The Taleweaver's Apprentice

A follow-up to the Taleweaver. Another brain on paper, like most of these others, of course. Enjoy!

 "And now, take a few threads of suspense. No, not that much. Just a bit, just enough to make the story... ah. No. Take it down, and let's try it again."

The Apprentice swallowed hard, fighting tears as he removed the tangled mess that passed for the start of his story. Why was it so hard? He'd been studying with the Taleweaver for two long years. Why couldn't he get it right?

So much depended on him. Or so he had been told. He didn't understand what was so important about a lot of silly stories, most of which were about people that had lived long ago. People he didn't even know. But it was better than being just another hunter. Forced to kill animals for food, forced to spend days traipsing around the woods away from the family. That was a life he definitely didn't want. So he would keep trying.

He decided that he had been trying too hard, as usual. He needed to use less thread, keep the story lighter. Choosing a ball of Character, he started weaving a more light-hearted tale.

The Taleweaver was pleased, at first. "Very good. Don't forget to add a little Setting. Even though most of those that hear your tales will know very well that these tales take place here where we are, not all of them do. You must be sure... no. That's not right at all! Just... just stop for now."

The shuttles were lowered as he looked over his work. It was better, certainly. But not good enough. His Character thread had gotten hopelessly lost as he used far too much Setting.

The Taleweaver stood. "It has been a long day, and I must prepare my loom for tomorrow night's tale. You may watch me weave, of course. You are always welcome here."

The Apprentice wasn't so sure. He stood, his head hanging low, and started to wrap loose threads back onto the balls. Keeping them neat was something he was good at. Probably the only thing.

When he finished, he swept the floor, then started for the door, but his master called him back. "My dear boy... I am sorry if I seemed harsh. There is something I want you to remember."

He looked up, into the master's eyes. There was a twinkle there, something between Humor and Empathy. "Every Taleweaver is different," the old man said softly. "No two are alike. And so no two Taleweavers have the same way of weaving their tales. You will find your way. I'm sure of it."

He nodded, feeling just a bit better. Someday, perhaps he would weave these lessons as a Cautionary Tale for his own future student. Quietly, he left the hut to return to his own home.

*     *     *

The next day he was shaken awake at daybreak by his mother, who had a dark crease of worry across her head. "You must go, quickly! The Taleweaver has fallen very ill."

His heart plummeted. He threw on his clothes and raced across the village to the hut surrounded by brightly woven tapestries of Tales of the past. What had happened? Had his master been so discouraged by his failures that it had made him ill?

The villagers had surrounded the hut, watching, but they recognized him and let him through. The Taleweaver was on his bed, his face pale and drawn with great pain. His wife was by his side, speaking softly to him. She glanced at the Apprentice with something that might pass for an encouraging smile and waved for him to join her.

"Master... are you going to be all right?" the Apprentice asked.

"I... fear not. My time is... very near."

That was the very last thing any of them wanted to hear!

"I'm not ready, Master! Please don't leave us."

The old man turned his head, his eyes still twinkling as they had the night before. "You no longer need my instruction," he insisted, sounding like he was trying to speak as strongly as possible. "There is nothing more I can teach you. There is something in you... something buried deep. But you must find it. This village... our people... they need you. Without you, without your tales, without the art and history of our forefathers... we are nothing."

The Apprentice blinked. He'd never heard anyone put it in those terms before. "Master... perhaps someone else would be better-"

"No. There is no time for anyone else, and no one has the depth of heart and spirit that you do. Please, do not give up."

The Apprentice bowed his head. "I promise, Master. I will keep trying. I... I won't give up."

*     *     *

And so he didn't. The Taleweaver passed away that evening, and the burden of carrying on his work fell to his Apprentice. The Taleweaver's wife insisted that the loom and threads stay where they were, as the Taleweavers had always lived there, ever since the beginning of memory. The Apprentice was invited to work there whenever he wished, and he spent many long hours at the hut, attempting to weave tales as his master had.

But he failed, every time. The stories came out harsh and jarring, or simply made no sense at all. He just didn't understand. Why had his master insisted that he continue? Anyone could do better than this!

