Your painted smile hides you still
Yesterday and tomorrow's found
Fused as one upon solid ground
As all around the milling crowd
Confuse themselves with raging sounds
And their loves forgetfulness abounds
So be thankful for your greasepaint clown
If loneliness wears the crown
of the veteran cosmic rocker
Relfective Smile by the Moody Blues 1981
A journey to what was once home
The old bard leaned back against the trunk of the massive fig tree, the roots cradling him. The warm afternoon sun felt good on his face, the weather mild, the river flowing around his little island. How long had he lived at the farm now? Some mental calculations, obviously wrong the first time, then checked silently and found to be correct. This led to further musings on when he first came to this strange land. No wonder he felt so old. No wonder his bones ached, and his fingers had become so curled with arthritis that he could no longer play with any skill. He had lived far longer than any human should, had been places no human should have been, had seen things no human should see.
He had already spent his time at the small graveyard just down the hill. Three neat, tidy little graves, mounds of golden and brown smoky quartz. Three little white marble headstones, names and dates skilfully engraved. Three beautiful wives, the loves of his life, each in their own time. He had sung to each of them in turn, their favourite songs or ballads, remembering and talking to them in order. His sweet Heather, with her heart-shaped face and shining eyes, so full of life. Marion, dark-haired with brown eyes a man could drown in, deep and thoughtful in a chaotic world. Then his Rox, as wild as her untamed tangle of red hair, free-spirited and independent, even her ice blue eyes had finally dimmed. After Heather had passed he swore he would never wed again, but as a great bard had once said, “The heart is forever making the head its fool” , and so it was with him.
Those dates on those little headstones. That is what had him thinking of time. That and the pain in his chest. He had always imagined that there would one day be a fourth little golden quartz grave with its own little white headstone down there, joining his wives in their eternal rest. So long ago, heroic quests, great adventures, riches to be earned and enemies to be vanquished. What then though? As if on cue, an unseen kookaburra high up in the fig tree makes his mocking call, the laughter taken up by his peers on the mainland across the north branch of the river. What then indeed? His old companions had all gone now, some moving on to other things, others taking the final curtain call before him. He had settled in at the farm, improving it from time to time when he felt inspired or got bored. Was it really that long? The sudden pain that grips his chest tells him it has indeed been that long, and that it has much more in store for him yet, as if to punish him for defying Father Time for this long. He could take the aging, the loss of vim and vigour, the failing of his vitality. He could even take the loneliness, living on as young children born to the farm’s families, grew up, lived their lives, had children of their own, and then died of old age. The pain though….. He knew in his own world he would have mere months, perhaps a year at the most. Here though, the pain could last a decade or more. He had told himself he would endure, stay at the farm until it was his time, but it was too much. No. There would not be a fourth little grave down the hill. There would be one final journey while he was still able. A journey he had made three times before. Now there would be a fourth and final journey. A journey to what was once, but now in his heart could never again be, home.
Noble J Daggett looked across at his old friend. Originally a client of his grandfather’s, and then his father, Noble had been his lawyer now for some years. Daggett’s Omnipotent Mediators had been in the family for generations, from father to son, father to son, learning the profession before it was their time to assume the mantle of Senior Mediator. He had been surprised last week when his secretary informed him Flynn Gayweather wished to see him without an appointment. Her bearing and her tone made her disapproval clear, seemingly just waiting on confirmation to have the miscreant make an appointment before being sent packing. Soon though, she the one who was surprised when he told her to escort Master Gayweather through to his private study immediately and to arrange coffee with all due haste.
