The Twilight Drummers

LEANING AGAINST A TREE at the top of a rise, Steven surveyed the land before him looking for a suitable place to camp. The knights had stopped to rest the horses in the middle of the afternoon, but Steven kept running ahead to prepare their evening camp. Below him a small river crossed the road and it appeared to be a frequent campsite for travelers along this way. It would certainly be appropriate for the knights.

Steven looked back the way he had come and saw the knights in the distance riding toward him. He squinted his eyes and cocked his head, but he could not make them look like a dragon now that he had been in their company for two days. He could not understand how he could have mistaken them that first evening. He turned his face back to the North and jogged off down the hill toward the intended campsite.

When he reached the river, he saw that not only was the grass matted down around a fire-circle, but that the camp appeared to have been abandoned recently as ashes were still warm in the pit. He quickly went about restoring flames to the fire pit and setting up his cooking station. Steven had seen something else from his stop up high and taking his bow and arrow he slipped off into the woods upstream from the river. A small herd of fallow deer standing about waist high were drinking and grazing near the river. Steven brought his hunting skills to bear and brought down a small buck as the others scattered before him. He gutted the deer and carted it to the camp. At the top of the rise, he could see the knights beginning their descent. The deer was spitted and turning on the fire before they reached him.

The knights cared for their horses and set up their camp around the fire Steven had prepared. By the time they were ready to settle in, the sun had gone down and the smell of roasting dear filled the valley. The knights cut strips of the savory meat from the carcass and accepted apples that Steven had gathered while the meat was roasting. When they had eaten their fill, the knights sat around the fire, waiting expectantly. Steven began his story.

ONCE UPON A TIME, very long ago in the far southern reaches of the world, there was a country where water was more plentiful than dry land. In this country there was a village-kingdom called Faysea Mound that was completely surrounded by water as far as the eye could see. Few people have ever been to that isolated kingdom, and fewer still have returned, for to reach it you must sail in a boat that glides without oars from shore to shore, and the citizens there are not friendly like those we know in our time and place.

For many generations, most people knew of this island kingdom only because of the twilight drums. Just as the sun was setting beyond the mountains and the land fell still for the night, people would hear the drumming of the Fayseans faintly disturbing the quiet across the water. To hear those drums was to feel a chill and stories grew up around the legend of the twilight drums. If, when you heard the drums, you could not get home before the drumming ceased, chances were you would never get home again. So went the stories that were told to children.

And so, it was no surprise that people on the shores opposite the island stayed close to home in the evenings. They went inside when the drums might be heard and talked loudly, sang, or even fought with each other so that they would not hear the drums of Faysea Mound.

Near the shore where the twilight drums could be heard, was the town of Wildmoor Beach. There was never a need for a curfew in this town for at sunset every citizen was inside with as many other citizens possible, drinking, singing, laughing, and talking to drown out any chance they would hear the drums. Stories about the Fayseans had grown through the generations, though none in Wildmoor Beach had ever seen them. Some said the Fayseans were eight feet tall with skin the color of bronze. They were ferocious warriors who carried spears tipped with bone points. Some said they carried the heads of their enemies on belts around their waists. And most dreadful of all, their eyes were coal black and to look into them was to be lost forever.

But the truth was, no one in Wildmoor Beach knew what they really looked like or how fierce they really were. That is, no one until the fateful night that Tramis the Potter was caught.

Now Tramis was a kind, black-haired man with a jovial spirit and a liking for good cider. And to Tramis, the longer the cider had fermented, the better it was. Some speculated that his chosen profession suited him, for he needed a great number of jugs to keep his own fermenting cider. In fact, Tramis had discovered early in his career that he could trade his jugs far more favorably if they contained cider than he could if they were empty.

On this particular day, Tramis had been on a journey to trade his pots in a distant town. It was 24,000 steps home to Wildmoor Beach, so Tramis began his journey home early in the morning, pulling his handcart filled with the goods for which he had traded his pots. Unfortunately, Tramis had not been able to trade all the pots he took with him. Half his cart was still jammed with the jugs full of cider, while the other half contained meats, cloth, vegetables, and dry goods. In Wildmoor Beach, Tramis would continue to trade these goods for other things that he desired.

The cart was heavy and the morning was hot, as it tends to be in the Southlands. Tramis had gone only a few thousand steps pulling the cart when he sat to rest. He was very thirsty, so he took a jug from the cart and promptly drained the contents. He put the empty in the cart and started off again. He had gone only a couple of thousand steps when he had to stop again. Again, he drained a jug as he rested, replaced the empty in the cart. This time when Tramis started off, he realized the cart was much lighter. Of course, two of the jugs were now empty.

From here, Tramis stopped every two or three thousand steps, rested and drained another jug. Unfortunately, this slowed the progress of the potter. Not only was he stopping frequently, he was walking more slowly, his cart weaving from side to side of the narrow path as he stumbled forward, singing a bawdy song as he went.

The sun was setting when he topped a rise where he could actually see Wildmoor Beach ahead of him, but still at least three thousand steps away. It was here, as Tramis drained the last jug of cider in his cart, that he heard the drums of Faysea Mound carrying across the open water.

Tramis hitched himself to the cart and set off at a hard pace, but in his cider-induced state, he often stumbled. And so it was that still over a thousand steps from his home, Tramis fell and struck his head on a rock. He lay in the path only partly awake, struggling to command his reluctant limbs to obey him. First one hand then the other pushed him to his knees. One foot then the other crawled up under him until he was squatting between the traces of his cart. He was about to thrust his body upward and continue his journey when he realized the world had gone silent. No birds twittered. No wolves howled. No wind blew. No drums beat.