In the firelight, I could not see the woman’s features clearly, but I could tell she was elderly enough for the title “esteemed aunt.” “May I have a spot beside your fire, young man?” Her voice creaked with age. Being a bard by trade and having a grandmother prone to telling tales, I knew that when a seemingly elderly woman asks for a seat at your table or fire, you do not say no. “Of course, Esteemed Aunt…” I replied. “Thank you. I will repay you your kindness.”
Or was it that you never say yes? There was something off about the way the woman spoke and moved, but I couldn’t quite figure it out. “You are a bard by trade, yes?” Sharp eyes for low light, able to spot my harp and guild insignia. “Yes…”
“Well, I’ll point you toward the story of a lifetime. Only…it’s not finished yet.” Well, she definitely wasn’t what I had expected, though I’m not sure what I had expected from this mysterious woman traveling alone at night through what cityfolk would politely term an “unstable” region.
“I am always interested in new tales, Esteemed Aunt. Would I have heard of the cast of characters before?”
“Depends,” she replied, pausing. A hush seemed to fall upon the clearing as I waited for the rest of her answer. “Have you heard of the Bandit Queen?”
I shifted uncomfortably. This was quite possibly a trap, and even if it weren’t, no good could come of it.
“As fascinating as such a tale sounds,” I politely declined, my voice suddenly raspy and my mouth dry, “I’m afraid that the law of the land prohibits such utterances. And as everyone knows, our present leadership is firmly installed, bringing peace to the common lands.” I hadn’t noticed the closeness of the trees to the road before. Were we being watched? “Any bandits would be wise to relocate elsewhere before they are caught,” I added emphatically, projecting my voice a bit more than necessary. Was that a smile I saw on my strange companion’s face?
Suddenly, the old woman seemed much younger, as if a glimmer of her former self shone through, though what could have triggered such mirth — tinged with bitterness, I think — I did not know.
“Very well,” she declared. “Instead, we shall have a safe story fit for all ears, our current regime’s included. Have you heard the Tale of the Lonely Wolf?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Though I must confess, it is not one I find inspiring. A wolf injured in the hunt seeks solace from humans, finds himself cast out from his pack, and dies a lonely death. A warning metaphor for curious children and over-eager farmgirls, nothing more.” I didn’t mean to share such strong sentiments, but I truly detested the story. To my surprise, in spite of my rudeness, she laughed.
“In your version, perhaps. I am surprised you have not heard the others! Very well, I shall tell you mine, and then, if you like the ending better, you must ask at every village to hear their version of this cautionary tale. The outcomes might surprise you…” I had to confess, she had me hooked. As a student of the art, I was fascinated by differences in the telling of our culture’s traditions and stories. I settled in for her account of the Lonely Wolf.
At the time, I did not realize the significance of what she was telling me or that an elderly woman traveling on her own would drastically change my life. Even as I sought out variations in a piece of old folklore, I had no idea that the legend of our time was unfolding around us. I had no idea.