Unsung Sadie Hutchings

SADIE HUTCHINGS FANTASY

UNSUNG

Sadie Hutchings is a WLP major, concentrating in Publishing. Her love of storytelling stems from the memory of her mom reading fantasy novels to her before bedtime throughout her childhood. In her writing today, she strives to achieve the same wonder that characterizes those memories.

If scents were visible, the square would be blinding in color: a warm golden hue for the rows of fresh loaves at the baker’s; a mix of ginger-orange and canary-yellow spilling from a vendor’s collection of ground spices; and flashing bronze where the blacksmith forges tools to sell.

“Quality fabrics! Get ’em here!” A man gestures proudly to thick coils of rich fabrics. Another holds out jewel-colored hair ribbons and calls louder, “For your mother! Your sister! Your wife!”

Pockets are weighed down with smooth coins, and there is an air of plenty that encompasses the scene. The rhythmic moving of feet mixes with the sounds of easy conversation among the people.

Among the bustle, in the center of the square a bubble of quiet is growing. A brightly dressed woman moves to stand at the base of a large statue. As she reaches to pull a small lyre out of her embroidered bag, people begin to gather. They tuck their purchases in the crooks of their arms or under bended knees as they arrange themselves into sitting positions around the woman. In this kingdom, when a bard sings, people listen.

The woman’s long, tan fingers strum out a couple of cords from the instrument, and she pitches her voice low to match the notes: “A prince, now king, a seventh child of seven, rises above older

Unsung 5 siblings, to assume throne and crown.”

Excitement and anticipation within the crowd grows as they collectively recognize the tune. It is the story of their king—of the man depicted by the very statue the bard performs under. They have heard this song many times before, enough to mouth the words, but it’s a favorite, and no one leaves as the bard continues to sing: “With the vibrancy of golden armor, silver swords, and bloodied hands, the prince sets off to find a fallen star in the realm of a foreign king, a wish made of light.”

The story is a common one, a dime a dozen, of a prince turned hero. He will succeed in grasping a whisper, a rumor of an adventure that could set him above his older sisters and brothers. He will come home victorious. Songs will be written. But there is more to the story that no bard nor historian knows. The prince was not alone in his quest. There was another man, a woodcutter named Noam, who had heard the same legend about the wish and set off to claim it.

The bard spreads her arms, and her billowing sleeves sweep over the audience—capturing them in her tale. Her fingers at the lyre pick up speed as the tempo of the song increases and builds. Within her words are images of other lands, a young prince entering a foreign land, and the castle that receives him: “Gilded gates of the kingdom shift and open for him. By-passing the city, the prince rides straight to palace. He is given a feast of bread and lamb.”

Noam’s entrance into the city goes unnoticed. Laden down with a threadbare pack, the woodcutter makes his way across a well-travelled footbridge. He leans on a hand-carved cane for support—unlike the prince, he hasn’t been a young man in a long time. Hasn’t felt like one for longer. The town is a quiet one, and few people are out in the streets. He has lived in places like this; places ruled by the selfish few, places where neighbors draw their curtains in tight and always lock their doors. His grandchildren live in a place like this—stifled and harsh.

Ahead of him, there is an upset in the quiet. A young man in armor whirls around a corner riding a horse recklessly down the road. People around the scene scramble, glaring as they push themselves against walls, out of the way. The rider, set on his course, doesn’t spare them even a glance. A slight figure stumbles,

6Sadie Hutchings thrown back from the turmoil, and Noam sees them spit at the ground as the rider continues on his way. As he reaches down to help the figure stand, bony fingers grasp at his arm. The figure—an old woman, he sees now—tightens her grip, pushes against his forearm, and rises to her feet. Sinking her long nails into his skin like a sort of violent thank-you, the woman releases her grip and starts to walk away.

“Wait! Maybe you can help me, I’m looking for some directions,” Noam calls out.

Turning back to look at him, a grin slowly spreads across the woman’s face. “I can help you,” she pauses, “for a price.” Her exposed teeth are surprisingly straight and glittering. “Come with ol’ Wren, and I’ll sell you whatever you need.”

“That’s really not necessary, I don’t need to buy anything. Just some information if you have it.”

Wren laughs and spit springs from her mouth, “Now, none of that. Everyone finds something they need in my store.”

Looking around, the woodcutter sees that everyone else has vacated the street and that the soft morning light is shifting into a dimmer afternoon glow. Another day is passing, and Noam sighs. As if seeing the decision on his face, Wren’s grin gets wider, curling at the ends.

The street winds lazily in and out of lantern light as they travel deeper and deeper into the city. They pass by storefronts and residential streets until the woman finally stops at a small weathered green door in an uneven frame. She fishes out a ring of keys from a hidden pocket and turns the lock.

“Come inside, and we’ll see what I can do for you, hmm?” She reaches out her gnarled fingers, grabs his arm, and pulls him inside.

“Seated with a foreign king at a foreign feast, the prince asks about a star. ‘Our kingdom has long told stories of such a thing, but the way is deceiving, and guarded twice,’ the king replies, brow lowered and hands twisting nervously.”