As the long days continued with no Tales being told, something strange happened to the village. The people started to fade. At first, it was simply their mood that dropped. They seemed tired and depressed. Then, the color started to leave the village. The huts, the people, the forest around... it all turned gray and lifeless. The only exception was the Tales that hung around the hut. The Tales of the past. They remained as beautiful and vibrant as the day they were woven. 

The villagers would come and stand at the hut, looking fondly at the Tales with sad smiles. Their color seemed to return, just a little, as they looked over the Tales and remembered the Taleweaver telling them. But upon returning to their chores, the color faded again.

The Apprentice tried so hard, and they knew it. Often, they would see him sitting in the hut, several shuttles in hand, quietly chastising himself as he struggled to decide what to use next. But it was never good enough. Not even by their standards, which were decidedly more generous than the standard the Taleweaver had set for the young boy.

One afternoon, as the village was particularly quiet, the Apprentice stood, set the shuttles and threads in their places, and walked out. "I can't," he said softly. "Not now. Until I can figure out what's wrong with me, why I can't do it, I might as well not even try."

"But we need you," his father told him. "We need your tales. Without them, without the history of our people, we are nothing. Surely you can see that."

He looked around, at the people, so sad and lost. He sighed. "I know. I don't understand why it is so, and I am sorry. But it makes no sense to keep trying and failing."

"You only fail when you give up," his father reminded him. "Please... you made a promise. Do not break your word."

*     *     *

The next morning their spirits lifted as a caravan arrived, bringing strange and exciting trinkets from far away. The Apprentice had a surprise as his uncle brought him a gift. It was a beautiful, intricately carved mandolin.

"I thought if your weaving work didn't suit you, maybe you could try singing," his uncle guffawed, gently teasing. Uncle's eyes roved over the village, a slight frown coming to his face as he took in the state of the place. "I just... I don't understand. What happened here?"

"The Taleweaver died," The Apprentice explained. "And I haven't... I can't... I just can't do it. I haven't been able to weave a single Tale."

Uncle nodded in understanding, to his surprise. "I see. Well, none of us is woven of the same threads, and I'm sure it's no different for you and your Master. You will find your way. Hopefully soon... this place looks so sad and sickly without new Tales."

"I know," The Apprentice said flatly. "I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Uncle motioned toward the mandolin. "Maybe you've been trying too hard. Take a break, try something new. Being good at one thing doesn't mean you can never do anything else."

He had a point. The Apprentice wandered over to the hut, ignoring the loom as he sat down, and started plucking at the strings. They had a pleasant hum, a hum that seemed to resonate deep inside of him. He played with the mandolin all day, trying bits of melody, adding in a few words here and there. Songs he knew, songs his mother had sung when he was very little.

As the days passed, he spent only a little time with the loom, instead playing his mandolin. He played it so long, some of the strings were starting to wear out. He worried that the others would be upset at him for neglecting his study, but they didn't. Away from the hut, out in the worry and care of real life, they didn't even seem to notice the grayness anymore. 

The children took notice of his music. They would come and sit in the door of the hut, listening intently. He could swear he could see a bit more color in their faces, a bit of a smile, a touch of laughter here and there. He took inspiration from the Tales hung on the walls and starting Singing them. 

Was it really just his imagination? No... the children definitely looked happier. There was a big smile on his little sister's cheeks, a hefty dose of pink on her lips. 

Then, disaster struck. A string broke on the mandolin. He removed the broken pieces, his heart sinking. How could he keep playing now? He decided to keep singing with the remaining strings. For a time, it seemed to help, but then one, and another, and another, until all but one of the strings was gone. He fought to keep playing, but it seemed useless. He could only play a few notes, very slowly.

His audience never went away. The mandolin seemed to give them just a bit of the hope they had lost. Even as it was slowly silenced, they didn't give up. They kept coming.

Finally, as he feared, the last string broke. He felt as broken as his beloved instrument. The mandolin had given him a chance to redeem himself, but now it was gone. His uncle's caravan wouldn't return for months, or even years. What could he possibly do, how could he possibly get new strings?

A thought occurred. It seemed ridiculous at first, but... it might be the only way. His master had woven with only the very best thread, spun from the wool of sheep from the high mountains. Sturdy and reliable. Maybe...

He picked up a ball of Plot, and considered it. It was absurd, but it was perhaps his only chance.

