The Third Dragon, Part IV
Behold The City of Writer’s Gold!
“And who is this?” asked Captain Baker.
“This,” answered Professor Essepi, “is Dr. Phineas Lizotte.”
“Welcome aboard the U.S.S Vincent, sir,” the Captain said in a strained voice.
A persistent wind tossed shredded rags of clouds overhead, billowing them across the sky like a poor man’s laundry. As the pale sun disappeared behind the clouds, the professor pulled his collar tighter.
While the two men looked each other over, Essepi studied their reactions. Dr. Lizotte’s bulging eyes peered at the Captain through silver rimmed spectacles balanced on a nose the width of a chart pencil. With a peculiarly long index finger, Lizotte adjusted their position as though he were studying a specimen through a microscope. The Captain stood proudly, with his feet braced apart and arm’s folded across his broad chest.
“Where may I put my belongings?” asked Lizotte.
“Cherney,” said Captain Baker to a sailor, “take the man’s trunk and show him to his berth.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said Cherney.
”No one touches my belongings, Baker,” hissed Lizotte.
“That would be Captain Baker to the likes of you,” said Cherney.
Lizotte raised a hand as if to strike the man. “A dog like you will not tell—“
“That will do, doctor,” said Essepi, his wry smile and sharp tone cutting Lizotte short.
Cherney apparently missed the entire transaction; his gaze, instead, transfixed upon an odd-shaped ring on Lizotte’s hand. It possessed a small spark of lightning when it flashed in the sun. Then, as if caught peeking at something he shouldn’t, the sailor quickly turned away, his countenance shaped with an expression Essepi thought bordered on revulsion.
excerpted from “The Bedlamite,” by Ferrel D. Moore
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It flashes with reflected sunlight. Andiron, the man who sees the future, displays his gold coin like a talisman before us. The crowd stares at this symbol of wealth that so many of us have heard tell of, but few of us have ever seen. A poor lot are we storytellers and writers, with bellies rarely full and dressed in cloths the poorest farmer would decry.
“Behold, in my vision, I saw gold,” says Andiron.
In my dreams, your eyes are the flash of morning light on blue waters. As Andiron holds his piece of gold, I see a different woman. I am about to decide what type of woman I now see, when the flash of gold light sparks my own eyes, and I feel its power.
Andiron begins to walk back and forth across the platform, energized by his remembered vision.
“Storytellers,”‘ he shouts, “are you not weary of being poor?”
He stops suddenly, pockets his gold coin, and waits expectantly.
“I am,” says one of the men circled around the stage.
“Are you alone?” asks Andiron scornfully.
“I survived for months on end on only bread and vegetables given to me by farmers for hard labor,” yells another.
Another shouts out, “I went for three years without a bed to call my own, and only a ragged cape to keep me warm. “
“I slept in drafty stables in every village I told my stories,” says still another.
I look at this last man carefully, for I think I know him. His face is thin and drawn, with dark hollows under his eyes. A gust of wind lifts his dry-grass hair. I think that he wondered through my home village when I was much younger. He is a poet, a lyricist gifted with the music of life. His spun poetry was of love and valor, but he was not so pale and thin back then.
Andiron’s eyes light with the people’s words. With a sudden movement he begins to stride back and forth across the stage. I feel tension in the air. I feel the power of his vision.
“Must we starve and suffer?” he demands. His voice is stronger, more vibrant and resonates with passion. “Are we brigands? Are not our stories created by us the way a shirt is created by a seamstress? Do we not deserve wages for our efforts?”
“We do,” I shout, and I am amazed at my own words.
“Yes, we do, young lad,” says Andiron. “In my vision I saw the future of writing, and it was beautiful. Magnificent. Empowering.”
“Tell us,” yells a young woman with blond, braided hair and cheeks the color of apples hanging in the nearby trees.
“I tell you, I saw a world where men and women were paid for the stories. I saw a great and shining city of gold where writers had full pockets. They were respected and some wealthy as kings. I saw it, brothers and sisters.”
Andiron spreads his arms wide as though receiving a divine blessing. His face breaks forth into a radiant smile.
“In this enlightened world, writers were merchants crafting their goods and selling them to all who would buy.”
