Everyone has a story. We each walk a different path, navigating the dark waters of life. The transition from childish innocence is rarely gentle or unremarkable. And we are never prepared for those challenges that arise, no matter what we think at the time.

I was ten seasons old. A budding young man, in my own eyes. I had graced the stage of our wagons in my debut performance. I delivered with grace and aplomb my lines, enacting the posture and gestures I meticulously studied beneath my father. Though it was a small and overall unimportant part of the production, the sight of such a young boy delivering the song written by his own mother had spurred the audience to their feet.

It was the first standing applause I had received and I remember coming from the stage full of the ethers. I felt like never before and there was equal amount of applause from my kin behind the curtain as I had from in front. My mother was waiting and began helping me from my costume. Pressed up against the racks of wardrobes, I tuned out her unceasing adoration. My young ears heard something hushed between the hanging shirts and robes. I leaned closer, hearing my Caenn and father speaking in the dark shadows of the ship.

“… a budding performer if I’ve ever heard one,” rang the deep voice of my Caenn. I could see but the barest slivers through cracks between the stage clothes.

“A father couldn’t be prouder.” I knew immediately the two men were talking about me. I leaned closer to the clothes as my mother fought with the knots in the folds at the back of my jacket.

“I suppose there is no better time,” the Caenn said. “There is some matter which I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Uisdean.”

“Words are meant to be shared,” my father nodded politely.

“It’s about the boy. And while I accept your wife as one of us, these words are meant for ones of the blood.”

My father bristled. But you did not raise your voice to the Caenn no matter the slight. He was the head of the caravan. He was the face of the troupe. He was the father of the family and his wishes were our commandments. No greater position existed amongst the disparate Maen and we held fast to what traditions we still held. Traditions were really all we had.

“It is not our ways to hood our speech,” my father said after a moment. “What needs to be spoken to me needs to be spoken to my beloved.”

“We do not take those not of the road into our midst either,” the Caenn said sternly, “but here we are. I do not call on my command often, Uisdean, and it is with heavy heart that I do so now.”

“Very well. Speak your peace, but know I will hold no shadows from my wife.”

“That is your prerogative,” the Caenn said. He paused as he collected his thoughts. “I wonder if this is truly something you would wish to share with her.”

“I do not like this skulking about, my Caenn,” my father said, the respect quickly slipping from his tone, “I would ask it out if it must truly come.”

“Koudi is truly a gifted child, is he not?”

The change caught my father off-guard and he didn’t respond at first. As he opened his mouth, I felt my vest catch tightly about my ribs and my breath stuck in my chest. I gasped, turning to my mother as she pulled furtively upon the strings.

“Forgive me,” she apologized. “These appear to be quite stuck.”

The costume loosened and and I turned back to invasive window into the private discourse, but I missed my father’s response.

I heard my Caenn’s all to clearly though.

“Tell me, how long did it take for him to learn the lute?”

“Well, I don’t think one every truly stops learning…” my father began.

“Fine. How long did it take for him to play his first song? And I do mean play, not pluck upon it like some wastrel.”

My father scratched his head, eyes searching the cramped walls of the ship as if somewhere in the assorted jars and bursting trunks lay the answer.

“I don’t rightly know.”

“Did it even take to midday?”

“Perhaps not.”

“And how long did it take you to learn your first song?”

“What are you suggesting, my Caenn?”

“Your boy is bright, Uisdean. There is no hiding that fact. Everyone speaks the same. ‘Oh Koudi, you should have seen him juggling today, learned our entire evening routine in a matter of minutes.’

“’Little Koudi asked me the damnedest thing. Pestering me about alchemical quandaries that I haven’t heard discussed outside the halls of the Academy.’

“’Saw Koudi interacting with some of the local boys. Kept teasing the smithy’s son that his father was smelting his metals all wrong. Took the child’s own dulled sword and twisted it between two rocks to prove his point. And I kept asking myself who could have even taught him such things?’”

The Caenn mimicked each voice perfectly. I knew each speaker immediately. Iori was always an incorrigible braggart, always showing off his juggling skills with his brother Ioan to anyone that would give them the time to perform. He got the curious inflection of tinker Jaako’s accent who had joined our caravan late in life after we found him peddling in one of the villages. His half Maen heritage had been a point of contention from the other caravans but we welcomed him as if he were a long lost brother. Then there was nosey Mair who always seemed to be watching us kids no matter where we got off too. She just seemed to known exactly when we would be getting into trouble.

I didn’t think it much. Everyone in our caravan always smiled and laughed over my questions. I couldn’t grasp why this conversation would require such privacy – something unheard of amongst my people.

My father seemed to struggle as well.

“I suppose… when you mention it… he does seem to have some natural talents. But who amongst us hasn’t demonstrated some skill or usefulness? It is our gift to excel at something and to ply that gift to the benefit of our people.”

