Ty Beirdd has some interesting assignments, and one of those is to
publish a written work publicly if you are a lyricist. Normally this is
done in the Poetry Board, but I am a storyteller and the first one to
get this far on the path, so my work will be published here. This story
is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons mentioned is
coincidental and not meant to portray anyone specifically. Thank you.

The Journal

She began digging furiously into someone's neatly manicured lawn in the
suburbs and once again had nothing but a rather nasty looking hole to
show for her efforts. Why was her luck running so badly these days? A
quarter day's work at this so-called treasure hunt, and she had come up
with nothing at all but a rip in her blouse, aching muscles and two
broken shovels.

Verusha was fast considering just slipping out when no one was looking,
and high-tailing it back to the riverbank to fish. At least there would
be a breeze on the mountain and she would feel like she was doing
something constructive with her time. She was just getting ready to pack
everything up, when her shovel hit something that did not sound like
dirt or even rock! A soft thud announced that she had definitely found
something, but what could it be? Carefully, she sqatted down, reached
into the hole and brushed away the loose soil. It seemed to be an old
journal! That couldn't possibly be one of the treasures - how did it get
here under someone's roses?

There was no title on the book when she drew it from its resting place,
but in tiny, crabbed writing, she made out the name Shadruk on the
flyleaf. Closing her eyes, she searched her memories for a person
fitting that name, and could find nothing at all. Whatever the
circumstances surrounding this person, they had apparently gone to their
eternal reward without any prayer for Salvation.

The treasure hunt appeared to be over now, if the streams of people
heading for the city were any indication. Pocketing the small book in
her trousers, she wiped the dirt from her hands and joined them, only
half listening to the chatter and boasting about the various prizes.
Should she tell someone about the journal? Had the author still been
alive, of course she would have reburied it and send off a message
letting them know that it had not been as safely tucked away as they
thought, but he or she was long dead, and who knew? There could be some
interesting information to be gleaned from the pages! Perhaps something
of historical value that could be donated to the library.

Accepting the black and green lollipop she was given as a participation
prize with a word of thanks and an absent-minded smile, she left the
suburbs and headed into the city for a cup of tea and a slice of
Melodia's warm, Blackbird pie. Maybe in the silence and comfort of the
kawhe shop, she would have time to scan over the journal and see if it
was worth anything.

The Kawhe Shop was empty, and she tossed her pack in the corner and
curled up on one of the chairs with a cup of tea and the dusty journal.
A little rubbing with a handkerchief took care of most of the mud and
smudges, but as she opened the cover, she discovered that the pages were
also damaged. Some had been charred somehow and in places the ink was so
badly smudged, the words were illegible.

She flipped through the first few pages, seeing a word here and there in
the same crabbed writing that the author had written his or her name in.
On page four was an entire paragraph that seemed secretive; as if
Shadruk was afraid to even write his thoughts in his own private
journal. Shadruk was a he, it turned out. A young grook of no particular
city that had overheard a conversation by two cloaked persons in Ashtan
describing a spell they were formulating to change a novel into a book
of spells. Shadruk had been considering becoming a mage, and this seemed
like a quick way to learn what he needed to know in order to be great.

This was more like what she was hoping to find! Verusha ordered some
blackbird pie and another cup of tea, and began paying closer attention
to each word; turning the pages gingerly to ensure that she did no more
damage to them than was already there. There was a list of strange
plants and animal parts a few pages later, and a note about stealing a
used concoctions pot. A few sentences that seemed to be written in a
foreign language, and then at the top of page 15 was scrawled "Help! I
am trapped! Something went wrong, and I don't know how to fix it..."

Quickly she turned to the next page, but there was nothing there except
a stain that looked like dried blood. Biting her lip in concentration,
she flipped a few more pages. They were all blank and she was just about
to give up, when she found another page closer to the end, but the words
were all different. Someone had written in a flowery, loopy style that
reminded her more of a female and was very unlike Shadruk's script. She
found herself intrigued more with the written style than the actual
words.

This was the first time she had ever heard of more than one person
writing in a journal! Journals were very personal, and while others
could read your journal, only you could write in it. As she pondered
this, she scanned the lines - first once, and then again, and yet a
third time before the sense of what she was reading finally penetrated.

"If you are reading this now, run as fast as you can before it's too
late and burn this book in the pyre at Shallam! Hurry!" The page seemed
to scream out at her. Shallam? How could she get there? What was a pyre?
She was out of her chair and halfway out the door at the urgent tone of
that last line.

Verusha had never been to Shallam before, and no longer had portals or
advice from Romeo and Juliet. Why hadn't she paid attention when they
had urged her to join a House? Who could she go to for advice? Long
strides took her to the Gates of the city and down the mountain road,
but once at the sign, she hesitated. She knew that you had to take the
south turning, but there were bears that way, and she had been killed by
one before when she had tried to find Shallam. That's why she had never
gone - to avoid the bears.

"Can someone give me directions to Shallam please?" she asked over the
city aether. "It's rather urgent that I go there."

There was silence for a while and then a stream of comments, helpful and
unhelpful asking what was so urgent; telling her to use her MAP; and one
that suggested she use landmarks and try going to Jaru first and from
there to Shallam. Trying to explain would take too much time, and the
map was not helpful since she had no idea where she was.

Using landmarks seemed to take forever though, and by the time she was
out of the mountains, she felt cold all over and was beginning to
shiver. It seemed to take twice as long to go each step, and she was
dizzy by the time she crossed the desert and could see the Jaru gates.

Verusha stumbled through the gates feeling queasy and strange, and
passed out. She seemed to be starving, but that couldn't be right! She
had just eaten, and the pie at Melodia's was actually from greed rather
than hunger! She dragged herself up on her feet again and took two more
steps before she was again rendered unconscious. The battered journal
fell from her fingers as she gasped her last breath and began to fade;
an ugly orange mist seeped from the pages of the book, surrounding the
form of the prone girl and when it cleared, it was as if Verusha had
never existed.

******************************************************

Benlee strutted up to the crying girl in Jaru, feeling very pleased with
himself. Just 6 months into his rebirth from the Flame and he was
already a master at solving quests! He had helped this girl find her
lost kitten before and wondered why she was so careless as to lose it
again! As he left to go search Jaru for the lost feline, he spotted a
battered journal on the ground, and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe
after he returned the kitten, he would check and see if anyone had lost
it. Maybe there was even a reward! Whistling cheerfully, he headed to
the Jaruvian Crossroads, already daydreaming about how he would spend
the gold, never noticing the slight orange glow emanating from the
journal's bindings


Penned by my hand on the 15th of Valnuary, in the year 523 AF.