The Golden Scrolls: The Task

Chapter One of The Golden Scrolls. A new chapter will be added each week.

by Tavis J. Hampton 

 

The village fair was alive with the sounds of children playing, chickens pecking here and there, and women laughing over cups of tea and sweet-smelling bread. Travelers came from afar to purchase rare jewels and trade their goods with each other. A single man would leave married, and an empty-handed child would leave with pockets full of trinkets and knickknacks from faraway lands.

When Fuad arrived at the fair, however, none of these attractions tempted him into abandoning his goal, which was the Storyteller. To all young people of Cor, Fuad’s kingdom, it was the Storyteller who was the heart and essence of the fair.

 

The Storyteller perched on his wooden stool like an old owl searching for its nightly prey. It was not the field mice, however, that drew the attention of this wise storyteller, but the children who were his prizes of the evening. As he ran his aged and wrinkled fingers through the strands of his gray beard, he held out his other hand in a slow waving motion over the crowd of children and youths.

 

Fuad, mindful of the crowd that was gathering, quickly moved to the front so that he was sure to hear every word from the lips of the Storyteller. As always, every word was crucial to understanding the true meaning of the story. Many great men had heard the words of the Storyteller and changed their lives completely because of his wisdom and insight into the lives of the people of Cor.

 

The wise Storyteller began, “Spirits and men alike have searched for the Golden Scrolls. Wretched beasts and beautiful maidens, tiny farmers and giant wrestlers have all trekked through the deserts and jungles, only to find despair and agony, but the Golden Scrolls have eluded them. Death and misery can they end; hatred and persecution can they remove; loneliness and depression can they cure. Evil hides its face from them; wise men give their lives for them. But no one has seen their glistening letters. No one has felt their delicate pages. No one has experienced their blissful treasures. Ah but I, my friends, have seen them with my eyes as clearly as you see this hair on my chin. But now my eyes have failed this old body, and I can no longer see as I once did.”

 

“Who?” shouted the Storyteller as he rose from his perch like the owl preparing to strike.

 

“Who will rise and search for the missing Golden Scrolls? Who among you will claim these scrolls and return happiness to this Cor of yours? Who?”

 

Fuad immediately rose from his dusty seat and exclaimed, “I will, Storyteller!”

 

The Storyteller squinted at Fuad’s tiny frame, but he was unable to see him clearly. He ran his withered hands over the boy with gentleness and for a moment saw clearly the sparkle of the evening sunset in the eyes of Fuad.

 

“Sit down, boy,” said the Storyteller.

 

Fuad slowly returned to his seat, unsure why people around him were beginning to chuckle. He knew he was small, but he also knew that he could find the scrolls. His mother always told him that the Hadra would protect even the weak, and that anyone could achieve what he desired, if it was done with the power of the Hadra. He took these words to heart and often dreamed of bringing back the prosperity and ease of life that was once enjoyed by the people of Cor. Poverty was now commonplace among the Corian people. One might ask why such poor people would have a fair, but the people of Cor held their traditions dearly to their hearts and would not give them up, even in impoverished and destitute conditions.

 

When the Storyteller had finished and all of the people began to leave, Fuad again stood before the Storyteller, this time with sadness on his face. “Why do you tell stories like this if no one will do what you say?”

 

“Ah,” said the old man, “Many will do as I say, and many more will perish trying.”

 

“Then tell me where I can find these scrolls,” replied the boy, who was then beginning to raise his voice.

 

“Calm yourself boy. You are too young for such a journey, and I am too old to guide you there myself.”

 

“Just tell me where. I will go there when I am older, if the Hadra permits it.”

 

The Storyteller thought for a moment and then said, “All right. I will tell you how to reach your destination, but beware. The path which you have chosen is arduous, and very few have returned alive.”

 

“I will not fail the people of Cor,” Fuad insisted, with a new wave of confidence flowing through the inside of his body.

 

The Storyteller handed Fuad a golden key. On the key were engraved the words, “Qalb” on one side and “Fuad” on the other. Fuad thought that it was rather neat that this key had his name on it, but he paid it little attention, as his mind began to race with excitement about his pending mission.

