Prologue (Meet the Narrator)
“Someone needs to tell those tales. When the battles are fought and won and lost, when the pirates find their treasures and the dragons eat their foes for breakfast with a nice cup of Lapsang souchong, someone needs to tell their bits of overlapping narrative. There's magic in that. It's in the listener, and for each and every ear it will be different, and it will affect them in ways they can never predict. From the mundane to the profound. You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone's soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose. That tale will move them and drive them and who knows what they might do because of it, because of your words. That is your role, your gift. Your sister may be able to see the future, but you yourself can shape it, boy. Do not forget that... there are many kinds of magic, after all.”
-Erin Morgenstern
In a local port town in the south (and I mean way down south) an old man stood on a sand ridden sidewalk, not far from the ship ports. He took a breath in and smelled the salty sea air permeating in the wind. “Today…” he whispered to himself. “Today… I will find my audience. I will find those that will listen to what I have to say. And what I will relinquish upon mortal ears will forever be remembered.” He looked down to the wooden soapbox that was his stage. He took his step up, combed his greasy hair back and adopted the composure of a professional speaker, back straight and chest out. He took in a large breath and spoke out in a loud but even voice towards the townsfolk.
“For generations, mankind has pondered on the great questions of life. Where do we come from? What is our purpose? What happens after we die?”
Ploop!
A small drop of rain fell on the old man’s dirty gray fedora.
“And will the weatherman be right for once?”
The old man, wearing a dirty gray suit, glared at the dark, bruised clouds that mocked him and raised a fist in anger at the forces of nature that have forsaken him, all composure completely thrown out the window. “If you say sunny skies you better mean it, dammit! I want to be able to sunbath with a piece of tinfoil that was used to wrap tacos!”
“Mama, what’s wrong with the funny man?”
“Just keep walking sweetie and don’t make eye-contact.”
The fellow pedestrians that shared the street with the seemingly deluded man either started moving towards the outskirts of the sidewalk, fearing him as a one would fear a mad dog, or started snickering under their breaths, as one would treat the town drunkard. But whether people feared or laughed at him, there was one rule that most people followed when you meet others like the old man. You don’t move towards them, you don’t make eye contact, and you definitely don’t talk to them.
“Oi! Old man?”
“Most”… was the key word by the way.
The young fool was a local by the name of Marco; a young man in his twenties wearing a button khaki shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of jeans, and a pair of brown leather boots. He was healthy young man, clean shaven except for the small goatee he had on his chin, and he bared long black hair fashioned into a ponytail under the black ranchero hat he always wore.
Marco gave a good once-over at the old man, and decided that he looked like an accountant that had been sleeping in the same clothes for months. His face as unshaven, his brown skin resembled rough leather that looked as if it was chewed on by a goat, and his right eye was covered by an eye patch that ruled it out useless; just your average bum patrolling the streets.
“What’s with all the yelling, old man, questioned Marco, acknowledging the old man as one would acknowledge an blank piece of paper. “You finally snapped or what?”
The old man looked at Marco as if he was a mirage of an oasis in the god forsaken desert; an image that was too good to be true. “C-could it be…?”
“Oi, old man, did you hear me? You’re scaring people,” Marco deadpanned. “Beat it.”
The old man jumped in front of Marco out of pure joy. “F-finally, an audience!”
"Wait, what? H-hey! Let go of me you crazy old man! You smell like old cheese!” The old man swept up his soapbox and grabbed onto Marco’s shirt collar; eagerly dragged him onto one of the alleys.
“Oye, old man, I have places to be! I don’t want to get caught in the rain,” snapped Marco who’s heels was skidding against the pavement, since he was being drugged by the old man by his collar. And as they skidded to a stop, the old man turned and gave Marco a pleading smile.
“W-wait! Just let me get started! Please, have a seat on my stage, for what I have to say is by no means to be less than legen-wait for it… -dary.” said the old man, waving his hand to the soapbox. “It will definitely make it worth your while.” The old man gave Marco a gentle flick on the nose, making him fall back, ass first, on top of the soapbox. As his rear broke the top of the soapbox, his legs flayed in the air, unable to reach the ground like a turtle trapped on his back.
“YAAAAAA! My ass! My ass is stuck in the box!”
“Now then, where were we?”
“Oi! Old man, get me out of this box! I can’t pull myself up!”
The old man patted himself down, trying to hopelessly dust off the dirt off of the doomed suit. He fashioned his greasy hair back, and cleared his throat signaling the beginning of his monologue.