Flynn felt the easing of the pain in his knees as she stretched out his long legs. The herbs Aretha had given him helped considerably, but even they had their limits. The journey here had been harder than he imagined, taking a toll on him he had not expected. For maybe the twelfth time, Noble leans forward, his gaze intense, and asks, “Are you sure Flynn? This is really what you want?”. It was clear from the sweet-smelling smoke rising around the man that he had already been to see the witch-woman, another cause for concern. Flynn takes another draw on his cigarette through the little red lacquered holder, his gaze meeting the mediator’s. He was the spitting image of his father, Virtue, who was in turn the image of his father, Regal. It was as if three artists had painted the same person from three different perspectives or in three slightly different styles. Neat, trimmed hair around a bald crown, a small, flat nose, with highly expressive eyebrows and bright, intelligent eyes, he had experienced the same sense of……sameness…..with Aretha, some bloodlines seeming to run strong.
Over a series of meetings, not only had all the arrangements been made and a flurry of messengers dispatched, but some finality had already been brought to certain matters. “He is already on his way then?”, Flynn says, asking a question instead of answering one. “Yes, he left three days ago as you instructed. All the paperwork has been signed and sealed”. Flynn nods with satisfaction and says, “Then yes, my friend, I am sure. The witch-woman has been most accommodating, and Daggett’s Omnipotent Mediators, as always, have been the epitome of efficiency and professionalism. You, of course, will have a front-row seat at my final performance”.
Noble reflected on the highly unusual nature of what he had facilitated for the old bard. Why, if word got out of certain matters, it could be considered improper. Scandalous even. Noble was not sure how he felt about the witch-woman and her magics, especially if Flynn had arranged what he suspected. Of course, there was the expense of what the Master Raconteur proposed, as well as the urgency of the arrangements, but the bard had the coin and the seemingly impossible had somehow managed to come together in a matter of days. No, that was not what was really bothering him. The mediator leaned forward, his voice lowering even though there was no chance they could be overheard, “But Obrut Powder Flynn? Really?” A wave of the hand, a dismissal of the trivial. “As a great bard once said, it's better to burn out than to fade away” . Flynn takes a sip of the coffee, his face twisting. “This is truly awful coffee. Again. You really need to do something about that Noble”.
A journey to a new home?
Kane had wondered what he had done to deserve this. He had done everything expected of him as a second son, enlisting in the army and completing his term of service. His service record was exemplary, and he had even acquitted himself quite well in some skirmishes along the way, earning a promotion to First Lieutenant. Popular with his fellows, he had thought he would return to Waterdeep and work in the family business. His father had run a successful trade goods business, rising to a position of some importance in the local community. Wealthy and respected, his service done, he had imagined he would run some part of the family business. A snort of laughter, a shake of the head, everything had changed in an instant.
His fool of a brother, Isaac. The firstborn. Gambling, drugs, and women, he had soon drained the business’s resources. His lust and greed still not satisfied he had borrowed money from some rather unsavoury people to fund his extravagance. When he couldn't pay up, he had agreed to their little scheme, seemingly the only way out for the rat that had been caught in his own trap. Now, not only was the family fortune gone, but their good name had been ruined. He had been shocked when confronted by old family friends who had lost their money in the fraudulent scheme his brother had facilitated. The bailiffs had arrived the next day, telling him he had until the end of the week to vacate the little caretaker's cottage he had been living in, and now it was nearly the end of the week. His brother had already fled, his co-conspirators disappearing like smoke and leaving only his family’s name attached to the scandal. His wife had retreated to her family's estates, taking her children with her and laying all the blame on Isaac. Now he had no idea what he was going to do, where he was going to go, where he would sleep. His world turned upside down, he wondered what else could go wrong.
Kane is broken from his reverie by a bright, cheery, female voice. “Kane Westfield? So very nice to meet you! I have been looking for you everywhere!” In fact, the voice is so happy and enthusiastic it seems to make his mood even bleaker. When he looks up, he sees a very pretty, young blonde woman dressed in a ridiculously flamboyant collection of colours, all frills and puffs and lace. She introduces herself as Leelee, in a gush of words so fast he is sure he misses more than a few. Worse, she seems to bounce from one thing to the next, jumping around a series of topics as if he knows what she is talking about. Such unfortunate circumstances, a stroke of good luck, such a shame about gossip and spiteful people, maybe a chance at a fresh start. Kane protests that he has nothing to do with his brother’s debts, but is soon cooed and shushed to silence, assured it is nothing to do with that in a whirlwind of words, many of which he has never even heard before. By the time she hands him a card, his head is spinning. “Now, be sure to be there on time, Mediator Daggett is a very busy man” she says, before she scurries off happily, on her way to her next errand. He turns the card over in his hands. Daggett’s Omnipotent Mediators. A neat hand has written today’s date and a time for an appointment.
