Spafford and The Lost Chronicler

A fantasy story about a fantasy writer.

The Chronicler stood in a field of long wild grasses and stared at the clay colored dirt that lay almost hidden beneath the sea of green blades.  The sky was filled with large puffy clouds that blazed with a bright orange from the setting crimson son.  The long reeds of wild grass swayed in the warm wind that blew from the eastern sea.  The wind blew through the silvery hair of the Chronicler, hair that resembled the crown of an aged sage, although his appearance was that of a man in his twenties.  He wore a long flowing tan robe with a crimson breastplate, armlets, and leg plates, which sat firmly on top of the cloth.  He held open an old leather bound tome with his left hand while his right hand feverishly scrolled words from a silver feather quill.  A small two foot olive drab imp sat on his right shoulder looking at his master's work.  The little creature's hands were covered in ink stains and he kept pressing his index finger on his upper lip and leaving a black stain.

"Master," the little imp said in small voice, "I think the field could use a few rocks to spruce up the earthy tones… maybe… over there."

The writer looked up for a moment at where the little creature was pointing.  A small empty knoll covered in grass and a few flowers sat juxtaposed to the evening sunlight and cast a faint shadow towards the two observers.  

"You are absolutely right Spafford," the Chronicler said as he turned his gaze back to the pages.  Within an instant the Chronicler had jotted down a string of words.  As he dotted the final period the knoll began to shake and sputter as it belched out a large crag of gray stone.

"Spafford," the Chronicler started, "despite how lovely this field is now, I cannot get out of my mind the image of a hundred dead staining this hill with their blood."

Spafford watched the agony come across his Master's face as the silver quill penned another line of text.  He did not like to see his master suffer.  

"Was it a great and glorious battle that took place here?"  Spafford said trying to find some encouragement.

"Sadly," the Chronicler sided, "this battle was fought by a fool and many sons lost their lives to a ruthless enemy."

Spafford watched the field as thousands of fallen soldiers began to emerge from the grass.  Their suits of armor were stained with blood and their lifeless faces looked on with an expressionless gaze as they stared at nothing.  Large black crows began to gather on top of the piles of dead men and the silence of the crimson hillside was broken by the eerie sound of a hundred crows cackling in the distance.

"I do so hate crows!" Spafford said in disgust, "They are such ugly birds."

"You know, Spafford, there is a legend that says crows are a sign of death."

"Did you write that?"

"No," the Chronicler chuckled, "those words were pinned by someone else."

"I wish they would just leave.  They have a tendency to peck at one such.  I really don't like it."

"They won't bother us."

"If you say so, but I still don't like them."

The Chronicler continued to write keeping his focus on the quill as it danced across the page.  Spafford just looked around the battle field surveying the carnage from his master's shoulder.  Various swords, shields, and spears stood erect and unattended as the birds gathered and perched on blood stained hilts.

"Look over there!"  Spafford said as he pointed to an older man dressed in a lavish suit of polished armor.  The older man was very hefty in size and his limp body lay across a red and yellow banner half covered in mud.  The banner had the symbol of a yellow bird with outstretched wings on top of a red background with a single yellow angled strip running from the top to the bottom of the flag.  The same symbol was painted on the front of the older man's suit of armor.

"Must have been some kind of knight or prince?"

"That is King Omar of the kingdom of Solum, "The Chronicler replied, "he lead these young warriors to this tragic end."

"He must have had a good reason for fighting as he did?"

"His intentions were honorable but his wisdom was lacking."

"What happened?"

"It all started when a young prince decided to adventure in the valley of Tumsrah several leagues west of here.  He awakened a great evil in his foolish quest for glory and now that evil has swept across the land in hope of conquering all that is good."

"Sounds like a classic good versus evil fantasy story."

"Yeah," the Chronicler said with a sigh, "my thought was to have an old sage who receives this vision about how to stop the forces of evil but no one listens to him and he has to build a rag tag group of adventures to complete the vision and fulfill the quest."

"Sounds typical, what's the catch?"

"The villain is the young crusading prince possessed by an evil sword."

"So hero turns evil?"

"Yeah, and then he turns back to good when the sage and his band find phoenix's blood which is the only thing that can break the power of the sword."

"Sounds interesting enough…"

"But also redundant and cliché.  I don't know…  do I really want to write a fantasy story?"

The Chronicler shook his head and tore out the top page from the tome.  Within an instant he crumpled up the page and tossed it to the side.  As the page hit the ground it disappeared and along with it all the dead the bodies, weapons, and cackling crows vanished from the field.  All that was left was swaying grass, the Chronicler and Spafford.

"Master," Spafford said with a sign, "You really need to get around to writing something."

"Yes, I know.  It's just that I'm looking for something that says 'me'."

"'Says Me?'"

"Yeah, you know, something that is my own work."

"If I may say master…"

"You may."

"If you don't get around to writing something then you will never write anything."

"That's true… but what to write?"

The Chronicler closed the tome and slumped to the ground.  Spafford climbed off his shoulder and walked around in front of the Chronicler's gaze as he looked fare off at the sunset.  The Chronicler sat on the green grass with his head in his hands.  Several minutes passed in silence until the Chronicler suddenly looked up at Spafford with excitement.

"Spafford," he asked, "what is your story?"

"My story?"  Spafford asked with surprise.

"You are an ink imp, which, if I may say is a unique creation, and the fact that you are a good and helpful imp must be a rarity.  I mean, you must have a rather interesting and peculiar story."

"I would love to tell the Master my story, but Master has not given me a story yet."

"Oh," the Chronicler replied as the excitement died, "that's right."

The two slumped down in the grass and just stared at the setting sun in silence.  Its crimson hues cascade across the deep blue of the ocean that spread out beneath the vista of the rising hillside.

"How long is it going to take the sun to set?" Spafford asked.

"Maybe just a few more hours," The Chronicler replied with a smile, "it's hard to write in the dark."

"You're just making excuses because you like sunsets so much."

"True…"