Chapter 1: The Ingenious Troubadour of Antlers
Old Fimbo M. Hampple led a simple life, and he was proud of it. In fact, one could say that his days were quiet and free of concerns and his nights were filled with the most fanciful dreams. Not that he didn’t like adventures – he had had a great share of them – he simply came to an age where he preferred to live them through the stories he told.
Fimbo loved stories; everyone knew this. They made him feel less lonely. Whenever he wasn’t taking care of the small alfalfa plantation behind the old cottage he’d inherited from his family, he was in the company of some of his favourite fables, or writing some fantastic narrative he’d dreamt the previous night. And he was the best storyteller amongst all storytellers. That made him quite popular amongst his neighbours, who called him ‘The Ingenious Troubadour of Antlers’. He found this sobriquet very much amusing.
Fimbo had sailed the world and seen many a thing. Until, one day, he grew tired and decided it was time to settle down, moving back to Flowership with his parents in the family’s old cottage. But, to be honest, that way of life turned Fimbo into a lonely creature, making him feel like an outsider. And Flowership was no different. But that was, probably, because he was a stag. An old, biped, talking stag. Any advice? Imagine him as though he was just like you, and you were covered in light-brown fur faded by time, with tired honey-coloured eyes, and enormous antlers protruding from your head. The difference is: if this were really you, you’d be bullied in school. The fact is that stags shouldn’t live on the mountains amid the goats; they don’t possess the balance needed to climb the steep rocks.
Yes, Fimbo M. Hampple was an old stag that loved stories and, on that day, he would write the most magnificent story he had ever written.
It all started on a spring day, his favourite season, when Fimbo woke up early on that sunny morning, as was his custom.
“The Hampple siblings…” it was the first thing he said, still with a hoarse voice. He stood up and reached out for the bedside table, taking a strange, cylindrical device covered in small blades. As soon as the part with the blades began to spin fast, the fur he shed on the sheets vanished. But his mind was far away, still thinking about his dream. He knew the Hampple siblings, of course, they were his family. His adoptive family. But that night was different. That history felt familiar, as though he had dreamt that dream a long time ago and then forgotten. However, that unquiet night brought the fantastic tale back to his memories.
“Oh, bugger!” he mumbled as he woke up from his reverie and realised his sheets were being sucked into the defurrenator, nearly breaking it. He pulled the sheets out of the object and let out an upsetting sigh as he looked at the holes in the fabric.
He put on his mustard cloak and went out through the kitchen door that led to the alfalfa plantation behind his house: a small cottage like any other cottage in the village, with a moss roof and made from the enormous hollow trunk of an old tree. He had been taking care of that plantation for half his life now, saying it used to be the job of his family. But, since the passing of his parents a few years ago, he had been doing this all by himself.
The old stag harvested distractedly. His mind wandered far from the field as his dream took over his brain. He didn’t remember hearing that history before, but it felt strangely real. Peculiar. Perhaps it was his advanced age; his memory hasn’t been the same lately.
After pushing himself for almost two hours trying to harvest something decent, Fimbo gave up on that useless task and dropped the sickle, returning to the cottage. “Those goats are perfectly capable of handling one day without alfalfa,” he thought. Once inside, he put the old kettle on and prepared himself a gourd of bitter water.
Bitter water was a typical and very popular drink in every corner of the Wild Earth. It is served in a gourd, in which one puts mate-herb and hot water. Then it’s sipped through the bomb – some sort of metal straw, where one of the ends is rounded and full of holes, serving as a filter. It is a drink associated with companionship, family, and friendship, for it is customary to share it with the ones one is fond of.
Fimbo poured the hot water in the gourd, but again, he couldn’t fix his mind on what he was doing, as was been happening all morning. He spilled the water and burned his hand, letting out a cry of pain.
“That’s it! I’m doing nothing else today,” he stomped his hoof, angry at life. He took a deep breath. “You know what? A book. That’s what I need, to read until the day is over. That will surely put a smile in my mind.”
He took his favourite book from the bookshelf, entitled ‘The Vodasilia, or the Tales heard by Tom Pompeludo’ and sat on the armchair in front of the fireplace. He sat there for several minutes trying to pass the first page, but couldn’t focus. He put the book aside and closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind. The dream. The Hampple sibling. His leg begun to shake involuntarily. The dream. The Hampple siblings. He tapped the chair’s arms with his fingers. The dream. The Hampple siblings.
Not being able to contain himself anymore, Fimbo stood up at once. He went to the bookshelf again, grabbed a big old book with a leather cover filled with several blank leaves, and dropped it on top of the elm table, causing a small cloud of dust to rise. He opened the book and took his disproportionately big quill made of a dark-green feather. He took a deep breath to calm his excitement down and, when he was about to start writing, he was caught by surprise by a female voice.
“Starting a new story?” asked the nanny smiling, with her arms leaning outside of the window-sill.
Fimbo got scared and crossed the page with a misshapen dark-red scribble that seemed to shine somehow, even if he didn’t dip the quill in any kind of ink.
“Oh, bugger,” he said, trying, in vain, to clean the scribble with his cloak and only making it worse. “Peremende! What are you doing there at the window? Trying to give me a heart attack? Keep scaring me like that and my heart will succumb one of these days.”
