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The Story-Candler of Jason’s Harbor

In every bygone settlement strewn among the starways, there are wizards who make a living by producing artifacts for the locals that they are unable to make for themselves. They use superior knowledge and technology, some of it even obsolete, but unknown to the people of their settlement.

Rather than be the ordinary cogs in the wheels of their more advanced civilization, they opt for a simplified life among the agrarian poor, who make their living tending to those biological organisms which can still make a better product in some manner, than man’s inventions.

So it was on the little planet called Jason’s Harbor. Jason being the scout-ship pilot who had first discovered it. He had thought he would become rich as the mineral wealth of the planet was plundered by a greedy intergalactic economy. But Jason’s Harbor had very little in the way of exploitable mineral wealth. Instead, it was found to be almost perfectly adapted to the raising of varieties of sheep, including the plasticizing polymer kind, which produced synthetic rayon and silk.

The commercial activity there was limited to the regular shipments of varieties of fleece and other products, balanced by the importation of tools for that trade and the entertainment of the populace. It was in this little cultural backwater that a most intriguing artisan plied his trade.

Being able to draw upon thousands of years of cross-cultural stories, and the technology of a star-faring people, the story-candler made unique, high and low-tech hybrids of entertainment called story candles.

Many researchers had analyzed these story candles, saying that the burning wick somehow fed back electronically to synchronize the access of memory circuits that were woven into the base of the candle. They said the technology was simple and easy to reproduce, but no one had ever been able to do so.

Whatever his secret was, he kept it a secret. He was supported completely by the villagers, who provided every thing he requested without hesitation, and then submitted a bill for it to the town counsel. The candler always had access to the finest clothes, many of which were hand made from locally produced fabrics. He dined in the finest taverns, and every townsman and woman was delighted to be asked to join him for company. Everyone considered him to be a planetary treasure.

Indeed, such he was, producing a candle a week in his miraculous manner. He gave them to the town counsel, who sold them for incredible prices on the intergalactic market, but reserved one candle every month to be offered to the people of the town.

They held regular meetings in the largest building in town, which was occasionally used for plays and entertainments by other artists and musicians. The lighting of the story candle was something no one wanted to miss.
After the candle ceremony, the talk for the next month would be the story that had been told, and what it meant, and what were the lessons the people had derived from it. And the story candler would be honored and greeted warmly throughout the region.

On this evening of the candle, there was a slight coolness in the air, as the mists crept into the town from the surrounding hillsides. The townsfolk pulled their cloaks about them, and chastened their small children to stay warm. The fireplaces in the hall were lit to give a cheery atmosphere, and on the central stand, a glittering but unlit candle sat in its intricate cagework.

The wizard was there, patiently waiting as the hall filled. Doubtless, he knew the story that would be told, but apparently he liked to gauge the reactions of his audience.

Scarcely a seat was empty now. Even the children quieted in expectation. The wizard looked around, and rose to his feet. Whatever silence there had been before was now doubled as the people held their breath in rapt fascination. He moved quietly but unceremoniously to the candle, and lit the wick. Then he went just as quietly back to his seat.

At first, the candle sputtered and guttered as all candles do, but then the smoke from it grew rather misty, and hung above the candle lazily. Rich smells of earthen glades, and the marvelous scents borne on Spring breezes wafted over the crowd. Eyes glittered, entranced, in the relative darkness.

Now sounds began to emanate from the framework of the candle. Birdsong, and distant voices, the quiet music of a pleasant day. Slowly, in the misty fog above the candle, an image began to appear. The watching eyes seemed fearful to even blink, as each beheld a different view of the growing vision.

A figure appeared, a small boy, who was tending his flock. In the quiet of midday, the sheep were grazing contentedly as the boy picked out tunes on a handmade flute. A cheerful melody filled the hall, and smiles appeared on the upturned faces. They could identify with this story.

Scenes shifted as the music played, the boy walking with his charges, being kissed by his mother, laughing at evening meal. The tempo shifted, and the music grew more merry. There was a celebration, and there was laughter, and dancing. Smiling faces greeted each other with happiness.

The music changed again, becoming calm once more. The sheep lazily moved about as the boy serenaded them with his songs.

Suddenly there was the sound of alarm! Ram’s horns and sounds of shouting. Over the hillside behind the boy, a gang of dirty, angry-looking men appeared, and began running toward the boy. He tried to flee, but they quickly outpaced him, and one of them picked him up as if he were a simple lamb, and the men continued on toward the unseen village.

The scene grew dark. It was night. Firelight illuminated the angry faces that had been seen before. They were bellicose and on the brink of further violence as they attempted to divide the spoils of their raid. In the distance, there came the soft sound of a flute being played. The faces calmed, and listened. In a moment, they were smiling in friendship.

Things changed. The trees grew tall, and shed their leaves. Snow covered the ground, and then it was green again. Somehow, the scenes shifted through many changes, showing how the band of men came to take up drums of war, and pipes, and how the rude huts became more substantial structures. It was now a town, and in the center of the town, a band -- not a band of men, but a band with musical instruments was playing.

A figure appears again, seated on a bench. Beside him lies a handmade flute. He reaches over to pick it up, and he begins playing. We recognize the same tunes we have heard before, and as the scene shifts again, we see the face of the now very old, young boy. He plays the music with his eyes closed, and tears are coursing down his cheeks.

And the people in the hall recognize the face. The wrinkles, the lines, and the sadness they have seen on one of their own for many years. It is the face of the Wizard, who is now sitting in the corner of the hall, with tears streaming down his own face. The candle dies out, and the image and the music fade away.

In the silence, there is a shuffling of feet. Then the young children come to the wizard, and they touch his hands, and his face, and they put their small arms around his neck, and kiss him. Then he smiles. Even with the tears still flowing, he smiles. The townspeople rise, and file past silently, taking his hand as they move past.

He is home now. He has returned to his home.

NicknamedBob . . . April 23, 2005