The Tale of the Wandering Maiden
“You got those flasks sealed and stored in the shed?” said Mrs. Wardell.
“Yes, mother,” replied Flora.
“Pots and pans washed, dried, and put away?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Go find Lily and Bok. Tell ‘em dad will be home soon, and they better wash up. You know he doesn’t like seeing them all dirty.”
The energetic matriarch moved swiftly as she went about her chores, keenly aware of all that was happening around her.
“I wanted to go for a walk,” said Flora.
“A walk? Where? What for?”
“To the river and get some fresh air.”
“Fresh air? You live in a farm, how much fresher do you want the air to be?”
“You know what I mean,” Flora said.
Mrs. Wardell sighed. Her daughter was no longer a child.
“Go on then,” she told her, “but don’t be home late, and tell those two to come inside and wash up.”
The path to the river was overgrown with soggy grasses and mud from the rain. The air smelled fresh and invigorating, breathing it was like breathing freedom itself.
She loved the farm, loved her mom and dad, Lily and Bok, she also loved the piglets, the chickens, and even the frisky goats. The thought of leaving this beautiful place was the farthest thing from her mind. Yet, when she was away from it, a strange feeling possessed her, as if she wanted to keep going down the road, see new people, and have exciting adventures in distant lands.
A blue butterfly darted across her path, dancing happily, it fluttered toward the old ruins at the edge of the river. No one knew who had built these structures, and no one had come to investigate. They must have more important things to do than muck about in old crumbling places, she thought.
Clusters of overgrown bushes and thick vegetation covered either side of the trail. She had to be careful of the thorns and poisonous plants that often took root there.
The building was barely visible under the thick leaves, but beneath the draping greenery, she marveled at the intricately carved masonry.
As she wandered about the old place, a glimpse of red in the vegetation caught her attention. At first, she thought it was a flower, but looking closer, she realized it was no flower but an object buried in the tangled mass of roots, moss, and tiny fungi.
She pried it loose and saw it was a book, bound in red leather, stained, and discolored with age. Written in flawless penmanship, these words adorned the first page.
Nial P. Fleming
A book of uncommon things and observations
She felt a shiver run along the nape of her neck, as if someone had blown cool air on her skin. As she examined it, a page fell out of the notebook and onto the ground. It wasn’t an actual page but a folded piece of parchment paper. She opened it and saw it was blank, so she put in her pocket for safekeeping. Then turning her attention back to the notebook, she opened a random page.
I had an unusual encounter today with a wandering maiden whom I found by the river, near the ancient Scriptorium, just as I was coming up the road.
“Allo, m’lady! Are you in need of aid? What errands have you in this old forsaken place?”
Flora was startled upon seeing the man on the horse.
“Goodness,” she said snapping the book shut. “You gave me quite a fright.”
“Forgive me, I assure you it wasn’t my intent. I just saw you standing there by yourself,” he said, “I thought I might inquire after your health; the roads are full of dangers these days..." then he seemed to think of something, leaned a little closer, and whispered, "are you perhaps a Sister of the Rose?”
“I don’t know what you mean. I was just reading my-”
“Reading? You know how to read? You are one of them then.”
He sat up straight adjusting his cloak.
“May I see the book?"
There was a sudden sternness in his voice this time. She did not argue but handed him the curious notebook.
His eyes widened when he saw it.
"How did you come by it?" he said.
"I found it over there."
She pointed at the ruins.
The man examined the notebook, and then stashed it in his saddlebag.
“I shall take you home,” he said.
“I don’t believe so,” she replied. “I can find my own way.”
“It’s best not to wander these environs alone in the dark, kind lady,” he said. “Nor is it wise to announce that you are versed in scriptures, for not all denizens have agreeable views on independent learning. Return to your shelter now before the veil of night falls across the land.”
The rider turned his horse around, and wishing her good tidings, rode off into the sunset.
At home, she felt like she was in a daze, performing tasks robotically- chores, study, family, sustenance, planning, off to bed. Her dreams were filled with imagery from a distant life and realm that dissipated upon wakefulness, leaving her full of yearning in the morning.
Unable to sleep one night, she lit up a candle and reached under her bed, where she had hidden the blank parchment; the only proof she had that the notebook had been real and not her imagination.
She held up the flame to the paper.
“Ah!” she exclaimed. Under the flickering light, she could clearly see symbols on the dancing shadows across the page.
A B C…
The alphabet! It was written alongside another script composed of lines and circles. It was elating to see the ghostly figures revealed by the flame.
Hearing voices outside her room, she blew out the candle and lay still.
Later, she fell into troubled and fragmented dreams, vivid impressions across an epoch that faded from memory at the break of dawn.
Among the scattered pieces and crumbled remnants of a wall, she once again found a red leather notebook. Was it the same one she had found before? She knelt and brushed aside the leaves and tiny brown mushrooms that sprouted on the leather cover.