“A gift is understandable,” the Caenn said, “but Koudi is different. He sings better than you. He dances better than Arlyn. He knows as much as Jaako and he captains as well as I. Whatever he turns his mind to, he learns. It is more than a gift, Uisdean. It is unnatural.”

“What do you mean,” my father spat. I gasped as his face contorted in anger. Never had I seen someone be so disrespectful to the Caenn. I felt my costume loosen and my mother apologize as she seemed to think she had tightened it once again. I reluctantly turned from my spy hole to give her an encouraging smile and to release the shirt from around my arms before turning back.

“… that is preposterous!” my father hissed in muted rage. I struggled to piece together what I had missed. “Those are just stories. Tales! Fabrications used to entertain the masses and earn us some coin. You must – no, can’t truly believe such nonsense!”

“I understand,” the Caenn said slowly, “if it were my own son-”

“How can you possibly understand? You have no son! Is that what this is about? Are you jealous because you are as barren as the Antioche ruins? Thus, you feel the need to slander your own kin’s blood?”

There was an emphasis on kin that made me realize it was not meant in the general sense we used when referencing the Maen people. For a moment, I realized that I didn’t really know anything about the Caenn’s family. Well, we were his family but I didn’t know of any wives, siblings or children of his. Most familial ties were meaningless amongst a people that raised others as their own.

The Caenn was silent for a moment, allowing my father his moment to seethe. When last he spoke, he reached a hand for my father’s shoulder but the performer pulled his body away.

“I have kept my council for so long but it is no longer my own observations. There are whispers amongst the troupe. It was only a matter of time. The Shanahanait has began muttering of portents. This is not something we can simply ignore any longer. Some action will need to be taken soon and I wish, for my love of you and your child, that it is the least extreme.”

“You blame her, don’t you?”

“There is no fault to cast. It is what it is.”

“You think she’s tainted our line!” my father sneered. He stepped up to the Caenn and for the first time I realized they were of similar height. “You superstitious fool. You should listen to yourself. Portents and Shanahanait? Petty theatrics and tricks for wrestling the coin from the weak minded. They are nothing but stage magic and foolishness and you have bought it with your heart and mind!”

“I keep my people!” the Caenn replied. “I listen to what I must and judge what I need to ensure their livelihood. When one whispers of Ciar an Ankou, I dismiss. When two cry, I counsel. When three warn, I pay heed.”

“My child is not going to destroy this troupe!”

“I know.”

And there was finality in the Caenn’s reply that my father could not ignore. My father went to reply more but my mother gave a shout.

I then realized that she was struggling to wrestle the girdle from my body and I had been ignoring her the entire time. I quickly wiggled from my brais, pulling the rest of the costume from my body until I was naked and scrambling back to the clothes pile. But as I raised my eye to the hole, my father and the Caenn had gone.

Annoyed, I pushed my mother’s assistance away and dressed myself. The rest of the evening was darkly despite the exuberance of the rest of our troupe. They laughed and danced in merriment for the coin we’d earned. People still cheered and chattered about my debut but it was hollow praise now. They saw the change in my mood but nothing they offered could cheer me.

My mind was still spinning with the quiet conversation between my Caenn and my father. I didn’t grasp its meaning or importance immediately. I knew not what Ciar an Ankou was save that it was something from the old tongue.

I saw my father that night, but he avoided me. I desperately wanted to speak with him but knew not how to bring up that I had spied upon their conversation. He seemed reluctant to see me himself, and when a Maen wishes to be scarce they can be a damn trouble to find.

But I would have my answers and sooner than I wished.

It happened on an ominous day, with black clouds menacingly overhead. They have a way of happening on dark days.

A wagon had been prepared. I remember waking from my bunk to find most of my things were gone. A fresh pair of clothes waited on the floor, folded with a small four stringed citole polished and sitting atop. I didn’t realize this was their way of saying goodbye.

I emerged from the ship to see my mother waiting for me. She had her haired bundled up in a plain shawl. She didn’t look at me when I emerged, simply calling my name in a soft voice and beckoning me over. We had one of the small wagons with a single horse harnessed to the front. The back was filled with our things. A few trunks held our belongings and sacks were tucked with some foodstuffs to see us along the road. A couple of blankets were rolled for sleeping and my father’s lute lay wrapped and protected amongst them.

But my father wasn’t there.

I joined my mother’s side, asking her what was going on. But she wouldn’t as she helped me onto the front.

“Make sure to put on a heavy cloak.” Those were here only words. I crawled into the back, finding three new ones each measured to our size. I slipped mine on and she tucked my hair beneath the hood, pulling it tight over my face.

Looking into her eyes I could see they were weary and bloodshot. She was distant and distracted, mostly working through impulse as she busied with my attire. The whole while she didn’t turn to the caravan, making sure she found something to keep her mind and hands busy. Once I was settled and cloaked, she moved over the horse, checking its harness and muzzle, absently brushing its hair and even inspecting its shoes.