“I was just curious about what you were doing,” said Peremende shrugging. “How do you start a story, anyway?”
Peremende Honeycomb was a jolly, old nanny. She was Fimbo’s best friend – only friend, really – and was six years older than the stag.
“What?” said Fimbo, not knowing if he took the question seriously.
“How do you start a new story?” Peremende repeated, with genuine curiosity.
“Why, at the beginning, where else?”
“I’m serious. You seem to do it so… effortlessly.”
“I don’t know, you just… start writing and see where the story takes you.”
“Right, talking is easy,” said Peremende in a distrustful tone. “But tell me, weren’t you supposed to be chopping off my alfalfa? I just came from the marketplace and you weren’t there; I was hoping to get a bundle. Hila is coming to visit, so I was planning on making an alfalfa stew for dinner tonight.”
“Well, to be honest I should, but I wasn’t able to focus on the field, so I thought it was best to stop before I amputated my hand.”
“Oh, what a shame,” said Peremende, forcing a sigh of frustration. “You will disappoint many goats today.”
“Yes, well, at least I keep all of my limbs. But don’t just stand there at the window. Come in! I’ll give you all the alfalfa you want later.”
“Promise?” said Peremende smiling, dreaming about the stew she’d have at dinner with her daughter.
“Promise.”
“Alright. But if you don’t keep your word, I’ll cook you for dinner!” Peremende pointed threateningly at her friend. “Well, actually no, because, you know… meat is disgusting, but still, I’ll rip off those oversized antlers of yours!”
“Do know that they are a sign of wisdom and virility,” said Fimbo as though he was reciting a speech that was on the tip of his tongue.
“Virility at your age? Oh, my friend, that time has long gone for you,” teased Peremende.
“Anyway, may I offer you something? Tea? Bitter water?” said Fimbo after Peremende had entered the cottage.
“Why, bitter water of course! There’s nothing better to start the day.”
Fimbo went to the kitchen to prepare a new gourd of bitter water.
“So, Hila is coming, eh,” he said while putting the kettle on. “I’m almost offended that I wasn’t invited for this dinner. It’s been quite a while since I last spoke to my goddaughter. It would be nice to catch up.”
“Oh, please, since when do you need an invitation to stop by?” Peremende stopped in front of a huge standing mirror entirely gilded in gold that stood in one corner of the living room. “Oh, I’ve always loved this mirror. It’s so pretty,” she said admiring her own image of short and reddish fur with a few white spots and short horns. She held the skirt of her dress romantically with her fingered hands, showing her hoofed feet. A crimson cloak hanging on her back.
“What? This old mirror? It’s been in my family for years. It was looking at it that I had my first clue that I was adopted,” said Fimbo getting back with the gourd in one hand and the kettle in the other.
“Can you imagine all the stories this mirror has seen?”
“Speaking of histories, I had this really strange dream last night.”
Fimbo poured the hot water in the gourd and drank the bitter water. It was a tradition for the host to drink the first gourd of the drink, which was always the most bitter one. It was to spare their guests from all of the initial bitterness.
“Was it the story you were about to write?” asked Peremende.
“In fact, it was. It was so fantastic, with so many adventures!” said Fimbo with great excitement.
“What’s strange about that?”
“Well, it was about the… Hampple siblings,” Fimbo drank the bitter water until the bomb made a slurping sound. He poured the hot water again and handed it to Peremende.
“Hampple siblings? I didn’t know you had any siblings,” said Peremende pensively.
“You know I don’t. And you know who I’m talking about.”
“Of course I do, I’m just messing with you. You already told other stories about them before.”
Fimbo rolled his eyes.
“They’re not just stories. But nevertheless, I can’t help but feel that I already know this history. It feels like a memory somehow.”
“Perhaps it is,” Peremende took a few sips of the bitter water.
“How? Although I had my share of adventures, those were not it. The history is not about me, remember?”
“I know you haven’t lived all of that, but perhaps you’ve read it somewhere. Or, who knows, your parents might have told you when you were just a fawn. Like a bedtime story or something.”
“Aye, you’re probably right,” said Fimbo.
“Or you’re just going crazy,” Peremende guffawed of her own joke, receiving severe looks from Fimbo. “So? What are you waiting for? Go tell the story!”
“I will!” said the stag, standing up with great excitement.
He ran towards the wooden table where the scribbled book was and sat on the chair.
“Why won’t you use the typewriter?” asked Peremende, pointing to an old typewriter that was thrown in one of the corners of the room, covered in dust and cobwebs.
“Typewriter?” replied Fimbo severely. “Why, are you trying to offend me or just lost your senses?”
“I’m just trying to help you. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?”
“And what would be the fun in that?”
“You’re not very practical, are you?”
“Practical… Bah! What is practicality if not an excuse for laziness?”
“You’re so odd.”
Fimbo ignored Peremende’s last comment and ripped the scribbled page off. He took the quill and, without any ink, began to write. He turned to his friend, who sat next to him.
“Don’t you love the beginning of histories? Everything is always so simple and peaceful; you never know what the history has in store for us,” he said.
“Especially when you have the opportunity to witness the birth of a new story first hand. Start writing then!”
“Well, in this case my dear Peremende, hear the history of the siblings who wanted to see the ocean, by the Ingenious Troubadour of Antlers!”
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