*     *     *

That night, the Council of Elders met to discuss the state of the village. "We have no choice," an Elder said. "We must leave the village and find new lives elsewhere."

"I think we are overreacting a bit," said another tartly. "The boy isn't even grown yet."

"He has cast aside his loom in favor of a toy," said a third grumpily.

"A toy that has brought at least a little bit of joy to the children," said the Eldest. "There may be something there. Something to explore."

"Before or after we fade into oblivion?" asked the first Elder.

"May I speak?"

They all looked at the Apprentice's father. He was well-respected among the men as being cunning, shrewd, and an excellent creator of Ideas. "I know that my son has struggled with learning his craft, and perhaps that is my fault. I had high expectations of him when I apprenticed him to the Taleweaver. He is a dreamer, an artist... I knew he would not fare well among the hunters. But... there is more than one kind of artist. Perhaps there is still a chance, if we just allow him to explore other Ideas."

The Eldest nodded. "I have not yet heard his mandolin for myself. Bring him before us, that we may judge its merit."

In just a few minutes, the Apprentice sat before the Elders, trembling. He was afraid... what if they decided the mandolin was too much trouble? What if they forced him to return to the loom and set aside the one thing that had brought him happiness since his master had died?

The only way that wouldn't happen was if he managed to tell a truly extraordinary Tale. And he would do it with the mandolin. He'd been singing the Tales for weeks. Was it really such a strange idea?

He lifted his instrument, set his fingers to the strings... then closed his eyes. He looked deep within himself for a Tale... and one finally came.

He started to sing, still keeping his eyes closed. He sang a Tale of a great explorer. A man of cunning, and heart. The man who had founded their village. His ancestor, the First Elder. He sang of his successes, his failures, his weaknesses, and his great strengths. He sang of the First Elder's joy when he became a father, and his great sorrow when his third child was born asleep, and never woke.

The village had never known a longer or more complex tale. He kept singing until the Tale felt like it had been told. His mandolin continued for a few moments, then it fell silent. He opened his eyes and looked around, his eyes widening in shock.

The color was back. His people were actually smiling, for the first time in months. When he stood, they all cheered him, congratulating him on his successful tale. He could hardly believe it. Was this what his master had meant? That his talent wouldn't necessarily be weaving at all?

The Eldest stood and came to his side, putting a hand on his shoulder and facing the rest of the village. "Tonight, we have witnessed a miracle beyond our understanding. We were all so focused on what we believed to be the answer to our problem, we neglected to look for any other answers. In my life and travels, I have heard of Singers and their talent, but never did I consider that we might have one in our own village. The Taleweaver was the keeper of our history, the teller of our Tales, and he did so in the form of his story threads. But now, his Apprentice has brought us a new form of Tales. Tales told in song, respecting his master with the use of his threads, but told in his own unique way.

"From this day on, our history, our art, and our people will be kept by a new, incredible artist. You are no longer an Apprentice. We are now in the capable hands of a Storysinger."

The village applauded again, and the Storysinger felt his heart swell with pride and gratitude. He'd done it. He'd found his own way. And yet, he felt a sense of loss, wondering how long his power would help his people if his Tales were not recorded in some kind of permanent way.

As the crowd ebbed, the parents taking children to bed, the Taleweaver's wife came to his side with a knowing smile. "He knew you would find your way. He was never sure what it would be, but he had a feeling that it wouldn't be the same as his. However... it seemed that there is power in the Tales beyond even his understanding."

The Storysinger frowned. "How so?"

She waved for him to follow. They went to the hut, he looked in, and stared.

On the loom, shimmering in the light of a lamp, was his Tale. He hadn't woven a single thread, and yet he knew it to be his. "How... did you do this?" he asked.

The wife shook her head. "No. The threads on your mandolin are still tied to the threads of this loom. As you Sang your Tale, it was woven by the threads, even if not by your hand. Your Tale is now part of the Tales of this village. A part of our history. And I'm sure my husband would be very proud of you."

Taking up the knife, the Storysinger carefully clipped the threads and tied them off, hanging his new Tale with the others outside of the hut. He smiled softly, wishing that his master could have been with him to share in the joy, and the triumph.

His Tales were not the same Tales as anyone else's. But they were just as valid, and just as powerful. And the Tale of his rise as the Storysinger soon joined the others, never to be forgotten.