 

Before Fuad left, the Storyteller spoke again, “Listen to me, boy, for I do not know if I will see another fair. Death is approaching me, and I am unsure if I will see the Golden Scrolls again before I am laid to rest. Heed my words carefully, and what I do not tell you, do not question, for I am old, and my words must be few.”

 

The old man continued, “There are three mountains beyond the valley of Cor. On the top of each mountain is a house made of wood. Go to the first house and ask the man for a bronze key. He will not want to give you the key, but show him your golden key, and he will give it to you. On the next mountain, ask the woman in the house for a silver key. Tell her that I have sent you. She will give you warm clothes and supplies so that you can make the journey over the last mountain, which is snow-covered and filled with obstacles that I struggled to overcome even when I was young like you. Finally, when you reach the third house, you will meet a Guide who lives alone, if he is still there at all, and he knows where to find the keepers of the Golden Scrolls. He will ask you for the three keys and then will ask you three questions. When you have answered the questions, the scrolls will be…”

The man began to cough violently. He held his chest and grasped, with his other hand, Fuad's shoulder, in order to balance himself. He looked at Fuad and said, “Take me home please. I am sick and need to see my wife while I am still able to talk.”

 

“I will,” said Fuad, “but what are the three questions?”

 

“I told you boy, do not ask that which I refrain from telling you. I was never able to answer the questions and have forgotten them. Answer from your heart, and perhaps your answers will be correct.”

 

Fuad took the old man home and then parted ways with him, not knowing if he would ever see the old man alive again. As he lay in bed that night, Fuad envisioned his journey. He had read of the adventures of many great men and women from Cor. He smiled at the thought of being remembered among them. How he would manage to succeed in such an adventure and how he would convince his mother to allow him to go had not yet entered into his mind.

 

As the sun rose and the smell of fresh porridge emanated from the kitchen, Fuad was already awake and still pondering over his meeting with the old man. He entered the kitchen, greeted his mother, and began talking immediately, “Mother, I have something to ask you.”

His mother, with her warm smile and affectionate voice answered him, “Please Fuad, sit down and ask me while we eat.”

 

When they had begun eating, Fuad paused to stare out of the window. He could see the three mountains, surrounded by fog, from their house, which was at the edge of the valley, just past the foothills. “Mother,” he said, “I wish to take a journey to find the Golden Scrolls.”

 

His mother continued to smile in the way that she always did when Fuad asked for something. This surprised him greatly. It was as if he had asked for a pet lynx or a wooden wagon. His facial expression changed as he set down his spoon next to his bowl of half-eaten porridge. “Mother, did you hear what I said?”

 

His mother reached for his cheeks with her soft hands, which seemed to hardly reveal the amount of work that she actually did in the field every day. She held his face close to her own and stared into his innocent eyes, which always seemed to perfectly reflect whatever was in front of them, more so than any other eyes.

 

“Fuad, my child, I have known that this day would come. When you were born, our people's elders told your father and me about the scrolls and told us that you would be the one to find them. It was foretold, and it is your destiny.”

 

A sense of honor filled Fuad, as he realized how proud his mother was that he had reached this point, but his mind immediately shifted to the task that was ahead of him. He then knew that the porridge before him may be the last meal from his mother that he would ever taste. Fuad kissed his mother and then set off to the shed to collect supplies for his journey.

 

When he reached the shed, Fuad’s father was already hard at work preparing supplies for his son’s journey. This again took Fuad by surprise, but he was, by then, too excited to slow down his pace and ponder over the events of the past two days. Instead, with a pack on his back, a map in one hand, and a walking staff in the other, Fuad hugged his parents and set off on his journey that afternoon.

 

As he passed over the foothills of Cor Valley, and his house slowly became a distant speck on the horizon, Fuad’s eyes caught their first real glimpse of the mighty mountain in front of him. The fog had cleared from the first mountain, and he could see its peak from the foothills. Unlike the next two mountains, the first one was low, and the hike to the top of it was rather easy.