Noble reflected on his meeting with the young man. He had been late, which had annoyed Noble no end. Still, always a professional, he had tried not to make his displeasure obvious. The young man had the look of a soldier about him, an officer he would have guessed. Keen eyes noticed the little emblem on the man’s belt, his posture, the way he sat, every little thing. He had entered as if headed to the gallows, seeming to think, despite more than adequate explanation to the contrary, that this had something to do with his brother and family debt. The look on his face when Daggett patiently explained it all to him. He was not sure if the boy was a bit dense, but he had to repeat things several times before the young man accepted what he was saying. A long lost relative, a cousin of his grandmother, recently deceased. Yes, you are named as his beneficiary. You specifically. No, I don’t know why. Apparently he was a second son too. Yes, Flynn Gayweather, a bard of some renown. Noble did find such matters tedious, and despite his professionalism, somewhat frustrating. Normally he would leave this to one of his junior moderators, but this was a special case after all. He had left the young soldier with all the necessary paperwork to sign, telling him numerous times to read all the clauses of the deeds and contracts. He had supplied him with the book, “The Travellers Guide to Taya: Faerun Edition – An Introduction”, again imploring him to read it.
Kane had been stunned. The somewhat irritated and annoyed little mediator had explained that he had inherited a farm. A goat farm of all things. From what he had been told, quite a large and successful operation with a more than comfortable homestead. He was not familiar with the location, but Daggett had told him it would be quite a journey. Some kingdom called Taya, an area known as the Guthring Protectorate. He had never heard of either. He had promised to read the contract and the book, right after he had cleaned out his current residence. In the process of doing so he found the secret little wine stash the previous caretaker must have pilfered from the family cellars. Quite a fine collection actually. He went about packing his gear, a wine glass now in hand, not bothering too much about cleaning up, just taking things he thought he may need. One glass led to another and promises of reading deeds and contracts and books are forgotten. By the time cracks one bleary eye to the sun beaming in his face he hopes he is not already running late for his follow-up appointment with Daggett.
What is in this pocket?
Noble turns to Hugo Bannerman and mutters a little, “He will probably be late. He always seems to be. Quite unbecoming for a military man I would say”. Bannerman’s huge walrus moustache bristles at the comment, as he stands ramrod straight as if still on the parade ground himself. The owner and proprietor of Bannerman Outfitters and Specialty Services, he is a retired army Sergeant Major himself. A large, barrel-chested man, he is proud of his military service and may be prone to telling old war stories if given the chance. He knows better than to attempt that with Mediator Daggett in attendance though, the man always so focussed on his business. The others had already arrived, ready to start their journey. Daggett had all the necessary paperwork filled, the tokens of passage exchanged, the required arrangements made. A bevy of buxom ginger and red-headed women of all ages bustle about the expansive workroom in a flurry of industry.
Noble examines Hugo with his keen eyes. The man has a ruddy complexion and sports a mass of ginger hair, his most prominent feature being that enormous moustache. Thick and bushy red, his walrus-style moustache completely covers his top lip, extending down past his chin on each side. Clearly his pride and joy he has developed the unconscious habit of stroking it while he talks, something Noble finds most distracting. His hair is wild and unruly, a natural kink making it somewhat unmanageable. Hugo does go to great lengths to make sure he is generally well-groomed, neat, and tidy, especially when expecting a visitor. However, as is the case now, it is not uncommon for frizzing hair or stray kinks to frustrate his efforts. “I’m sure the young Lieutenant will be here on time”, Hugo says in a voice more suited to barking instructions to soldiers than for the confines of a gentleman’s tailors and outfitters.