Filled from floor to ceiling, Wren’s shop bursts with all sorts of objects. There are rows and rows of small vials, some holding

Unsung 7 thickly opaque liquids, others crammed with twisting roots and spindly creatures. Books are placed in haphazard piles throughout the narrow space.

“Let me get the light,” Wren says, guiding Noam into the store. He narrowly avoids knocking over the first pile of books. He isn’t so lucky with the second; history tomes and storybooks crash to the floor, their pages crumble and bend.

“Oh! Sorry, here let me—”

Light floods the room, and he’s cut off by Wren snapping her fingers. At the sound, there’s a flurry of ink and paper as the stack of books rights itself. The rest of the room teeters and shifts as a path through the disarray forms in front of the witch and the woodcutter. Catching his wide-eyed stare, Wren moves to stand behind a counter, props up her elbows, and laces her fingers together.

“Now that that’s all sorted, see anything you’d like to buy?” Laughing, she holds out a silvery-green vial and nods at his balding head, “I’ve got a potion that can make anything grow.” “Really, ma’am, I just need information. I’ve heard of a...a star, one that’ll grant any wish. Everything I’ve found has led me to your city.” He runs a tired hand through his hair. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

“A fallen star,” she muses, “Now, that’s an old tale.” She unlaces her hands and turns one palm up, reaching it out towards him. “But I’ve got a living to be made, and I don’t give anything away for free.”

Sighing, Noam pulls out two tarnished gold coins and places them into her open palm. Quicker than he’s seen her move all afternoon, her fingers snap closed and she smiles.

“Go through the forest on the edge of town, and you’ll get to a mountain. Through a hidden door, you’ll find your star.” She clicks her tongue inside her mouth and looks down at the money in her hand as if judging its worth. “And, I suppose, you’d oughta know that there’s a creature guarding the woods.” Clicks her tongue again. “And, and this is ‘cause I like you, there’s bound to be some sorta guardian within the mountain to watch out for.” She glances at the cane in his hands and the wrinkles under his eyes. “You don’t really seem like the adventuring type—”

He cuts her off, “I’m going. It’s the last thing I can do for my family, getting that wish, a wish for a shot at a better type of life, it’s...it’s all I can do for them.” His old eyes grow distant as he thinks of his small grandchildren, of how he’s all they’ve got, and of how

8Sadie Hutchings they won’t have him for much longer. His voice falters before he continues to speak, “Thank you, Wren.”

The woodcutter turns to leave, making sure not to knock anything over on his way out. He swears things have been moving around just outside of his sight. Before he pulls open the door, Wren calls out to him. As he turns to her, she throws the silvery-green vial in his direction, and he manages to catch it before it hits the floor. Her old face looks almost sheepish.

“Maybe you’ll find some use for it,” she shrugs, “and don’t think that’s for free, I fully expect that on your way back you’ll give ol’ Wren some of that treasure if you find any.”

“The forest on the edge of town is eerie and silent when the prince approaches. A giant sun rises in the sky, its rays glinting off his armor, his swords, and his clear, clever eyes.”

The woodcutter makes his way unsteadily through the twisting trees. His cane sinks into the spongy underbrush, but the evening sun seems to have renewed in energy, and there is enough light to see by. Strange-sounding birds caw from the leafy-crowned canopy, and Noam pulls his cloak tighter around himself. Eventually, he arrives at the opening of a clearing. He had been careful to avoid making noise, hoping to pass through the forest unchallenged. It would not be so—in the middle of the clearing, what he thought to be a small hill begins to shift and stretch. The mound turns to face him, and its large moss-covered jaw opens to let out a loud, thundering yawn. Covered in grass and small sprouting plants, the creature appears to be a part of the earth it rests on. Two eyelids open to reveal slitted yellow-golden eyes.

It calls out in a lilting voice, “O, traveler. If you answer my question correctly, I’ll allow you passage through my woods. If not—” the creature purrs and bares its sharp teeth, “if not, I’ll eat you.” The beast’s laughter ripples in waves, encompassing the space. Shaking, Noam approaches the center of the clearing.

“Pose your question, and I will give you my answer.”

“Ah, a confident one then. Very well, what gift can you give me that I cannot easily take for myself?”

Unsung 9

The woodcutter racks his mind. What could he give? He had very little. Looking closer at the beast licking its lips in front of him, Noam realizes that he can see the outline of its ribs. That those yellow eyes appear shrunken—the creature is starving. So, Noam swings his pack from off his shoulders and rummages through his small rations. Pulling out a small browning apple, he holds it out in offering.

“Food. That’s what I can give you.”

The creature laughs and flicks out a long, rough tongue, “Tell me, what hunger would this apple satisfy that eating you would not?”

