Читать книгу Hero Born - Andy Livingstone - Страница 6

‘When hope is dying, we crave inspiration. And at that hour, we look to heroes.’

The storyteller paused. The ensuing silence spoke as eloquently as the lack of comprehension on the face of the boy behind him. Just moments before, the young voice had cut through the first haze of dusk, stopping him in mid-pace.

‘There aren’t really any heroes, are there?’ It had been a simple question, a challenge born of childish bravado. But the storyteller could no more leave that seed of doubt behind him than a dog could ignore the scent of a rabbit. It was not his nature. Instead, he must plant a seed of his own.

He drew the sounds and the smells of the early evening deep within him: the wheat in the surrounding fields stirred by the breeze; the vestiges of the cooking fires; the heavy musk, the stamping and the grumbles drifting from the stables; the lazy drone of the insects and the cries of the birds seeking them one last time before handing the predators’ dayshift over to their nocturnal cousins.

It was a land basking in the contentment of peace, when heroes were not needed. When heroes were forgotten. There are some who say that peacetime is a curse; that we only appreciate what we have to fight for. He had grown to see much truth in that in recent years. Although he would never welcome a return to even the slightest of the horrors he had witnessed on these and other shores, still he marvelled at, and despaired over, the human spirit’s desire to dismiss and trivialise that which it did not see for itself. And, therefore, to lower its guard.

It was the mind’s greatest defence against terror turning to madness. It was also its greatest weakness if the cause of that terror were ever to return.

Still the storyteller paused, fewer than a dozen steps from the village hall. The weakening autumn sun was setting behind him. That was the way he liked it. Inside, the villagers would be waiting, packed on benches around the concentric circles dug down into the ground, galleries that focused on the stage below in unconscious and incongruous mimicry of the gladiator pits of the southern continent. The world over, people desired performance, whether the blood was in the words or on the earthen floor.

It was an oppressively atmospheric arena. And, tonight, it was his arena.

He would enter with the sun behind, a silhouette in the doorway framed by the deep amber rays. And so the performance would begin. The performance of a master craftsman, and one who loved his art. They would share that love, for they always did. That was what fed his soul, what pulled him from village to village, town to town, day after day, night after night, telling after telling.

He turned, a smooth and balanced movement. Three boys sat on a broken plough propped against the wall of the blacksmith’s workshop. The largest, slightly older and perhaps trying to impress, stood up awkwardly but with determination.

Clearly deciding that failing to understand the storyteller’s reply rendered the man’s words irrelevant, the boy pressed on. ‘You must know that. It’s just all stories to entertain people, isn’t it? You add things into it and make it more exciting. You make one person amazing to make it a better story. Admit it.’

The storyteller cocked his head in curiosity. What sunlight was left managed to reach far enough into his deep hood to reveal wry amusement. ‘Is that really what you think?’ His voice was soothing, measured and cultured, with a foreign hint to his speech.

The boy was defiant. ‘I asked you first. Tell me you admit it.’

The man smiled. ‘What I think is irrelevant; it can be dismissed. But what I know is different. It is fact, and can never successfully be disputed.

‘And I know that there can be heroes.

‘They are born, but often the potential they possess never meets with the circumstances that offer it release. Indeed, often when those circumstances arise, there is no one who happens to be there with the qualities needed to face them and triumph.

‘A hero’s light is always shining, but it is most bright when the world around is in its darkest hour.

‘And so, occasionally, perhaps just once in several lifetimes, fate allows the circumstances and the one person to coincide. And when that occurs, the hero is born.’ The smile became a grin, and he crouched before them, beckoning them closer.

‘Picture it: there is a battle, a vast battle, and the fate of a nation rests on its outcome.’ His voice lowered, drawing them in. ‘There is no glory, there is no honour, there is no chivalry: it is horror, it is terror, it is screaming and dying with your face pressed in the mud and the boots of friends and enemies trampling you as your tears run into the mire: it is war. And in the midst of the mayhem, there is an island of order: a group of men moving with calm assurance through the carnage. They use their weapons with the economy and efficiency of master craftsmen, with a skill born of years of surviving where others have perished, despatching all in their path as they move steadily and irresistibly towards the leader of the host opposing them. And at their head strides a figure, of no special height, of no special strength, hair plastered black on his face by the grime of battle and his pale eyes fixed, unwavering, on the enemy leader. His sword, a curious black blade, is in his hand, but he swings at no foe. He walks directly at the leader, and the men with him follow, and still they kill all in their path. And the leader turns, and notices them. He pauses as his eyes lock with the stare of the figure bearing down on him, then barks an order and the forty men of his personal guard, the finest warriors of his huge army, turn to meet the small band. The one at their head, eyes locked only on the enemy leader, seems oblivious to the death confronting him. The men beside him roar and run past, closing with the élite guards. Despite the overwhelming numbers, they clear a path for the bare-headed youth. The leader, a great champion of his people, tall and broad-shouldered, his blond hair oil-slicked back from his angled, handsome features, cradles his great war axe in his arms. The merest gesture of his head restrains his guards. He studies the youth, and laughs. He enjoys his sport. With contemptuous ease, terrifying skill and more speed than the eye can follow, the heavy axe swings up and slices down at the centre of the youth’s head. But, with all eyes on the flashing weapon, almost imperceptibly the youth sways. He turns, the axe missing by the width of a blade of grass. The youth continues to spin, his movement as fast as the axe itself had been. Even before the axe has embedded itself in the turf, his sword has flashed in the sunlight and he finishes his turn, facing the leader once again. It takes a moment for all to realise that the leader is not as he was. His head is spinning over his guards. It bounces once, and rolls, coming to rest face-to-face with a dead farm boy who had left his parents that morning full of ideals to fight the evil of the man now facing him in the mud. A silence has fallen over this small part of the battlefield, an unreal island of hush amid the clamour of men straining to kill one another, and the youth starts walking again, between guards too confused by the inconceivable to know how to react. As word spreads of the leader’s death, so also spreads panic and fear, and his army starts to flee the field in disarray. The youth ignores them. He walks, still, to the body of the farm boy and the head of his former foe. He kneels and, oblivious to the tear running down his cheek at the sight of the dead boy, no older than himself, he closes the eyes of the lad so that, even in death, he need not look upon the face of evil.

‘Then he stands and, looking neither one side nor the other, walks from the field, to be where only he knows.’

The storyteller rose, and smiled gently, an amused glint in his eyes. ‘So tell me: would it not be a terrible shame if his story were not to be remembered? Say someone knew such a hero and knew that the deed just recounted was not even the greatest of his achievements. Such a man would be bound by his conscience to tell his story, would he not?

‘So that is what I do.’

The boy’s resolve faltered under the storyteller’s piercing gaze. ‘Do you mean that you knew such a man? It is all actually true?’

The man turned to the waiting doorway. ‘Oh, yes. And you should thank your gods that it is so.’

Now the curious one, the boy stepped forward. ‘Why is that?’ His companions stood silently, drinking in the man’s words as much with wide eyes as with their ears.

The storyteller started forward. ‘If you want to know, then step inside, and let the story begin.’

He unlatched the door and pulled it so that it swung slowly open as far as it would go. A haze of smoke drifted into the opening and mingled with the sun’s rays as he stepped into its midst. A hush settled like a blanket over the packed interior. From deep within his hood, he stared slowly around the waiting faces, before starting down the stairs.

He murmured softly to himself, ‘Indeed. Let the story begin.’