The others had all arrived early, eager to be on their way. A mismatched bunch, each had their own reasons for making the journey. Dreams of adventures. A quest to recover a lost artifact. A mission to defeat a great evil. A flight from disaster and misfortune. Noble ran his eye over them. Of course, they had all said they had read the contracts and understood them before they signed. They never did though. He often wondered why he bothered with fine print when they didn’t even read the large print. Kane Westfield had been no different, full of assurances he had read and understood everything, his earnest stare an obvious deception. No, none of them ever read them all. Noble mutters another little, “He is going to be late again”, perhaps feeling the nervous energy from the other travellers all waiting for Westfield to arrive so they could be on their way.
There was no way he was going to be late this time. The first time had been bad enough, Daggett clearly bristling and upset with him. The second time had been even worse, the man genuinely offended and cutting him apart with words. The hangover he endured made it even more painful, and he thought if he was late again the man might actually try to strangle him or beat him senseless with a law book or something. Still, even though he knew the area quite well he had trouble finding Bannerman’s Outfitters and Specialty Services. Why were they even going to an outfitters? What sort of address was 22 1/3rd The Sutherlane anyway? As it turned out he had walked past the little laneway three times before venturing in. There he found a freshly painted door, a black bear on a red background bearing a little black, gold-lettered plate confirming he was finally at the right place.
Kane is led down a maze of corridors, down a long flight of stairs and through multiple doors, eventually finding himself in what must be main showroom and tailor’s area. The work and showroom area is far larger than he had imagined from the humble entrance, and it seems out of place with the businesses around it. Everything appears to be of the highest quality. Racks of clothes, shelves of boots and shoes, tailor’s dummies with garments in various states of completion, the area is bathed in soft lamplight, everything gleaming wood, rich leather, and luxurious fabrics. Along one wall, disappearing off into the last light of the lamps is a large racking system for bolts of fabric. Ladders on wheels are attached to the top of the structure and pushed on a set of tracks. What appears to be a simple, but efficient block and tackle system operated by a set of levers and gears is in place to lower bolts of cloth from the upper reaches of the structure.
The store’s official office is located adjacent to the main measuring and tailoring areas. The office is dominated by a large painting of the owner in full dress uniform, black with red trim and gold buttons, a row of medals on his chest. The painting hangs over a large, well-kept fireplace. A large metal shield is mounted on one side of the fireplace, and a similar banner attached to a large wooden pole stands on the other. The main tailoring area is flanked by wardrobes of completed garments, shelves of fabric and other tailoring tools and equipment. Several tailor’s dummies are positioned in a precise semi-circle, a three-panelled full-length mirror stands arrayed opposite. A lush timber upholstered lounge and several armchairs, side tables, and a coffee table are arrayed around the area.
He sees a little group already gathered, Daggett and the Sergeant Major from the painting. He was not familiar with the standard or the bear emblem, but he was clearly a military man. “There Daggett!”, the man booms, “I told you the young man would be on time”, giving Daggett a comradely pat on the back, enthusiastic enough to make Daggett stumble forward a little. Daggett recovers his balance quickly, adjusting his spectacles and muttering a “Quite”. Regaining his composure he says, “Well, now we are all here we can be on our way. If you would be so kind Mr Bannerman”. The other travellers rise, and the little group follows the large tailor into a side fitting room. A large bolt of tan coloured cloth is sitting upright on a roller, a frame extending out across the room. Kane doesn’t know what to make of it all, and Daggett sees his confusion, realising not only did he not read the deeds and contracts, he did not even read the introductory guide. No matter. All the papers have been signed and sealed and his position is unimpeachable.
