Finton's Tale
The Ink That Binds and Betrays
For an extra challenge, this story is set in ’s world of D’veen and questions the power of creation and the burden of secrecy. What speaks to you?
Share your thoughts and let’s explore the layers together!
“Greetings, weary traveler – oh, it is you. Back so soon? You’re not the first to be seduced by my dulcet tones. Plenty hear Finton Merrybrook’s tales and find themselves with a hunger like none they’ve ever known.
“It is a heavy burden I bear, being the best storyteller in all of D’veen, but one that I accept with pride. I can see that you have a specific tale in mind. Which shall it be? More of the dwarves and their automatons? No, no, that doesn’t seem to bring a twinkle to your eye. Perhaps the story of the Aluthian Titans has you enraptured?
“Nervous are you? Fear not, you can ask me to tell you any tale for I know them all by heart. Go ahead, son, what tickles your fancy?
“My story? Now that is one that I have never been asked to tell. I’m nothing special, just an observer of the world around me. It’s a gift passed through my family for generations, my people have collected the lore of this world since the beginning. We’ve guarded the myths and secrets of the races that have lived here, our sacred duty to bear the history forward that the new generations may know of the lessons the past offers us.
“Pish-posh—a Merrybrook never lies! I may embellish a bit now and again, but you should have heard my Uncle Withers. His versions of these stories are rife with outright lies and balderdash! Which of his falsehoods have you uncovered?
“Where did you hear that name? What is the meaning of this? I think you should leave. Hers is not a tale I will tell you, it is a flight of fancy. Another of Uncle Withers’ machinations, nothing more. In this realm of magic and legend, she is a true fairy story.
“I have no doubt the locals whisper her name, especially to gullible strangers. They know my business and always have a spot of fun with those who seek audience to hear the lore of this world. They’re filling your head with nonsense, I assure you.
“There’s no truth to it whatsoever! Now, if you’ll permit me, I think it best to say nothing further of her and allow me continue the tale of Neara and the Blackened Knight. We’ve barely scratched the surface of their adventures. I imagine you want to hear what happened after her powers revealed themselves.
“Well, you are a stubborn fellow indeed. Very well, if there are no stories you wish to hear that I will tell you, I suppose we are finished here. May I offer you a jug of cider for the road?
“Stop there, what are you doing? The parlor is as far as you are invited. The rest of my home is off-limits to visitors. If you will not obey my rules, you are not welcome here. Your cloak is by the door and…wait, no!
“Very well, now you can see my secrets. I’m a terrible housekeeper. Are you happy now? I’m ashamed of anyone seeing my kitchen in this state. Come, now, let’s part as friends. You have seen my inner sanctum and can turn right around and we will pretend this never happened.
“Alright, that’s quite enough of this. If you’re through embarrassing me with crusts of bread and dried teacups, I think we’re finished here.
“Stop! I really must object – you are the rudest, most impudent scourge to ever—hey!
“Are you pleased with yourself? Now you’ve seen my bed as well. This is an unconscionable violation. I welcome you into my home and now, what?
“Of all the slights, this one stings the most. You barge into my bedroom and then demand I tell you of stuff and nonsense, dreamt up by an old crackpot? My Uncle Withers was the most unreliable narrator in the whole of our family tree. His tomfoolery put the whole Merrybrook family’s honor at risk.
“Fine! I will tell you what you want to know, but only if you agree to stop this incursion into my private space and return to the parlor.
“Now, take your seat and keep it. If you move even one of your toes anywhere but closer to the door, you’ll find yourself unwelcome not only in my home but the whole of this village as well. They may enjoy ribbing my guests, but these are my folk and their loyalties lie with my family. Are we understood?
“Very well, then. Now, how to begin? You see here, this family tree? There I am near the top, along with my brothers and sisters. There’s Uncle Withers’ branch – you can see how it ends abruptly. In addition to being a trickster, he was also unlucky in love.
“There’s that name again. I’ll thank you to stop saying it. Trust a Merrybrook to know how to tell their own tale.
“All the way at the base of the tree, you see this knot? That’s who you’re asking about. Our family matriarch, the common root from which our dynasty was born. She lived ages ago, she’s a distant memory next to the very real history of the races of D’veen.
“There’s that name again! Yes…she…was the first storyteller in this world. She passed her gift on through our family and that is how I became the man I am today. It’s really nothing much of a story, part of the reason I don’t like to tell it. On the whole, it lacks any of the interest or excitement that the rest of our lore holds.
“Goodness, if you aren’t the very spit and image of obstinacy. You barge into my home, spewing lies and falsehoods and refuse to accept the truth in my story? You indict my family of such blasphemy? You would hold the Merrybrooks up as liars? You accuse me of making all of this up?
“How dare you! What right do you have to speak to me this way? And in my own home! You’ve strained my goodwill as far as it will stretch. The door is behind you, and I’ll thank you to never darken it again.”
Leaning against the closed door, Finton sighed deeply. The stranger was asking very dangerous questions. He thought his words had satisfied the stranger’s curiosity, but he needed to be sure.
Bolting the door and darkening the lamps in the parlor, he slipped through the kitchen and into the bedroom. The stranger had stood on top of the spot and been so preoccupied as to miss the hollow sound his footsteps made crossing over it. Rolling the faded orange fibers of the oval rug away, Finton reached for the handle to the trapdoor beneath. At the bottom of the ladder, the crone’s face was pale in the glimmer of the light that emanated from her.
Great-great-great-great-great-grandmother Merida was no ordinary mortal. Born from a bit of a star that fell from the heavens, she heard the calling of the celestial bodies as they sang of her destiny’s shape. Walking the empty world, she hummed along with the tune that kept the planets revolving, the order that brought light and darkness in equal measure. Amid the choruses of joy and peace, she heard the legends that would transform this barren planet into the world of D’veen.
Finton stroked the spines of the volumes Merida had written over her century of existence. The music of the universe filled her mind and she poured their words onto the page where they sprang to life around her. She wrote of love, loss, pain, suffering, triumph, hatred, violence, and hope. She grew a family tree, seeded hundreds of dynasties that would fill the land and sky.
All the lore with which the Merrybrook storytellers regaled their fellows had been the work of a bit of fallen star. Each of the books contained millions of stories, and after nearly a thousand years, they’d all come to fruition even if never spoken aloud. The shape of the world around Finton was contained in the manuscripts that surrounded his ancestor.
Picking up her quill, Finton tore off a new bit of parchment. Closing his eyes and calling upon the deepest resonant tones his little body could produce, he sang his request. Merida’s light twinkled as the feathered pen began to scratch and swoop against the paper.
In a matter of moments, Finton saw the stranger’s future unfolding on the page. Satisfied that he’d put an end to another threat of discovery, he added the parchment into the binding of Merida’s most recent volume. Golden light flashed as the page knitted itself together with the rest of the book. The page shimmered as the words Merida had written rose as a cloud of vapor to make their way into the world.
Across the square, in the small public house, the stranger’s mug of mead shattered as he fell limp and lifeless on the stone floor.
Thank you for reading! Wanderlust & Wordplay offers a blend of humorous expat memoir 🌍, serialized mystery fiction ✍️, and dystopian sci-fi 🧬
So good!!! When do we get the series???
That was lovely!