Nial P. Fleming
A Record of Things Past
Opening the notebook to a random page, she read the entry that had been written in the fine ornate script she recognized.
Rumour has it that the wandering maiden I encountered a fortnight ago has run afoul of the Chroniclers…
Upon reading the words, she heard a whistling sound, and when she looked up, she saw a mass of dark-gray mist floating her way.
“Come closer,” said a voice in the mist.
“Tell us your name,” said another.
She did not approach the mist.
“I don’t see how my name is any of your business,” she told them. “Why don’t you tell me who you are?”
The mist was silent. Then it spoke.
“We are the Chroniclers. We are here because you are not of this world. Thus, we must chronicle this event. Now tell us your name.”
“What if I refuse?”
“There is no escaping the Chronicles; history will record your name,” said the voice in the mist.
I believe my master is cross with me over a little misunderstanding. His glass viewer and other lab equipment have gone missing. He’s blaming me for their disappearance. I assure you, I am not to blame, at least not entirely.
After reading the entry in the notebook entitled The Waste Notes, Flora heard a sound and saw a horseless carriage approaching down the road. The curious vehicle rested on large wheels, and its exterior was decorated with ornate glowing flowers.
“Reveal yourself so that we may see your form.”
It was a woman.
“I am fine where I am standing,” Flora said. “Tell me what it is you want from me?”
“From you, we want nothing, my dear."
A woman appeared on the window. She wore a translucent veil, and a headdress made of glistening radiant feathers.
"It's Mr. Fleming the one we seek," said another woman's voice. Older.
Flora hesitated then said, “I don't know this person. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
There was muttering in the cabin. Soft laughter.
“If you don't know who he is," said the woman on the window, "you must know of him. After all, it his notebook you hold in your hands.”
Flora put her hands behind her back and gave the woman a sheepish look.
“If you see the rascal, tell him that the Sisters have something he needs, and he knows where to find us.”
The woman extended her long lean arm that glowed with hot red nails.
“Now, give us the notebook,” she said.
“Aunt Beatrice will arrive tomorrow afternoon," Mrs. Wardell informed her daughter one evening. "We would like you to go with her and spend the rest of the year at her place.”
“In the city?” said Flora sounding surprised. “I thought you and dad said it was a cesspool.”
Mrs. Wardell did not look up from her knitting.
“You’re a young lady now, and you must have other options beyond the farm. Your aunt is also in need of company now that Ken is not around.”
She stopped knitting and reached out for Flora’s hand.
“If you ever wish to return, our home is yours. For now, you’ll stay with Beatrice until mid-Winter. Tonight, we’ll pack what you need for the trip, so make sure you have tied up any loose ends before then.”
Flora ran as fast as she could towards the river. The grasses were still soaking wet, and her feet were drenched by the time she arrived at the ruins.
She frantically searched for the notebook in the shrubs and broken places until she found it wrapped in thorny vines.
Ignoring the pain of the stabbing thorns, she snatched the book and opened it.
Matters have gotten complicated in regards to the Great Rift work. Progress is slow. I shall seek the aid of the wandering maiden.
The sound of the horse’s hooves thundered in the air.
“Mistress, I am delight to find you!” Nial jumped from his horse. “I had feared the Chroniclers had found you, or worse, those pesky Sisters. Your presence in this world has caused a major gap in the rift.”
“I don't understand how I came to be in this unusual place,” said Flora. “I know I don't belong in it, so I have come to say goodbye."
“If you come with me, I will explain everything. The true nature of your world, and those unseen realms that reside next door.”
She shook her head.
“These are your worlds, Nial. Believe me, I wish I could share them. I have dreamed so much about magical places, but I don’t know anything about Chronicles, rifts, simulations, and deranged mystic orders. I belong in a world of family dinners, birthday parties, study, and good honest work. Not spatial sorcery and temporal alchemy!”
She held up the parchment sheet.
“I corrected the translation,” she told him. “They both exist in this world. This one is called the alphabet and was used a couple of centuries ago. This one is from an ancient people at the height of their stone age.”
He took her hand and held her close.
“These fateful winds have brought us together, gentle maiden. By what mechanisms I know not, but of one thing I am certain: you and I will meet again somewhere in the rift, for the Chronicles are eternal.”
"For the Chronicles are eternal," she repeated the phrase.
He climbed on his horse and placed the parchment in his vest pocket.
From the saddlebag, he fished out a notebook and handed it to her.
She took it, felt the warm leather, already missing his touch.
“Every story has a beginning,” he said. Then he urged his horse onward down the road.
Flora opened the first page.
Today, I visited the ancient Scriptorioum and was gifted an ocean of honey by the sweetest flower…
A Few Words
Thank you for reading my story. I wrote it as a literal interpretation of the Crumbling Walls prompt from a few weeks ago. Yes, I know I'm a bit late with this one, but I hope you found it intriguing.