“A-hem! For generations and generations, mankind has pondered on the great questions of life.”
“I’m still stuck here" said Marco. "Why won’t anyone help me?”
‘Why are we here, where do we come from, where is this all going?’ ” The old man paused. Realizing this, Marco stopped his struggling and looked up towards the old man. And with a plethora of bravado, the old man declared, “But I dare ask the question, ‘when does a man truly die?’ ”
Marco raised an eyebrow in question, trying to make sense of the old man’s blather. “Q-que?”
“You heard me,” declared the old man while shooting his arm out like a piston, pointing an index finger towards the confused man. When does a man die? When he is shot in the heart by a bullet? No. When he is ravaged by an incurable disease? NO! When he drinks a soup made out of a poisonous mushroom?”
That was actually pretty specific.
“No… here I stand today to tell you, my loyal audience, that a man truly dies when he is-“
“Oi! Old man, I’m leaving now!”
“…forgotten.”
The old man’s jaw nearly hit the floor when he saw his one and only audience guest, making his way down the alleyway, his ass still stuck in the soapbox, while in the middle of his monologue. “H-hey, I wasn’t finished!”
Marco whipped the soapbox against one of the building walls, breaking it into splinters. He gave a halfhearted wave as he kept his back towards the old man. “It’s been fun but you’ve bothered me enough old man. Leave me in peace. Maybe I’ll spare you some change the next time I see yo-.”
“Oi! Jackass!” Marco turned around with a raised eyebrow to find the old man standing in the middle of the alley, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his brow and a vein pulsating from his forehead. “You…you should show more respect…” While in pause, and with a whip of his arm, the old man grabbed one of the trashcan tops and tossed it like a spinning disk with a skill that would’ve an Olympic Discus thrower impressed. “… TOWARDS YOUR ELDERS!”
“HOBO STYLE!”“SPINNING DISK OF DISCIPLINE!”
Marco could’ve sworn you saw your reflection for a brief second in the metal sheen of the spinning top of death, just before the makeshift weapon rebounded off the bridge of his nose with enough force to emit a loud CLANG sound and to knock him on his ass nursing a temporary nose bleed. (Strangely enough, his hat never seemed to show any intention of flying off.)
Of course that didn’t last long seeing that he got up with heated intentions and butted heads with the old man, both men’s fist grasping onto each other’s shirt.“Oi! Why the hell did you throw trash lid at me you crazy bastard, you could’ve killed me!” yelled Marco.
“Don’t turn your back when an elder is talking, jackass! It is bad manners!”
“Why should I give a damn on what you got to say you old fart!”
“There you go again, being disrespectful! Maybe I should show you how to show proper respect your elders!”
“I like to see you try old man!”
******
In El Poni de La Sol -The Pony of the Sun-the local Bar and Inn of the port town, many of the ship crews that had just returned from their shifts from the docks flocked to the local watering hole to quench their thirst and to trade talk with the other deck hands of other ships.
The atmosphere was filled with manly blabber, dirty jokes being fired from loose mouths cocked full of liquor, and Spanish ballads that every deckhand knew by heart and sang with such a hearty chorus tune that they couldn’t hear the loud footsteps gaining way towards the double doors.
SLAM!
The wooden double doors swung open, a tall lean woman standing at the entrance, with the shirt collars of two unconscious men, grasped in her hand.
One of the deckhands noticed her and shouted, “Hey everybody its Lucero…and I think that’s Marco!”
The woman called Lucero was a woman with green emerald eyes, long shiny black hair that flowed like shadows and olive skin that still shined with youth. She sported a military camouflage tank top and a pair of denim pants while she dragged drag both of the fist fighters onto the bar counter, one in each hand, which made her seem remarkably strong.
Once the other faces caught a gaze of Lucero dragging Marco and the old man into the bar, they simply shrugged their shoulders and continued to down their beer mugs. In truth, it wasn’t the first time she had to clean Marco out of the gutters after a brawl.
“Oi! You think the ponytailed wonder got into another fight,” asked one of the deckhands?
“Probably, and by the looks of it, it must’ve been a good one.”
“Who’s the old man? Don’t tell me that’s who Marco was fighting.”
“Why does it smell like old cheese in here?”
Lucero dragged the two unconscious men onto the bar, where she started rummaging in the back room for something in particular. Once she found what she was looking for she walked to where Marco laid while carrying two sacks of something in her hands that permeated a light white fog.
“ICE SLAP!”
The woman smacked a large bag of frozen peas onto Marco’s bruised eye, and as if he was awakening from an exorcism, Marco wonder awoke in shock.
