The Craftsman

This is the first chapter of a longer work, but it stands as a story by itself. A mysterious man rumored to create instruments of remarkable quality lives as a hermit, or tries to, but is forced to deal with pestering fools. Magic may or may not be involv

 

Chapter One

 

            Fritus Winterkorn was not a particularly talented musician, nor was he especially pleasant to be around, and when he first came to the town of Higdon the villagers paid him no special attention, after all, there had been thousands of searchers before him. Despite this, he is now a local legend, simply because of all the searchers, he was the very last.

 

            “Oh look, here comes another one.”

            “What’s that he’s got with him?”

            “I think it’s a cello.”

            “Oh good, we don’t have many cellists.”

            “The poor dear, dragging that heavy thing all the way out here for nothing.”

            “Poor dear my arse. I wish the bloody lot of them would get on. They’re always making such a racket all the time. It gets so a fellow can’t sleep at night.”

            “Don’t be so harsh. They’re good for business. Those fools will buy anything. Why, this one guy that played the flute, I sold him a used corncob, three—”

            “I think there’s getting to be too many. I like our town small, and I don’t want it turning into a nasty, dirty city on account of that old fart.”

            “They’ll probably give up on him soon.”

            “Give up? Yeah right. It’s been two years, and it seems like we get a new one everyday.”

           

            “Excuse me,” said the cellist, “but could you tell me how to get to Strad Manor?”

            The fruit vendor pointed into the distance. “Old man Strad lives that way, on top of the hill, but you’re wasting your time going up there. He hasn’t made an instrument in years, doubt if he even can anymore.”

            A smug smile flashed across the cellist’s face. “Clearly you don’t understand. I am Fritus Winterkorn of Hamelin, cellist of the queen’s orchestra, first class, here on her majesty’s orders. I’m sure that something can be arranged.”

            “You’re not the first guy to get that idea into his head you know. It might not be quite as easy as you think.”

“I believe you underestimate my abilities. It would be a sin to deny an instrument to a man of my talents.”

The fruit vendor laughed under his breath. “Alright bub, don’t say I didn’t warn you. But if you’re really dead set on going, you’re going to need a helmet. I can sell ya one if you want, real cheap, what do you say?”

“And why on earth would I need a helmet?”

“Oh, trust me, you’ll need one.”

Winterkorn raised his nose at the vendor. “Thank you for your offer, sir, but I must be going, I don’t have time to waste talking such nonsense.”

 

The manor looked as if it were under siege. It stood on the top of a hill, surrounded by a sea of tents and campfires.

Winterkorn came to the base of the hill and called to the nearest peasant, “You, boy. I should like to speak with Sir Strad.”

“Yeah, you and half the whole world. Take a number.”

“Do not toy with me. This is of the utmost importance. If you do not fetch your master this instant, I shall see to it that you are severely punished.”

“Master? Who do you think you are!? You trying to pull my leg or something?”

“Are you not one of Sir Strad’s servants?”

The man nearly fell over laughing. “Servants? Strad doesn’t have any servants. The crazy git doesn’t even have any friends. He’s stayed locked up in his house ever since I came here. Only reason we know he’s still alive is that once a day he leans out the window and starts raising hell.”

“If all these people aren’t servants, what are they here for?”

“They’re hoping to get an instrument made, ya goof. If that’s what you’re hoping for, you might as well turn around and go home. Old Strad’s given up on making instruments, says it causes too much trouble. Besides, there’s hundreds of people been waiting since before you even wanna know. But hey, if you plan on staying, it doesn’t bother me. I can always use another customer. You’d be surprised what you can get for jelly beans around here. But if you’re not into those I got gum, chocolates, lollies, whatever floats your boat.”

Winterkorn straightened his collar and cleared his throat. “I shall keep that in mind, but I must speak to Strad, there has to be something I can do.”

            “Well, don’t try knocking on the door, it’s booby trapped. Stay away from the windows too, that is unless you like being tarred and feathered. Give me a minute to think.”

The candy salesman stroked his stubble for a moment.

“Well, he usually comes out around seven for the testing, I guess you could try talking to him then, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

            “Excellent,” said Winterkorn.

            “Oh yeah,” said the man, “one more thing.”

            “Yes?”

            “Did you bring a helmet?”

            “Of course not. Don’t act a fool.”

            “Alright, but you’re going to wish you had one later.”

 

            Winterkorn explored the camp. It didn’t take him long to realize why Strad refused to make instruments for such peasants. They were slobs; trash covered the ground, everyone belched wherever they bloody well pleased. There wasn’t a drop of classy blood in the place, besides Winterkorn’s own of course. He was confident that Strad would make an exception when he saw the type of man he was dealing with now.

            Winterkorn soon got tired of exploring and took a seat by one of the campfires. There were about ten men already sitting there, telling stories. He tried to ignore their idiotic babble and get some rest, but there were a few things he just couldn’t drown out.

            “I knew this guy that got a flute from Strad a few years back. It was something real special. When he played it, I don’t know how, but he could talk to animals, make ‘em do things, ya know?”

            “Bull.”

            “Yeah, bulls, frogs, whatever he felt like. I seen it with my own two eyes. This old lady had a cockroach infestation, something fierce. And this guy, all he did was play a few notes and sure as rain, all the roaches lined up and marched right into the lake. Drowned themselves.”

            “That’s nothing. You ever hear of King Rishel?”

            “King who?”

            “King Rishel. He was a real testy guy, almost anything could set him off. It seems like every other week he was starting another war. Anyway, this other king and him were palling around one night, drinking, and the other guy ended up telling Rishel he wanted to get with his wife.”

