Told at the feast of Fionn Brindledsson, Ulayn of Gargot and its environs, to mark the victory over the felons occupying the north-shore inn and in which eight of the scum were slain for the loss of Tarvyn Moornvel, fisherman of Gargot...this from the throat of Churig Byerd, fisherman. Bless the waters.
Munkel Blann, Scribe
"Ye cannot forget the old tales, though, friends. Remember ye the lay of the Klenurend?* Ahhh...in truth, many waves have crashed since last I heard it tell, yet I will do my best.
Many a year ahent us, there was a Mane which the folk called Dragwlochlyn. Nay, not the great and glorious nation ye see and breathe upon today. This was a Mane of great heroes and treacherous deeds: wars, battles and quarrels there were aplenty.
But aloft, in the clouds, it was another story. Here lived the Klenurend, even as they do today. Above the thunder, above the sunset-songs and, for the most, above the sight of mankind, these folk gambolled and played, leaping from cloud to cloud and feasting on the sunshine. These folk loved each other and knew no sorrow - all life was a joy. The everchanging clouds, the stars and the bolts of lightning were playthings. A happy life with no fears. They had no reason to look down, until that is, there came the day when a few of them became stranded upon a mountain-top, and beheld the wide lands and valleys beneath them.
They gazed down with wonder and puzzlement. The world of man had been of little interest to the Klenurend. Now they laughed and pointed at the humans as they struggled and strove at their tasks, unaware, down on the ground. They were fascinated; sometimes they understood the reasons why the humans put stone upon stone, building their homes and monuments, and sometimes they did not... When the men put the circle with the hanging triangle over the door of the big wooden building and then spoke their strange words... this the Klenurend pondered long.
Then the Klenurend saw a second group of men striding up to the building, and gesturing, and shouting, and the sun glinting on flashing steel, and blood upon the ground... this made the folk of the clouds wonder too, and pity the humans. They felt no sorrow - the emotion was unknown to them - yet a strange kind of empathy coursed within their souls.
Days passed and the Klenurend had not laughed since witnessing the bloodletting. They swathed themselves in mists and grey clouds. After a while, one of them made a rainbow of such radiance and clarity that joy flashed through them all again. They rejoiced; purpose gripped them, and hope.
A night of the twin full moons came. Down the snowy mountain slopes they flitted, down the gorges and vales, down the cliffs and crags. They tumbled over waterfalls and wove patterns through the forests. Happieness stepped where their feet fell...oh! they were beautiful to behold! So beautiful.
They moved with silent grace through all the hamlets, villages and towns of our ancestors. Yes, little one, even here in Garkau! At each home they found a crack or an open window or a chink in the door to get in. While the world slept, they spun their spells and made their miracles. Sparkles were everywhere that night; mayhap the hand of an Urvaken guided their deeds...ahh yes.
No-one awoke, not one. It was as if the Silver Tree itself grew in every home. Anyway, as the sky lightened, the Klen left the people of the land and wearily climbed the moonlit mountains again. As the shadows began to form and warmth to pour itself over the land, the Klenurend looked down to admire their handiwork.
When the sun's rays touched the dark, quiet places of the vales, and the calm serenity of the dunes, Love came into the hearts of men and women. A new feeling for them, to make their lot on earth filled with joy. Aye. Man went to his children and hugged them, and the children smiled and felt close to their father. Woman saw how handsome her man and children were together and her heart filled with that all-consuming emotion.
The Klenurend smiled to one another. They returned to their games and races in the fluffy-white of the springtime clouds.
*
There was a man, a simple-living man, maybe a fisherman like most of us here... he loved a village girl and she loved him; they were to be betrothed to each other. But there was another man, a stranger to the hamlet, a merchant stranded by the winter storms of late Dustrunne, who had also fallen in love with the girl. One day as the fisherman and the girl were walking in the forest, the merchant shot the fisherman dead from behind a tree, and took the girl...
*
There was an old man with but one friend - his wolf. He lived deep in the forest and smoked his tchaka and lived happily enough. One day a hungry wandering soldier came upon the hut in the woods and perceiving the wolf as food, slew the beast. The old man felt anguish and a pain that tore his soul, and summoning strength he had not known before, curshed the soldier's head with his bare hands. But his wolf remained dead and so, his heart broken, the old man gave up his last breath and lay down beside his friend.
*
The wife of a powerful Kebren loved her squire; the son of another Kebren. They would meet by the light of the moon Numa and go riding upon the beach, their mounts kicking up spray that shone like millions of jewels. But one night her mate was there, standing on the foreshore. With one mighty blow he clove the riding beast in two, and a second sent Krig another vassal. When the squire's father learned the truth, there was war...
*
The Klenurend witnessed those things, all of them. Stunned and shocked, they began to feel a new emotion and it shrouded their happiness in a cloak of grey. Sorrow misted their senses, and agony gripped them - an agony of the deepest spirit.
Thus, in giving, they had received. No longer would they revel in the carefree abandon of the landless, the free, the loved and the loving. Now and forever they were chained by the pain of their maimed hearts.
Even today, as some of you will know, out on the Salachmoorn, you can hear them cry in the still mists, wail and moan over the wind-tossed waves, and sing their lament upon the rain-lashed seas... Whatever the weather, their mournful presence can oft be felt. As all who hear me here know, aye.
So it is written. So I have told it. Bless the waters.
*