“COOOOOOOOOOOOOLD! Lucero, tell me when you’re going to do that!”
“What’s wrong jackass; did I whip you too hard? Guah-hahahahaha!” The old man laughed in an uproar, already awake and sitting on one of the bar stools, nursing his own bruises with his cold pint of beer.
Marco stood with his boot on the bar, glaring towards the old man. “Hey Lucero, who is this guy?”
“You don’t remember? I was already on my way to the bar when I found the both you in an alley unconscious. I had to drag both of you back all the way to the bar or otherwise you would’ve been stuck in the storm.”
Marco stared at the old man with a lazy gaze, his brain still trying to bring back what had happened the last moments before he blacked out. Certain thoughts popped into his head…men in suits… anger…the ocean sea…happiness…shipyard…content…dark clouds… depression… a fist…pain.
…
…
…
… Ding!
Fries are done!
“I-It’s you! You’re the crazy old man I fought in the alley way! Lucero, you let him in here,” stammered Marco while shooting his index finger towards the old man, blinking in disbelief? “H-he’s the reason I’m like this in the first place.”
“What did you expect me to do Marco, leave him out in the rain,” Lucero scolded. She went over to the old man and handed him the cold bag of carrots with a soft heart. “Here, this will bring the swelling down. Please forgive my friend for his rudeness. He can be a little hot-headed at times.”
“Bless you senora.” With a grateful nod and a warm smile, the old man took the bag and placed it on his black and blue cheek.
“Helpless my ass,” Marco chipped. “He nearly took my head off with a trash can top.”
The old man took a chug of his beer and gave a satisfied sigh. “It’s not my fault that you are so weak, jackass. And now that I’ve calmed you down a little bit, maybe I can finish the conversation we were having. Now, where did I leave off at?”
“Oi! How about apologizing for the nosebleed that you gave me you old bastard!” yelled Marco, pointing towards the large bruise on the center of his face.
The old man’s hand started to tighten around the beer mugs handle, and the vein on the top of his forehead started to pulsate with the rhythm of a honey badger’s heartbeat. “What did you say, jackass,” the old man growled?
The deckhands within the bar already started sweating bullets, as they could see the heated flames stirring between the two brawlers.
“Ohh, I see. It seems you still haven’t learned your lesson.” The old man slammed his mug down on the counter and arose with his fist cocked and ready to fire. “Maybe I should go on to round two, seeing that a fist to that ugly mug of yours is all you can understand!”
Marco stood from the bar stool and cocked his fist as well. “You’re one to talk about ugly mugs, yelled Marco! “Do you know who you are talking to? I am the harbor master of this port, and I’m not just going to have a crazy old fart talk down to me! Bring it on, old man!”
“NO FIGHTING IN MY BAR!”
NEW CHALLENGER APPROACHES!
BONK!
BONK!
It just so happened that the men’s stubborn behavior was apprehended by Lucero, who took it upon herself to knock some sense into them, and amazingly, showed how an efficient club a wooden beer mug was.
“Now I don’t want to find either of you butting heads anymore. Understood,” chipped Lucero, while she handed them a couple of beers as a sign for peace?
“Y-yes ma’am,” both of the two men uttered, now nursing fresh bruise on the top of their skulls. After glaring each other for a few moments, they both selfishly swiped their drinks and sat on complete opposite sides of the bar.
After the conflict was put at ease, the rest of the deckhands finally took a breath of ease.
Lucero however, still gave off a sense of unease. “By the way Marco, how did…the meeting go,” she asked?
Marco hesitated from taking a swig from his mug, and turned to avoid looking towards Lucero’s gazed. “D-don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.” He downed his mug and started off towards the doors.
“Hey Marco,” said one of the men, sitting at one of the crowded bar tables. It was one of the ship captains, a large man that fashioned a well trimmed mustache. He looked only slightly younger than the old man, but with the weariness of a weathered mountain. “I think it would be better if I sent a few of my deckhands with you, no? A few of Rafa’s crewmembers chocked on their beers and other just plain spat their drinks out. “I’ll even come with you. It will be safer that way”
Marco waved his hand to turn down his offer. “No thanks Rafa, I’ll think I’m going off on my own on this one. Besides, I travel faster by myself, anyways.” The Captain’s crewmembers gave off a sigh of relief and shame, and slowly went back to their tables.
Overhearing their conversation, the merriment of the entire bar began to die down to a mourning silence. Everyone just silently drank their beers, staring silently at the waving double doors, and the shadow of a man that was sent to see the devil himself.