We are so quiet, I can hear the puffs of wind make sounds like rustling skirts. It is strange to hear someone speak of storytelling and gold. A great storyteller who passed through my village once said that our words should share both the divine and the terrible with humanity. She never once spoke of storytellers and writers and their creations as things created to bring wealth and possessions. However, she was not a prophetess, and had not received the powerful vision of Andiron.
“Fellow storytellers, you have not yet asked how it can be possible for us to transform ourselves from men and women who spend a lifetime as penniless wanderers watering a few tales with our spirit, nurturing and feeding them with our heart’s blood into story merchants. But I saw a second vision of still greater power, a vision that showed us how to create our stories so that they will bear golden fruit.”
“Tell us,” I cry.
The crowd takes up my entreaty; first one, then another, and then all call out, “Tell us, Andiron. Tell us your second vision.”
Andiron lowers his eyes, as though searching our sincerity. As though convinced our earnestness, he shares his secret with us on that fateful day. Off to his side, you and Ferdinand, the dragonslayer and soon to be the greatest storyteller in known history, wait as expectantly as we.
“My brothers and sisters,” says Andiron, “my second vision was of something never seen in our own time, and its strange beauty was almost too much for my mind.”
“Tell us,” we cry again in unison.
“What I saw in this vision of the future was the answer to how storytellers may achieve wealth. The mere sight of its complexities rendered me unnable to speak, unable to frame the words to name it. But heaven itself was with me my friends, and a woman from our wonderful future shared its name with me that I might bring it back to you. She spoke to me, I tell you. Whether she was in truth woman or angel I cannot say, but all the same I can still tell you the name she gave it.”
Again, Andiron holds us with the force of his silence. I wonder what word he is about to speak that holds such power that it can bring wealth to us all. What secret word, what strange symbol has he brought back from his vision of the future that can transform the sacred art of storytelling? What method or secret will this word unveil to us?
We, the storytellers and writers gathered in a semi-circle around the rough-planked platform, dare not make a noise, lest Andiron change his mind. The fear that we will not learn the word of power keeps us silent, only dimly aware of the bright sky, the smell of crushed grass, or the distant howlings of wild dogs. We know only that without this word from the prophet that we will be forever doomed to the life of beggars.
Finally, Andiron speaks.
“Here is the name, the symbol, and the way we must learn to transform ourselves from beggars to citizens with stature and power. The word that she gave me for this great mystery that we must emulate with our stories is- the Assembly Line.”
We who have waited turn to each other and begin asking, “What is this Assembly Line? Have you heard of this name?”
“Silence,” says Andiron sternly. He begins again to pace around the stage, waving his hands like a man shaking water from them. “Speak not the name lightly. The Assembly Line will be the way of stories and we must speak it with power, not idle questioning. It is our future. To become merchants of stories, we must make many stories- perhaps two or three a year, perhaps more. The more we write, the more we may sell.”
I nod. The people around me nod. You and the great Ferdinand nod. But neither I nor anyone in the audience seem to know what an Assembly Line is.
“Do not despair,” shouts Andiron, and he stops pacing to look at us kindly. “Now that you know the sacred name, I tell you also that there a three secrets still to be unveiled to you that will explain everything you need to know. Indeed, without understanding these three secrets, you cannot become successful. But before you learn the three secrets, there are three lies you must reject. First, you must forget the holy nature of storytelling- it is a lie. Second, you must forget wrenching from your very souls the complexities of life- it is not of the Assembly Line Way. Third, you must forget devoting a life time to a handful of great tales that will move the hearts and souls of your listeners and readers- that, too, is not the Assembly Line Way.”
A cloud wisped across the face of the sun, and I felt its shadow in my heart. Abandon the sacred within storytelling for something I did not know? I felt a touch of shame blush my cheeks, but then I remembered Andiron’s gold coin.
“What must we do?” one of us pleads.
Andiron smiles benevolently. “You must learn the three secrets from brother Shrift and use them to create your stories. I have told you the three lies you must renounce. Now brother Shrift will tell you of these three secrets.”
Quickly, I turn and stare at the bald man. Can he be brother Shrift?
“But before I step down, I will tell you the name of the first secret. Brother Shrift will unlock for you its mysteries and those of the remaining two. The name of the first secret that you must embrace, the first secret that will turn your stories into simple goods for sale, is called Economy.”
“All hail Economy,” we chanted.
But none of us knew what Economy meant, though I did not like the sound of the word itself.