“Well gentlemen, lets get you started on your way” Bannerman booms in a cheerful and enthusiastic voice. With this he grips the fabric and pulls it across the frame like a curtain. Kane feels the room spin as the fabric displays an array of patterns and spirals, a strong sense of vertigo coming over him. “Ahh, there we are” Bannerman says as his hands bunch at the fabric, seeming to pull it out, new fabric appearing where there should be none. The pattern resolves, slowly coming into some sort of focus, and Kane’s sense of wrongness, of vertigo grows stronger. A look at the blanched faces of the others tells him they are experiencing the same, faces white, knuckles bunched. All expect Daggett and Bannerman, who are completely at ease. More smoothing and expanding of the fabric can Bannerman announces, “Yes! Here we are. This is the spot!”
A shining golden needle, plucking at the fabric, shifting the threads, loosening, undoing, an ethereal ghost of a needle working on the material. “Why, will you look at this? Why on earth would someone sow a seam like that? I mean, what is the point”, Bannerman grumbles under his breath as he works. “Just over-complicated nonsense. All style and no substance. Why, the man should be ashamed of himself” he says, before seeming to make significant headway. “There we go, that gets most of it”. Big hands reach for the material, pulling back, opening it up like exposing a pocket in a giant’s jacket. As Kane peers inside the breach, he feels like throwing up, his head spinning, his stomach roiling. A glimpse of another tailor's workshop, fine suits and frocks instead of gentleman’s outdoor wear, and he has to look away, trying to calm himself.
As it turns out he is the last to go through the pocket. “Now, arrangements have been made with Agent Smart on the other side. He will set you on your way”, says Daggett. Other side? Not for the first time Kane feels lost and realises he really should have read the book Daggett gave him. “Don’t take no mind of that Blackadder on the other side. Noble born, as if I need to say more. Have a good journey Lieutenant” the old Sergeant Major says, even giving him a salute as he passes through. When Kane steps into the pocket he steps into a limbo, almost a state of unbeing. He is assailed by visions, strange images that he can make no sense of. A huge ship, foreign and unknown in design that would easily dwarf the largest ship he had ever seen. A devil, or imp, twin horns on his head, the left one with the tip broken off. A horde of strange-looking orcs, roaring their rage and bristling with spears and polearms. A trip of a few steps takes a lifetime before she steps through, his vision gradually clearing.
Another tailors shop. Similar in layout and design and yet totally different. “Very well then. Welcome to Blackadder’s Outstanding Sumptuous Styles. I am Hugo Blackadder, owner and proprietor.” says a large man, his bald pate surrounded by close cropped black hair. The first thing Kane notices is his moustache, a massive handlebar arrangement, the end waxed and pointed to fine tips that reach for the ceiling. Tall and thin, Blackadder has excellent posture, and Kane thinks of Hugo’s comment about the man being noble born. Yes, he can see it, in the way he stands, the immaculate grooming of his black and white attire, the way he presents himself. This little office area is adorned with a pennant from a ship, a white eagle on a maroon background. A painting over the fireplace shows a warship under sail, ploughing majestically through the waves. This workshop is populated by an array of petite dark-haired women of various ages, all wearing very tight black bodices and tailored slacks.
Another strange needle, this one a glowing silver, and Blackadder starts to pull and sew at the threads of the opening. “Oh I say! The man is a brute. I mean, look at this!” he complains, his needle moving swiftly and trying to defy the eye. “So clumsy. So uncouth. What does he sew with? A spoon?” he continues, a stitch here, a flurry of needlework there. “The man has no sense of style whatsoever. He should be ashamed of himself” he says as he seems to make significant progress, the pocket being neatly sown shut. Kane can barely stand to watch, turning away frequently, but soon enough the sewing is done, the fabric rolled back onto its bolt.