            “Aw man.”

            “Yeah, so you can guess what happened. Rishel got every man in his whole bleeding kingdom ready for war, even had a nice drum made by you know who. The war lasted thirty minutes. When they were marching on the city, as soon as they started playing that drum, the walls started crumbling. That little drum rocked the foundations of every house in the whole city. In half an hour, it was rubble.”

            “Yeah, I heard about that. Whatever happened to the drum?”

            “Someone stole it. Nobody knows who. Rishel got knifed in the back the next day. They never found the drum.”

            “I still think Sir Clowers’ violin was the best thing Strad ever made.”

            “Oh yeah, and what could it do?

            “I’ll say this much, Clowers was born a poor man but he died a king.”

            “So it made gold or something?”

            “Nah, better. What he did was play a love song for the queen of his kingdom. She was so taken with him that she had her husband killed just so she could marry Clowers. Now that’s a powerful instrument.”

            “That settles it, I’m asking for a vio—“

            There was a clash of symbols. A voice boomed through the camp.

           

“THE TESTING WILL BEGIN IN TWO MINUTES!”

           

Everyone was up and moving. People were running past Winterkorn in all directions.

           

“ASSUME YOUR POSITIONS!”

 

The musicians fought each other for the spaces behind the tents. They readied their instruments and built walls with the cases. There were ditches scattered throughout the camp and the smaller musicians were continually flung from them as they fought for cover.

            Winterkorn grabbed a lute player by the collar.

            “What’s going on here!?”

            “The testing! Take cover, quick. Go go go!”

            Winterkorn stayed in the middle of the field, sneering in disgust at the behavior of the peasants.

            “This is ridiculous.”

            Then he remembered what the candy man had said. The testing. Strad was going to come out! This was his chance. He rushed to the balcony.

            “Get away from there you idiot!” said someone.      

            “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I need to speak to Strad.”

            “Whatever you say man, no blood on my hands.”

 

            “THE TESTING WILL BEGIN IN TEN SECONDS!”

 

            “But really, you should probably move…”

 

            “HELMETS ON! HELMETS ON!”

 

            Winterkorn looked up to the balcony. The door was beginning to open. Out walked an imposing figure, tall, but thinned and weakened by age. His head held onto a few loyal tufts of snow white hair.

            He walked to the end of the balcony, slow, but steady. He put his hands on the railing and leaned forward. Winterkorn could barely contain his excitement. What words of wisdom would come from the mouth of this ancient man?

“Get the hell off my property! I’m tired of all you wankers ruining my peace and quiet with your godawful excuse for music. I don’t care how good you think you are, or how loud you play, I’m not making any more instruments. Ever. Not for anybody. If you stay here, whatever happens is your own fault, and that’s a warning.”

Strad stormed back into his mansion. The musicians began to play, each one trying to be louder than the next. The notes were undistinguishable, coming together to create a deafening roar of mangled sound.

Strad’s mansion began to shake, and the windows began to rattle, and the foundations began to rock and Winterkorn began to think that maybe he should find a new place to stand. He ran into the closest ditch and curled into a ball, hands over his head, cowering in fear.

Good thing too, because seconds later a baby grand piano crashed through a second story window, sailed through the air and landed exactly where Winterkorn had stood only moments before, shattering into countless shards of splintered wood.

That was just the beginning. An entire bathroom flew from the window, piece by piece. First the bathtub, then the toilet, and finally the sink. Next came a bag of rocks, followed by a bronze, life-size statue of a giraffe. The onslaught continued for a good fifteen minutes and included such things as portraits, bacon and licorice.

            For a moment the attack stopped, and the musicians smiled. Perhaps they had finally won. But then Strad appeared at the window, holding a burlap sack and giving it a little shake, causing a metallic clinking sound.

 

            “HE’S GOT THE SPOONS!”

 

            There was a panic. Cutlery rained down upon the musicians. They broke ranks and chaos seized the camp. They were finally forced to fall back, dropping their instruments in their haste. Silence.

            When the dust cleared they saw that a few good men had lost their lutes, but there were no other casualties. A man in red stepped from the crowd.

            “Good job men, I think we’re wearing him down. Did you see that giraffe? A giraffe, honestly. He’s getting desperate with his ammunition. I’m sure we’ll have our instruments made any day now. Just stay positive and get some rest for tomorrow.”

            Winterkorn was shaking in his ditch, his hair disheveled, his royal tunic torn and his confidence shattered. It didn’t take him long to decide that having a Strad crafted cello wasn’t that important after all.

 

 

Author's Note

Be Brutal, Be Constructive

Reviews

[Heretic]

Ha ha ha, this was absolutely great. I thoroughly enjoyed every word. The "helmet" bit, the two vendors at the beginning, the stories of previous instruments made, and the "testing" at the end. It was great.

My only problem was the sentence, "What ever floats your boat" I feel that that saying is a little too modern for this story. I could be wrong. That saying could have originated way back in the day.

I am also curious with the beginning dialogue. Was there a reason that you don't distinguish who is talking or what actions they make while speaking? It's obvious that after Winterkorn makes contact, the two talking are the vendors. I was just curious, that's all. I don't think there is anything, necessarily, wrong with it.

I also enjoyed Winterkorn's personality and character. Not that I like people like that, but I enjoyed that you were able to keep his character consistent.

The story was well written. It kept my interest and was definitely humorous. It flowed and moved along very nicely. All around, good job.