The woodcutter lowers himself to the ground, takes the apple in both hands, pulls, and splits the fruit in two. Scooping the juicedripping seeds from the core, Noam digs a small divot into the ground at his feet. Placing the seeds inside, he re-covers the hole. The apple wasn’t the only thing he had retrieved from his bag— and the man upends Wren’s vial on the planted seeds. As the shimmering liquid hits the earth, sprouts begin to pop up from the ground. In the blink of an eye, the short stems grow; the clearing fills with trees heavy with small but ripe fruit. The creature pounces. Within minutes, its jaw is stained from the apples’ juices, and it falls into a deep and satisfied slumber.

“Far into the woods, the prince travels. Coming upon a clearing, he encounters a sleeping beast within an apple orchard. Silently approaches the prince, who slits the neck of the beast, and wears its earthen-coat as a trophy.”

Evening turns to night as Noam clears the outside edge of the forest. There isn’t enough light for him to see where the immense mountain ends and the dark, clouded sky begins. And so, rather than searching blindly for a hidden door in the craggy rocks, he gathers his cloak tight around him to wait for the day. The rising sun announces itself harshly, and Noam wakes covered in beads of sweat. Sunlight throws itself against the mountain, squirming into the cracks and crevices. With his cane in one hand, the woodcutter searches for anything that could be an entrance. His fingers catch on a smooth crack. Taking a step back, he can see

10 Sadie Hutchings the outline of a door. Grounding his feet, he places a hand on its surface, and pushes.

“In the dead of night, the prince-soon-king breeches the mountain. Cloaked in the creature’s skin, armored in gold, armed with silver, the awaiting serpentine guardian is no match for him.”

The inside of the mountain is cavernous; smooth granite walls rise to form sloping ceilings. Noam closes the door behind him with an audible creak as the smell of blood reaches his nose. In the near distance stands a man with a red sword drawn. No, not red, Noam realizes, but rather silver metal dripping blood. At the man’s feet lies a beheaded serpent coiled in and around the vast piles of coins, jewels, and the other glittering items of the fallen dragon’s hoard. Cloaked in shadow, Noam isn’t seen by the prince, who is focused on wiping his sword clean of the ruby liquid. And then— there it is. Noam’s eye catches on a pale, blue light radiating from a small, spindly orb a close distance away from him. He prays that his feet remember the long nights of hunting quietly through the forest of his youth, and he sneaks toward the fallen star and quickly hides it within the folds of his cloak. Still the prince doesn’t notice him, busy beginning his search through the landscape of treasure.

But stealth is a fickle friend, and, just as Noam nears the hidden door, his left foot brushes against a small collection of coins; sending them scattering. The clinking sound of the coins falling echoes throughout the chamber. Noam begins to run. But it takes only a moment for the younger, more agile prince to reach him, and, within a second, Noam feels the cold of steel pressing into his back.

“Thief! What have you taken from the mountain?” The prince’s voice rings out clear and accusing, “I have slain the dragon, all she possessed is mine.” And, before Noam can respond, he is betrayed again—as the light from the star chooses this moment to strengthen and shine through the fabric of his cloak. Keeping the sword brandished, the prince moves to stand between the door and Noam. The young man rips aside Noam’s cloak, and the star’s light immediately fills the space between the men with a glowing, blue light. The prince’s

Unsung 11 eyes reflect the pallid glow and dawn with recognition.

“Give me the star. It is my wish,” the prince demands and moves the sword’s tip close to Noam’s chest, “Old man, my wish is to change a kingdom. I will be a better king than my father, than any of my siblings would have been—that is a story that warrants the power of a star. You are not the hero of this piece. You must realize how this ends, yes? How it always ends in these stories? I will not leave without my wish, content yourself to the mountain’s other treasures.”

Noam looks down at his hands and then to the prince’s gripping the hilt. Noam’s hands have known hard work, have known the precision of a carving knife, the warmth of holding his 10 children’s fingers within his own, the act of burying those children. They have never known a sword. And so, without a choice and without saying a word, the old woodcutter hands over the luminous star. He watches the prince leave the cavern, leaf and dirt cape flowing behind him, leaving with the wish Noam had travelled so far to find.

“The prince returns, with a story, a star, a wish. He wishes that he’ll be king, that his kingdom will be filled with prosperity. He wishes that his kingdom will be filled with song.”

As the last note of the bard’s song chimes, the crowd erupts in cheers as they rise to their feet. The bubble of attention breaks, and people gather their purchases of fruits, fabrics, and flour. The crowd disperses as they resume their previous activities. The woman shakes out her long sleeves and starts to pack away her small lyre.

She looks out into the crowd a final time. There is an old man wearing the trade-clothes of a woodcutter, surrounded by young children. The children are well-dressed, the youngest even wears an amber brooch, but the bard sees the toll age has taken on the man. He looks tired, and, when his eyes make contact with hers, there is something in them that makes her feel almost silly, and incredibly young, for singing the prince’s ballad. She wonders what stories lie behind his aged eyes. But the bard shakes off the thought. After all, there are few songs sung about old men, and even fewer about woodcutters. Soon forgetting about the small family, the woman closes her bag over the lyre and softly sings the final lyrics again under her breath.

“...filled with song.”