 

Every step was taken by Fuad with such enthusiasm that several times, he nearly tripped and fell due to his reckless march up the steepening hill. This first mountain was covered with fresh spring grass, and the smell that drifted over it tickled Fuad’s nose and made his journey pleasant and relaxing.

 

Before he had time to get tired, Fuad found himself at the doorstep of the first house. The house was made of wood, but grass and vines had grown over it, as if it was no longer inhabited. Fuad now realized that he had seen this house from the foothills, but it so resembled a large stone covered with moss, that he had not realized what it was. Fuad knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He entered the house and was immediately seized by its darkness. It had no windows and only one room with a table and a small bed made of leaves.

 

A hand reached for Fuad and spun him around with relative ease. There standing in front of him was a small bearded man whose size easily concealed his true strength. “Several men much stronger than you have come, boy,” the man said. “Why do you think that you will succeed?”

 

“I have faith that I will succeed,” said Fuad confidently.

 

“Faith is good,” said the old man, “but what you say and what you believe may not be the same. Death is formidable, and those who meet with it often turn away from the path that is true. None can escape his destiny, but even men of valor still flee from it.”

 

Fuad was puzzled by the man’s discourse, but decided against debating with him. Instead, he simply turned towards the man with a stern but youthfully amusing look and said, “I have brought with me the golden key.” He pulled the key from his backpack and held it before the old man’s hazel eyes.

 

“Indeed you have,” said the old man. “Take then this old bronze key that is tarnished and tired, like the one who possesses it. Perhaps it will be of more use to an innocent youth, such as you.”

Fuad smiled, as he thought to himself that this was too easy. Already he had completed the first task and was soon on his way to the next mountain. In his excitement, he forgot his manners and did not speak another word to the old man, as he bolted out of the shack and down the mountain.

 

The old man, sensing the boy’s haphazard attitude, called out to him, “Be careful boy, the mountain is deceiving, watch your…”

 

Fuad let out a scream, “Ahhhhhhh!”

 

Bum-de-bum-de-bum-de-bum-de-bum, was the sound he heard as he tumbled down the lumpy mountain. Fuad saw the world spinning around him, and he began to imagine that he might reach the bottom of this mountain and meet his end. Before he could finish his prayer, however, he landed with a splash in some muddy water that lingered at the bottom of the first mountain.

 

In front of Fuad was a foreboding swamp. The stillness of the water and the silence of the surroundings gave Fuad a chill, and he began to wonder why the Storyteller had not mentioned the swamp in his description of the journey. Fuad, trying to regain his confidence, thought that perhaps the swamp’s journey was so easy that it was not worth mentioning.

 

As he began to walk, he brushed off the grass and leaves that had stuck to him on his less than graceful descent of the mountain. Every step that he made was accompanied by a squishing sound of the mushy marsh beneath him. The more he walked, the more Fuad began to wonder if he was even going the right way. From the top of the first mountain, the second mountain seemed so close. Now, he could not even see either mountain from the dark canopy of trees that hovered over the swamp.

 

Nevertheless, Fuad continued squishing over the marsh and splashing through the pools of muddy water. He carried on this way for at least 20 minutes when something no longer felt right. He stopped but heard nothing. Then, he began to walk again and could hear the sounds of squishes beneath his feet, but it sounded different. He stopped again, but this time the squishing did not stop. He was being followed.

 

Fuad’s knees began to tremble. Should he run or turn and fight? Since he had no idea what was following him, he decided to run. Now running in the swamp would be no easy task. He tripped several times and nearly fell flat on his face. After a few minutes of running, he no longer heard the footsteps.

 

“How ya doing?” a voice suddenly said.

 

Fuad’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest as he turned around to see what was behind him, but he saw nothing. He turned back around and jumped at the sight of the large rodent in front of him. “A rat?” Fuad asked, puzzled.

 

“Actually, I’m a nutria,” clarified the brown furry creature.

 

“Um, you, eh, well, you talk?” Fuad said, trying to think of the right words to say to a nutria.