A dwarf next time him says, “Well, that’s it! We are in Taya! Who would have thought it, a whole new world inside a little pocket like that!”, his eyes bright, his mind filled with visions of quests fulfilled, of glory and riches. “A whole new what?” says Kane, not quite believing what he was hearing. “Why yes. We are here for at least thirteen years before we could go back through. At least this way” says a young man, the religious symbol of his God prominent on a torc around his neck. “You read the book, didn’t you?” So there it was, in a tailor’s workroom in Sindel, on the continent of Rydal in the world of Taya a new adventuring company first started to come together to face an unknown world. A world of strange magics, of silver rather than gold, of massive geographical barriers and unknown dangers. A world where the Westfield name was unknown and unblemished. “Does anyone know where the Guthring Protectorate is?” Kane asks, starting to look forward to a fresh start. “I can help you with that Master Westfield” a voice says, Kane turning to see a smartly dressed man, dark hair neat and tidy and freshly shaved. “Agent Smart at your service”, the man says, his voice clipped, “Shall we be on our way to get you equipped?”
The final curtain call
Aretha leans over the old bard in the crowded dressing room. She shows him her little package. Obrut powder. “You know what this means Flynn” she asks solemnly, for maybe the dozenth time. Flynn knows it will draw forth all of his remaining vigour, his remaining energy, his very life force. In a younger man it would rob him of his years. Fkynn knew that in his case he would be dead before the cock crows in the morning. “Yes, of course” he says, holding his cup up for her to sprinkle her wonderous powder in. A drag on his cigarette, the room full of smoke, and he takes his last drink before he takes to the stage for the final time. The dressing room is full of smoke, the agent assisting him breaking out in a sweat. The theatre was the largest available, the tickets well priced and widely promoted. He can hear the rumble of the crowd, already knowing it is a full house. “You have so little to offer the powder old friend. I hope it is enough” Aretha says as the lanky bard stands, ready to take to the boards for his final performance.
Flynn lies back in the comfortable bed in Aretha’s guest room, exhausted. He had put everything he had into his performance, and now he was spent. Every spec of magic he had, every bit of athleticism, every bit of his emotion and passion. The crowd had been rapturous from the moment he had walked on stage to a wild eruption of cheers. Content, he takes the final drag on his cigarette, removing it from his holder and stubbing it out. He does not know when he drifted off to sleep, the sun not yet cracking the horizon when he wakes. His dreams had been sweet, of old times, of old loves and friends. Gradually, the light starts to come, and he closes his eyes, knowing his time is nearly done. Then he hears it. The first cock crow of the morning. What? A gentle rap at his door and his eyes fly open. Aretha’s niece, Whitney, enters quietly, full of bows and gentle smiles. She sets a steaming coffee mug on his side table, fluffing up his pillows and helping him sit up. “Aunt Aretha says if you want me to bring your coffee on the morrow it should be early so you can finish it before the cock crows again. With this, she lays a broadsheet on his lap and loads a fresh smoke into his holder before exiting demurely and closing the door softly behind her.
An advanced copy of the morning broadsheet, just a piece of the whole. A review by the harshest critic in Waterdeep, the notorious and spiteful Bernard Kingsman. As he reads the review his tears start to flow. Now the critic has turned his quill on himself, his cynicism, how jaded he had become, how wrong he had been proven. Majestic. Triumphant. A performance that will be forever remembered. Kingsman wrote that he doubted he had enough left in him to raise a spark of magic to light his cigarette after his glorious farewell, and he was right. A sip of the delicious, spiced coffee, a drag on an obviously laced cigarette and he reads the review again, and again, and again…..
Flynn spent the day in bed, visited by Aretha and the good Noble Daggett. More reviews had been written, each striving to match Kingsman’s flare and superlatives. When word got out of where he was staying the cards and flowers had started to arrive, Aretha strictly forbidding any further visitors. He knew he was taking too much pride in himself, that the flattery and rave reviews were finding fertile ground, but there was not too much harm in it now. His coffee arrives in the predawn, perfect as always with Aretha. He savours it, a coffee, a smoke, the predawn quiet and stillness and he knows he is ready. A final sip, one last drag, and this time when the cock crows Flynn does not hear it.
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