******
“I see. So this local port has been singled out by some unsavory characters,” said the old man.
Lucero looked down the bar after setting a cold one in front of one of the Ship Captains Rafa, the captain of La Lanza de el Mar-The Spear of the Sea- a shipping boat that shipped anything from rare spices from to ancient artifacts from foreign lands. His admiral’s jacket hanged loose from his shoulders and he isolated himself from the warm embrace of his fellow deckhands that slowly began to pick up momentum as more of the townsfolk began to fill the table seats in order to avoid the rain.
“Yes,” answered Lucero. “Despite the small town, this port acts as a major trading port for many major cities. And since the town surrounded by mountains, it is isolated from the rest of the country. The unsavory character, for which you have come to call, is a Crime lord, which has recently become very powerful within this country. And he wants to take advantage of the port and its secluded area, in order to transport his “products.”
“Are these the rumors that are being passed down now-a-days, Lucero?”
Lucero’s hand nearly slipped the mug that she was polishing as she quickly turned to the town’s mayor; a rather thin man that fashioned a Hawaiian shirt along with a pair shorts and sandals.
“Senior Guzman! I didn’t see yo-.”
“It is alright Lucero. I apologize for startling you.” The oddly dressed man took a seat right besides the old man, while Lucero served him. The mayor thanked him and did nothing more than stare of into space. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the honor of meeting your acquaintance.”
“I wouldn’t think that a mayor would make time for an old beggar such as I.”
“I show respect and decency to all characters, as I would expect any other person to show me. It is a trait that this town holds. I am Roy Guzman, the humble mayor of this small town. I see that Lucero has already informed you of the local talk -ey?”
The old man simply nodded and waited for the mayor to continue.
“It is a damn shame what is happening to this country,” the mayor chipped in. “Drugs, counterfeit, and even people have been sold and traded by hands stained with blood of the innocent (the very same ones that are in the pockets of nearly every man of the law within this country.) The harbor masters of these ports are either bought off or threaten to allow these crimes to be committed.”
The old man shook his head in contempt. “And now they have come to this town. What of our friend? What was his name…Marco! Isn’t he the harbor master of this town? What was this ‘meeting’ that he was attending to?”
The Mayor nearly choked on his drink at the hint that came from these words. “D-don’t tell me that he’s-“
At the swing of the double doors, a lone shadowy figure stood at the entrance of the inn.
There was Marco, limping towards the dead center of the bar, literally being the center of attention, his entire body covered with freshly burnt marks, in the exact shape of horseshoes; as if he had been trampled on by the four horsemen.
“Marco,” yelled Lucero, as she jumped over the bar counter. She approached Marco, wavering only a few inches away from him, as if she was questioning that her friend was standing in front of her, baring burn marks and been beaten nearly beyond recognition. She slowly reached out her hand and cupped Marco’s cheeks. “Marco?”
Despite his injuries, Marco managed to give off a small grin and a whisper. “Lucero...I didn't... take the...deal.” Then he let out a small exhale of smoke, as if it was his soul leaving the body.
"Marco."
He slowly fell from Lucero’s touch, and plummeted to the hardwood floor of the bar with a mighty thud!.
“Marco!”
******
Marco had been housed within one of the inns upstairs the bar, and when the town’s one and only doctor did all he could and allowed the beaten harbor master to rest, he found that the entire bar downstairs was filled with nearly every person in town, eager to hear the news. “The patient is stable at the moment.” Much of the townsfolk gave of a sigh of relief, praising to god that they had not taken their beloved harbor master away from them.
“Is this the whole town,” asked the old man, gazing at the crowd flooding the patient’s room to greet the injured hero from the bar counters.
“The port is this towns pride and joy,” answered Rafa. “Being the harbor master has earned him a great amount of love and respect in this town. Sure he is a little hard headed, but his heart belongs to this town. It would’ve been a dark day if we had lost him. I was a damn fool to let him go one his own. He knew that my crew member’s probably would’ve gotten the same treatment that he received if they had.”
When the townsfolk had finally dispersed and only Lucero, the mayor, and the ship captains were in Marco’s room, the group started to talk of the next call to action. The ship captains contemplated on whether or not they should comply with the Crime lord. Their will had been dampen by Marco’s unkind conclusion “I suppose it seems that we have no choice,” chipped the mayor.
As the words left the mayor’s lips, Marco’s eye twitched.
