. The young man saw his enemy freeze and immediately took the advantage as he swung towards the head only to be blocked at the last second. He regained his composure, eyeing the man who took his entire world away with an anger that burned like the sun. “Not so strong anymore are you?” he taunted. “Let’s see how strong you are now.”
The two men battled hard, parrying every move, swinging in sync with one another like a fierce dance choreographed by their burning hatred for one another. Both swords clashed at the speed of a strong wind at sea with the sound of piercing metal scraping down. Even though the young man was younger and physically stronger, he was still inexperienced to the many years of torturous combat the old man obtained in a life of crime and destruction. Distracted by the duel, the two men seemed to forget about the growing flames around them enveloping the home they fought under. Suddenly the roof began to cave in and toppled over. Debris nearly struck the bandit leader in the head but he dove to the ground, dropping the sword he was holding to save himself. The young man saw his opportunity to finally strike down his unarmed opponent and rushed toward him as he got back up and ran to his weapon on the floor, but was too slow. The sharp sting of a blade moved across the length of his torso, matching the shape of the scar across his arm. He fell to the floor, gripping his chest trying to stop the bleeding while he attempted to crawl away. That strong confidence of a man who always took from others was gone. Fear and desperation was all that remained as he looked upon the young man and begged for his life. But that young man didn’t come this far to walk away. He made a promise to himself to make them pay for what they did to him as a child. Today he was going to fulfill that vow.
The young man slowly approached his enemies lying on the ground, ready to strike them regardless of their cries for mercy. In one quick motion, his sword was knocked out of his hands and shoved to the ground opposite of his parent’s killers. Standing above him, glowing orange from the surrounding flames was his uncle. With the heat of frustration bellowing inside the young man he yelled at his uncle, “What are you doing here? You can’t stop me. They must die as payment for what they stole.”
“Why are you so angry my boy?”, his uncle answered back. “Your fight to prove yourself has led you down a path of anger over something you couldn’t control.”
“I didn’t do anything to save them!” the boy yelled back as he struggled back up to his feet, secretly picking up a small knife.
“You were just a scared boy! You couldn’t have taken them on even if you tried. Killing these men now isn’t going to bring them back to life!”
“They took everything from me!”, he cried out, swinging the small knife he was holding behind his back, but his uncle evaded the attack. “They took my mom and dad and I did nothing because I wasn’t strong enough. I’m doing what my dad couldn’t do. He’s the one who told me to be strong. Well now I am strong enough because I can finally take away what they took from me. I can finally show them how much strength I have. This is what they asked for!”
His uncle gazed upon his distraught nephew shaking with rage and sadness at the same time. He inched closer and took him by the shoulders and said softly, “My poor boy… Strength is not measured by what you can take, but by choosing to move on when you have the power to take more.”
At the sound of those words the young man dropped to his knees and began to weep. His uncle met him on the ground and embraced him real tight. He finally understood what his dad meant by strength. And in a moment of weakness, facing an emotion too great to bear alone, he was met with the comfort of a loved one that reminded him of his mother. Even though they were both gone, he still felt them in his heart. His entire world was stripped away so fast that he forgot what those feelings felt like after they were gone.
The young man found enough strength to stand up, walk to his enemies lying on the ground, pick up his father’s sword and say, “There is nothing here worth taking. I’m going home." He stumbled out of the burning building, took one final look at the people who took his family, and saw the same fear in their eyes that he had on that fateful day. A cool breeze swept through over the distant mountains and caught the young man almost as if the heat of anger left him and was left with the cooling breeze of closure and a newfound strength to move on.
The flicker of the flame inside the hearth fire was almost gone, leaving only hot white coals lighting up the room. I finished the story and waited for a response from the old man sitting across from me. His eyes were no longer locked onto me, but on the stone wall above the dimming fire. He was quiet, not moving at all except the slow rise and fall of his chest with every breath. The man finally broke the silence with one question, “Did the young boy have a name?”
“Tadhg”, I replied.
“That was one hell of a story boy. Quite the hero. Thank you for sharing it with me, ummm, what was your name again?”
“Tadhg”.
The End.
- Original Story by Danny Munoz