After awhile there was sound from the ships and I turned to see my father emerge. He climbed down the side, landing on the ground and making his way over to us. I saw some of our kin make their way to the side. The Caenn was at the front. It wasn’t until my father was almost upon us that I heard it.

From the ship came the saddest song I have ever heard. It took me a moment to realize it was the dirge. I had only heard it once before and that was when we passed the ancient city of Tir Tairngire. It was a haunting experience, awakening to hear this morose sound floating through the hull of the ship. I came to the deck to find most the troupe gathered about the rails singing a tune both strange and familiar. All eyes watched the distant ruins with a mixture of reverence and anguish. I listened in rapt fascination as we rolled by and once the song ended, everyone went below deck, not mentioning a word of it.

And now I got to listen to it for a second time. Somehow, this last one was sadder.

My father mounted the wagon without a word. He took the reigns in his hands and snapped the horse into motion. Neither of my parents turned back, but I wasn’t nearly as strong. Each face seemed stone blank, only their mouths moved in unison to the tune that warbled from the deck.

My mother may have cried that day. But it wasn’t in sight of the caravan. It wasn’t in sight of my family.

Those days in the wagon were the bleakest. I knew not where we went. I spent much of the time riding in the back with our things. I would absently pluck at my father’s lute to pass the time. Conversations were short between us. A tension hung heavier than the black clouds and it kept a still silence in its harsh embrace.

At night, we would pull over and sleep beneath the wagon. We cooked what food we could by the fire, making sure to leave little trace when we were done in the morning. I didn’t even know where we headed but I’m not sure my parents did either.

I would like to think my last memories of them were happy ones. I would like to remember them as they were on the great landships when they laughed and they sang. Those were good days. Those were the days of my childhood. I’ll still remember the night when the Caenn went to get them from the ship to listen to me play my song.

But for your records, scribe, I will detail to you the final days.

We were wandering the empty roads. I don’t even remember what kingdom it was. Not that it matters, all of them look the same when you’re travelling the worn, forgotten paths. It was cold and miserable and I remember my parents were arguing over food. My mother wanted us to head off the main route to try and find some small village we could barter or entertain in. My father wanted to press on to the city. He was certain we had enough supplies to make it and believed our prospects were better. I’m not sure what prospects he had in his mind. I can’t ever picture him working in a shop or on a ship.

We pulled over to the side of a small forest. The skies looked like they were ready to open once more and I wasn’t looking forward to another wet night beneath the wagon. My mother wanted to make sure we got a cooked meal before the downpour. I was often sent out to fetch firewood. And given their temperaments that day, I was happy for the chore. Any amount of time from that stifling silence was good for me.

I wandered deep into the woods, looking for the thickest cords to burn. I thought perhaps a really good fire would warm our spirit and drive away some of the chill. I envisioned a bright blaze heating our faces as father strummed a lively melody while my mother sang into the evening. I must have wandered quite a ways because I didn’t hear the horn call until the second bellow and even then I didn’t recognize its meaning right away. It did make me worried and, with sticks in hand, I made quick my return.

I don’t know what I sensed first. It could have been the thick black plume of smoke. Or perhaps I heard the fire. I remember the smell, far too sweet for a normal wood fire but also too sickly for anything that could be recalled fondly.

I must have dropped my pile for I rushed to the road to find the wagon ablaze. The horse was slain, black arrows protruding from its side. I know I ran to the last vestiges of my life, ignoring the heat and the pain to try and search its burning wreck. It’s a wonder I didn’t burn myself or toss my body like a useless twig upon the pyre. Instinct must have kept me in check, even as tears blurred my vision and singed my cheeks.

I don’t know how long I toiled at the inferno, trying to wretch something free. I must have given up when the skies began to open, dropping the tears that were too heavy to leave my own eyes. I sought shelter beneath the trees, their scraggly branches barely protecting me as I watched the fire that was our wagon go out. I didn’t move from my spot for a long time, my mind refusing to process any thoughts.

Surely I passed out, for I awoke weary and numb in the crisp morning mist. Half rising, half stumbling, I made my way to the still smoking remains. In its back, I found all that I needed. At least they were together for the end, whatever it was. Everything was gone then. Everything I had ever loved.

It seemed pure chance that I stumbled across my father’s lute lying amongst the weeds. To this day, I can’t fathom how it had been spared the same fate as my parents. I like to imagine that Freyre’s hand had plucked the instrument from near destruction, leaving it just so for me to discover. I salvaged what I could but I had little more than the clothes on my back, my father’s instrument, the cloak and a few broken arrows pulled from the horse’s side.

Hungry, tired, sore and numb I stumbled down the road following the unknown path my family had started me on.