 

The Nutria stood up on his hind legs and turned his head sideways, as if to size up the boy, “Of course I talk. Now what are you doing down here in my swamp?”

 

“Your swamp?” asked Fuad. “I’m on a journey to find the Golden Scrolls. This swamp is just in my way.”

 

“You come into my swamp and then have the nerve to say it’s in your way? You homans are always so rude!”

 

Fuad laughed. “That’s humans, not homans.”

 

“Whatever!” said the nutria in a perturbed voice. “The point is, this is my swamp. If you want to get out of it alive, you’ll need my help.”

 

“Oh, yes, I wouldn’t want to get eaten by another nutria,” Fuad said, with a childish grin.

 

“Listen funny-boy, those steps you heard behind you, the ones that made you run like a white-tailed deer. Those were the footsteps of an alligator. You came mighty close to stepping on her eggs.”

 

Fuad was speechless.

 

The nutria grinned, that is, as much as nutrias can grin. He said, “Look, my name is Miftah. I’ll be your guide through the forest. The keeper of the second house sent me to fetch you and bring you to her.”

 

“Well, why didn’t you say that in the first place?” asked Fuad, who was now feeling a little safer.

 

“I thought I’d have a little fun with you first. Homans make me laugh.”

 

Fuad was tempted to kick the nutria for scaring him like that, but he figured that he had better not risk losing his chance at finding the second house. Instead, he picked himself off of the ground, to which he had fallen when the nutria startled him, and followed Miftah through the darkest and most frightening parts of the swamp.

 

The eerie silence of the swamp was occasionally broken when Miftah would stop to tell a silly joke. Fuad could tell that Miftah did not have many friends. Despite this, he would smile at every joke, even though they were not funny.

 

Before long, the two companions came to the end of the swamp. The canopy of trees served as a door to the clearing ahead of them. When Fuad stepped into the clearing, amazement immediately overcame him. There before him was the second mountain, which possessed splendor like Fuad had never before witnessed. The hillside was adorned with flowers of every breed, trickling springs of crystal clear water, butterflies of every design, birds singing the sweetest song, and blades of grass that seemed to dance in the wind to the rhythm of the birds’ song.

 

Fuad began to wonder if perhaps he had died when he stumbled down the first mountain and was now entering the gates of Paradise. He could have stood for an eternity, in the same spot, gazing at the beautiful mountain, before his moment of clarity was cut short by the bothersome nutria. “Come on, boy,” said Miftah. “I haven’t all day to be gazing at butterflies.”

 

Fuad again contemplated kicking the nutria but instead asked, “Do you not ever ponder over the beauty of nature, Miftah?”

 

Miftah gave no answer and scurried up the mountainside, the way nutrias do.

 

When the two arrived at the second house, it was, like the first house, nothing impressive. This house, however, had a very inviting aura about it. One could tell that it was inhabited by someone who welcomed visitors. The house was made of dried mud covered with palm fibers making up the roof. A long wooden pipe rose from the back and puffed out steam like a tea kettle.

 

Miftah stood by the door and waited for the boy to catch up. When Fuad reached the doorstep of the house, he looked down at Miftah. “Well go ahead,” said Miftah. “Knock.”

 

The boy knocked on the wooden reed door. The woman who opened the door took Fuad by surprise. He had expected an elderly lady. Instead, he was greeted by a middle-aged woman, whose radiance was immediately captivating. She was a beautiful petite woman with high cheek bones and mahogany eyes. She tightened the scarf draped over her head and stepped to the side so that Miftah and Fuad could enter her cozy abode.

 

The woman looked down at Miftah as if he were her long lost husband, “How are you sweetie? I’ve prepared some grub for you. You know, I was not expecting such a young boy.”

 

“Yes,” said Miftah. “He is younger than usual, but he has high spirits.”

 

The woman flipped one end of the shawl that was draped over her shoulders over her neck so that she could reach down into her pot without getting her clothes wet. Fuad noticed that her hands almost had a glow to them as if she kept them in a glass case and only used them once a year. She reminded him of his mother and how her hands never revealed that she was a woman of the field.

