The Cycle of Time: The Journey

Chapter One: Shrouded (The Journey)

Alli stood, transfixed, as she listened to Dirco’s low, captivating voice. His storytelling gift hypnotized people on a daily basis; a crowd had gathered around the seventeen-year-old boy, enraptured by the tale he told.

Alli often wondered how Dirco did it; she had known him for a very long time—practically her whole life—and his voice never changed so dramatically as it did when he told a story. People stood and listened for hours as Dirco skillfully wove his tales of woe and of hope.

In half an hour, Dirco finished his tale of the beginnings of Janiza bowed as the crowd applauded and threw small copper coins at him. Alli collected the coppers in her ragged skirt, smiling and thanking those who paid for his story.

As the audience dispersed, Dirco approached Alli. “How much did we get?” he asked, his voice no longer low and smooth but boyish and somewhat hoarse. He grinned his twisted, cryptic, and creepily-charming grin.

Alli counted silently. “I’d guess around six or seven coppers.”

Dirco pushed his pale blonde hair back from his face, his strange whitish eyes wide. “With that crowd?” A frightening scowl replaced his grin. “I oughtta start making them pay to stand there like doltheads and wander off into la-la land!”

Alli sighed as she tucked the money into her pocket. She would probably hear about this for the rest of the night. “At least we have something.”

“Might as well have left squat!”

Dirco and Alli walked back home through the dusty streets. Their ‘home’ was really just a back alley between a blacksmith’s shop and a stable. All day, and some nights, the constant banging of the blacksmith drove Alli mad. When the wind blew in the wrong direction, though, the stench of the stables sickened her. A makeshift roof of sorts protected Alli and Dirco from the worst of the weather, and a small pile of blankets, sacks, hay, and old clothes made tolerable beds, so their situation wasn’t unbearable.

The two didn’t earn much money from Dirco’s storytelling. He wove wondrous stories—no one told tales like him—but people didn’t make enough profit to spare a few coppers on entertainment. Since Fire Eye, the queen of Janíza, began taxing crops to feed her armies, citizens had stopped selling food and, consequently, stopped earning money.

Dirco slumped his long frame against the wall. A light rain pattered on the makeshift canvas roof, filling the short silence with a peaceful rhythm.

“I’m sorry people don’t appreciate your talents, Dirco,” Alli said as she knelt to arrange a pile of sticks.

Dirco crouched across from her, awkwardly gripping the flint stones he kept in his large pockets. Alli watched his long fingers carefully; she wanted to make sure of something she  wondered about. As she expected, it happened again. He breathed a word and, without touching the flint stones together, a fire lit in the sticks.

“There,” he said, scuttling backwards. “It’s alright, Alli. It’ll buy us food, at least.” Then his face darkened again. “But still, six coppers! That makes me nauseous.”

Alli stared into his eyes. Deciding not to mention the fire-making matter, she mumbled, “Yes.”

Dirco flopped backwards, resting against the wall. At seventeen, he stood as tall as a full grown man, with long legs, longs arms, and long fingers. His pale, yellowish hair—almost off-white in shade—stuck out in all directions. His eyes still managed to be his most distinguishing feature. The irises themselves were ice colored, and surrounded by a dark ring of black, which made them seem colorless when compared to his olive-toned skin. He wore a long, sleeveless leather coat with supposedly endless pockets, where he kept a supply of coal pencils and his sacred notebook.