I won’t say either way whether this story reflects my opinions about politics or politicians. It’s the idea that first started gelling in my brain-space when we got our prompts. Sometimes the hard thing about these prompts is that no one idea really sticks out to me, and I end up with a mushy mash of ideas that only kind of work. Since we try hard to stick to the time limit, there’s really no chance to extract an idea if it doesn’t reveal itself immediately. At least, that’s how it generally works for me. Robert might think differently! Anyway, enjoy this saga about a politician and his lute. If you join in this exercise, please let us know! We’d love to read your stories and know what you think of the exercise.
The rain was cold in the valley. Jorn stalked like a hungry wolf into the town, shifting the lute on his shoulder, a nearly empty money sack – deflated like a widow’s heart – brushing his thigh at each step. He had his lute, his voice, and his cunning; he knew that he could braid them together into wealth yet again.
An old woman pointed him to the nearest tavern without a word and barely a glance. The tavernkeeper glared at him when he came in, muttering loudly, “Not another penniless plucker who can’t pay.”
“Good sir!” cried Jorn, “Penniless I may appear! But I have songs and stories to pack your tavern!”
“Show me!” said the tavern keeper.
“Alas! I cannot! For the folk in yonder town cut my lute strings, save one! And one lute string sounds poorly on its own.”
“Can you not still sing?” asked a woman in the corner of the tavern.
“My throat is parched! For the folk in yonder town chased me from them, and let me not draw one drop from their well!”
“When you say ‘yonder town’, mean you Abingdon? Just over the mountain in the other valley?” Another patron asked.
“I do, alas! They were not hospitable at all!”
“You will see that we do better here in Garthram!” cried the whole tavern. And they supplied Jorn with food and drink and coins, and he encouraged them as they told him stories of the iniquities of the folk of Abingdon, at times adding his own.
In a week, the town had installed him as mayor, for anyone who hated Abingdon as much as they did, must be their friend and best well-wisher. They fixed his lute, and he displayed it in the house they gave him, shining and whole.
In a month he vanished in the rain and the mist, with his bags full of the town’s coin, only a light line of dust outlined where the lute had rested. The folk of Garthram were hurt and betrayed. And angry, when the woman who’d sat in the tavern his first night pointed out that they’d never even heard him sing and play as he said he could. He was long gone over the hills by the time they send out a search to bring him to justice. They never saw him again.
The rain was cold on the mountain side. From his perch, looking down into the new valley, Jorn smiled. His lute sounded briefly, like a wounded bird, as he cut all but one string, and walked to the next town.