17: High fantasy
I write most of these longhand.
High fantasy
“Bogo Bag-hold,” declared the Wizard Kuttko, “I charge thee: seek ye out the True Blade.”
“Are none of these blades true?” asked Bogo, for arrayed before him were many fine implements: the Scythe of Sheff, which could slice the silks off a Priest of Pmmus without harming a hair on his body. The Bipartate Shears, which had cloven many a coin in twain. The Adamantine Bastard Cleaver, so large it served as both sword and shield.
“These and many others, obtained at great cost, shall aid you in your quest. But the True Blade is not so easily bought, forged, or seized. Beware, for you will find its cost may be your soul!”
His soul! Bogo Bag-hold feared greatly for his soul, for he had been taught in the holy traditions of his folk. The soul was their constant concern; yea, Bogo was tasked in near future with the salvation of souls in the kingdom of Elves. What quest could be noble if a soul it endangered?
And so Bogo traveled many leagues, seeking one who could relieve this burden, whose soul could bear the weight. “Take up my blades,” he cried, “that ye might find one all the more true!” But none would answer his call.
The time of questing drew to its close. Bogo must go among the Elves, who have no need for swordplay. He returned to the family that raised him, bent over in shame. “Forgive me mother,” he sobbed, “for I have made a promise I cannot keep. I pray thee—” But he cut himself off with a gasp, for there sat his mother with a blade — the True Blade — as if it were some trinket of the kitchen.
“What have you done?” he cried. “How lightly hold you your soul?”
“Worry not, Bogo,” said his mother, who was named Robin-of-the-air. “I have taken up your call, as has your father! How can such quest as this endanger the soul if done for love?”
But Bogo seized the blade, and not out of love — and just as soon cried out, for the edge had caught his palm.
In that same breath, Robin-of-the-air snatched back the blade, and closed it up, and tended Bobo’s wound. And were it not for these selfless acts, woe betide the soul of Bogo.
That night, Robin-of-the-air delivered the knife to her husband, Martin-of-the-trees. Bogo was sore afraid, but his mother and father knew the truth of the matter: that once given in love, the blade held no harm for any soul. (To mortal flesh, it was as safe or deadly as any other blade.)
The day after, they sent Bogo on his new quest to the land of Elves, all the stronger for his lesson. But that is a story for another time, as is Bogo’s labor in the sugar mines. Robin-of-the-air and Martin-of-the-trees lived many years, and the blade thirsted no more than any in their kitchen or their workshop.
I’ve lucked into a lot of symbolism with this little story. The knife, the money, the mother, the father. Greed, family, the mission. But that’s what made me remember this dumb accident, right? Do I really have to read Joseph Campbell?