“We would be better off if we just went along with the-”
Marco’s eyes opened and his hand shot up from his side and latched on to the Mayor’s front shoulder. “Don’t…you fucking dare…finish that sentence!”
Every captain, every deckhand, every one of the townsfolk within that bar looked unto Marco with amazement. He labored with each breath and it seemed like he was using every ounce of his strength to bring himself up.
“I don’t want to hear this crap about letting them take the port! Why is it that we have to bend to their will, and how can you just sit there and think that allowing this criminal to waltz in and fuck up this town will solve anything!? I know you are all scared, but you all just can’t just give up that easily! What about the townsfolk?! What about the children that will look back and only remember us as a bunch of cowards that didn’t even try to fight back to protect their home!?
That isn’t how I want to be remembered and it isn’t what I am going to allow this town to be! This is our home dammit! The least you all can do is at least help me protect it!”
“I don’t think you understand the situation this town is in Marco,” said the Mayor. “There is no other option where we can avoid them any longer. I know this port meant much to your father but now you need to stop being selfish and realize that we have no other option. We have to comply with them, or else we might as well be signing our death warrants. I’m sorry Marco.”
The mask of grit that Marco was struggling to maintain was wavering off, and was now forming into pure desperate pleading. His gaze slowly drifted downwards to his lap and his hand slowly fell from its grip on the mayor’s collar.
“Please… all of you…you can’t just allow this crime to happen to our town. If I am not absolutely sure that I did everything in my power to protect this town, then… I-I’ll end up wishing that they would’ve killed me in the first place!”
“JAAAACKAAAAAAASSSS!!!”
The old man bolted like lighting, striking a heroic pose on top of one of the bar counter; one that resembled a explorer that was standing atop of a mountain.
“If I suspect of you even showing a glimmer of weakness again, I will toss that bed out of that room with you still in it! Do you hear me jackass?” The entire bar stood at a standstill, in dead silence of the old man’s outburst. “If you break now, who else will be left to carry the flame.” A wide cocky grin crept on his grizzled muzzle. He held his daring fists up towards the heavens, as if he was daring the world to prove him wrong and challenge him to a fight. “I know exactly what this town needs! Oi! Jackass! I hope you are listening! ”
Marco flinched and leaned towards the crack on the door.
At last…
“There is a story that I want to share with you all.”
…I have found…
“It’s story that I have been meaning to say for a long time now. It’s more of a fable really, but more real than the sense of a fable.”
…my audience.
“But the thing is… it is something more than just a story or a fable. It isn’t some story about some goody two shoes setting off to save some princess in distress or any of that bullshit for that matter. No. It is something…much more.”
The old man lowered himself down to his seat. The cocky grin now toned down to a wistful smile that made him seem to manically wise even beyond his years.
“This story has its good times, and it has its bad. A lot of bad for that matter for such a story, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t say it wasn’t a good one. A story like this is the kind that…” He paused and looked down to his drink, as if the booze had put him in a trance. And now that he had started and paused, the audience was getting riled up in the suspense. Even Marco found himself leaning towards the crack on the door of his room, nearly falling out of his bed in order to hear the bard continue.
“What? The kind that what?”
“Spit it out old man?”
The old man slowly looked from his drink, and said softly, “It’s the kind of story…that makes you believe in something.”He took a large gulp from his pint and gave a sigh of his quenched thirst, and as he slammed down the mug, his eyes became wide with excitement. “Allow me to give a quick summary, my friends!”
And so he stated the following:
*Three brothers, that are quite different from each other, but bounded by blood
*A neglected half-breed with a strong heart
*A former warrior queen that discovered the true meaning of love
*A royal heir meant for the best of both worlds
*An Angel trying
*A Great and Powerful dreamer
*A metal character who wonders why he dreams
*An iron armed fighter, with a dark past
*A soul of the night that refuses to rest
*Two bounty hunters bounded by friendship
*A love-sick Pirate that sails the skies
*An agent of chaos baring no originality
*A depressing demon
*A world filled with adventure
*And a magical medallion that started it all.
That sounds that really something, old man,” uttered Marco, having no knowledge that the old man had heard him from his room.
“Oi! And that’s just skimming the top, jackass! Don’t think I am leaving you out of this epic tale! No loyal audience member of mine is getting out that easy.” The old man clapped his hands, and as if it was magic, the rain suddenly stopped and rays of light began to drizzle in, the sun’s rays shining in and cloaking over the old man’s shoulders; that cocky grin still plastered on his ugly mug.
“Guahahahaha! Whatare we waiting for then?! Let’s get started!”
******