 

“So, please, tell me. What is your name, young man?” the woman asked with a smile on her face.

 

“My name is Fuad, son of Abbas."

 

The woman then stared at the boy as if she had lost something and had now found it. “Your name is on the key?” the woman asked, although she was well aware of the answer.

 

“Umm, yes,” said Fuad. “It is the key that the wise Storyteller gave to me. He said that you would give me the silver key.”

 

The woman smiled and turned her head to the side much in the same way that the nutria had done when it met him. “Oh, but young man, you already have the silver key.”

 

“No, you’re supposed to give it to me,” argued Fuad, who now began to think that the woman may not quite be sane.

 

“I already gave you the key, my child.”

 

Just then, Miftah stood up on his hind legs and pointed to his chest. “Take a good look, baby,” he said, as he ran his paw over the silver stripe that ran down his chest and belly.

 

“I don’t understand,” said Fuad. “You are the key?”

 

“Miftah means key, boy. I’m Miftah, so I’m the key."

 

The woman could sense the confusion on Fuad’s face. She took his backpack and set it on the floor next to the door. “Let us not trouble ourselves with these matters now. You will eat with us, and then you will stay the night. Tomorrow, you can begin your journey to the third house.”

 

Until now, Fuad never considered whether the woman was trustworthy. He was then still a boy, only reaching 12 years of age several months ago. Would it be wise to stay with a strange woman and a talking nutria? Fuad’s uncertainty dissipated when the woman put a piece of bread into his mouth. The immense flavor of the bread was uncanny. Ever since Fuad had emerged from the swamp, his senses seemed to be magnified tenfold.

 

The woman took a ladle and collected a healthy portion of stew into a bowl, handing it to Fuad. She also took a spoonful of rice and dropped it into the bowl of stew. The smell of the stew was almost intoxicating to Fuad. Later, he would come to regret such indulgence.

 

When Fuad had finished the stew, he began to tell the woman about his journey. She sat in a rocking chair with her shawl now draped over her legs. She reached for a dusty book that was on the shelf behind her. She smiled at Fuad and began to tell him what would happen on the rest of his journey.

 

“Tomorrow, you must leave before sunrise in order to meet with the Guide. He spends the dawn hour in meditation, after the Morning Prayer. Afterwards, he starts his daily routine. You must catch him at the 10 minute interval between the meditation and the daily routine. If you miss this time, you will have to wait until the next day, as the Guide will not see anyone after his daily routine begins.”

 

The woman turned the dusty deerskin pages of the book and continued, “When the Guide sees that you have come for the scrolls, you must show him the three keys. He will ask you three questions. If you answer them correctly, he will tell you where to find the Golden Scrolls.”

 

Fuad began to ask the woman what the three questions were, but his eyes became heavy. He struggled to stay awake, but the woman’s face soon appeared blurry. His lips felt as if they were too heavy to open, and Fuad soon fell into a heavy sleep.

 

Just before dawn, Fuad awoke in the bedroom of the woman’s house. The entire house was dark, and there was no sign of anyone else inside. Fuad arose from bed, still wearing the clothes from the previous night. As he began to prepare for the morning meditation, he noticed that Miftah was tucked into his backpack and fast asleep. He tried to wake Miftah, but it was as if he was hibernating.

 

With a loud crash, the window was violently blown open by a freezing shot of air that hit Fuad’s young face like a ball of needles. He quickly closed the window, but curiously looked out to see from where such cold air had come. To his surprise, the mountain was covered in snow. The flowers, the butterflies, the birds, everything was gone. Only the whistling of the harsh wind could be heard.

 

Fuad was frightened and confused. Where had the woman gone? Why was the mountain now covered in a snow storm when it was, only yesterday, alive with spring? Why was Miftah in an uninterruptible sleep? How would Fuad find the third house without someone to guide him?

 

To be continued...

 

A new chapter will be released next week, or you can order the entire book now at GoldenScrolls.com