To Be a Bard
In his room above the bakery, Lekko—his chosen name these days—wrote on a scrap of yellow-tinted paper. Though his job at the paper merchant down the street gave him a goodly supply of scraps (in exchange for half his pay), he still went through great quantities. And his room showed it: paper, crumpled or piled high, covered with writing or torn to pieces, lay everywhere.
Lekko sat in his chair by the window, scribbling with a charcoal pencil. The paper, sitting on an old book about the Divine Monk’s temple on Lekko’s lap, had lots more crossed-out words than legible ones. He’d been working on this page since before dawn, but several hours later he had very little to show for it.
Frustrated, he ran his fingers through his scraggly blond hair. Getting up early to write is the easy part, he told himself. Especially when you live right above a bakery that starts making such fabulous smells before dawn.
He chewed the end of the pencil. The hard part is actually writing something decent.
Right now the bakery smelled of fresh ginger cookies. He took a big sniff, enjoying the quiet thrill he always got from ginger in any form. And that was also true, these days, about a certain young woman with ginger-red hair.
Shangri would be back soon from her morning deliveries, he knew. In fact, she should have returned by now. Something must have delayed her.
Probably just her love of talking with people, he thought with a grin. He’d seen enough to know that many people ordered their pastries delivered not because they didn’t like to come by Morey’s shop—but because they liked chatting with Shangri even more. As Morey put it, “Who needs the sunshine when ye have the likes o’ Shangri?”
Lekko put down the page and pencil. He stood up, paced across the little room, and grabbed his water jug and glass from a low table beside his sleeping pallet. Pouring himself a glass, he took it over to the window.
From this spot overlooking the street, he could watch the parade of people on the cobblestones below. Shepherds leading their flocks to the marketplace, craftsmen carrying leather goods or jewelry or woven shawls, monks beating their prayer drums while chanting in worshipful monotones, and many other slices of life passed by every day. Plenty of inspiration for writing—except he wasn’t wanting to write about that.
Lifting his gaze, he looked over the rooftops to the smoky haze that always darkened a certain part of the City. The Machines District. The area where his fellow survivors from the shipwreck had settled five years ago. All except for him.
He could see, waving atop the roof of Reocoles’s headquarters, the flag of the blue dolphin. Though it was often hard to see through the haze, he sometimes glimpsed one or two of his former shipmates up on that roof working on one of the master machinist’s contraptions—either because that invention needed some wind to work or because there just wasn’t enough room inside the building.
Lekko gazed intently at the neighborhood populated by his fellow Greeks. While he missed a few of them, the people on the ship he’d been closest to had died in the whirlpool. And he certainly didn’t miss Reocoles, whose genius as an inventor was so often driven by his tyrannical urge to control everyone and everything around him.
That lame leg of his, guessed Lekko, didn’t just pitch him into plenty of ravines as a child. It pitched him into a life of craving power.
Lekko took another swallow of water. The trouble was . . . Reocoles’s unrelenting drive was destroying aspects of the City, as well as other people’s lives. While his inventions were often beneficial as well, that destruction continued to spread like a subtle, creeping disease.
Though Lekko was only twelve years old when the ocean had miraculously spared him, he could clearly remember what the City had been like then. And see how different it was now. Torch lamps on every corner was a good improvement. So was better plumbing.
But what about the increasingly foul air that made people cough and gag? The wasted machine parts or packaging that now littered too many streets? The diminished connections between people who used to pause to greet one another but now hurried on by?
Reocoles would say this was all nonsense, Lekko felt certain. Actually, he’d probably say it was heresy.
The young man pursed his lips, thinking. Which is why I want to write about those things. To be a bard who explores how societies can grow and change . . . yet still protect what deserves to endure.
Wistfully, he scanned the rooftops. “Maybe,” he said aloud, “that will be my one great story. The one I’ve been searching for all this time.”
Even as he said the words, he knew that there was only one way to find out. To write! But that, he also knew well, was hard work.
Almost as hard, he thought with an ironic grin, as choosing my permanent pen name. Lekko, he felt, was close—but like so many other attempts, it wasn’t quite right.
Maybe I’ll just end up going back to Lorno, he wondered. It’s special, since that was the name I had when I first landed on Atlantis. And also on Morey’s head!
His grin widened, since that was the name Shangri still called him. She’d given up trying to keep track of whatever name he was using currently. So even if he didn’t feel satisfied with that, she’d be pleased.
And that, he told himself, counts for a lot.
Footsteps! He heard someone climbing the narrow stairs up to his room. Stepping over to the door, he opened it, knowing he’d be seeing Shangri’s joyful face.
It was Shangri, all right. But she certainly wasn’t joyful. Her typically bright eyes were clouded; her hands that usually brought him a treat from the bakery were wringing anxiously.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Oh, Lorno . . .” She fell into his arms and they embraced for a long moment. Then she pulled away and shook her head, swaying her long hair across her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“Everythin’! I jest came back from Reocoles’s place. And what I saw makes me sick with worry fer our homes, our fellow creatures—our whole island.” She drew a deep breath. “He has plans fer all o’ us . . . and fer his own empire.”
The young man scowled. “By the blood and bones of Zeus, it’s as if our ship brought an invasion to Atlantis! We should never have been allowed to land.”
She took his hand. “Don’t say that. At least one person on yer ship was certainly supposed to land.”
Meeting his gaze, Shangri added, “I am sure o’ that. Totally sure.”