“The Calling”
a tale told by Govannon to a group of adept apprentices during an evening by the campfire
“Gather round yee young students of magic and here my tale of woe and mystery. It all began with a student, not unlike yourselves, a boy of 11 springs named, well, his real name isn’t important but we’ll call him Pamjai, who didn’t return to classes after summer holiday. Pamjai had been a promising student, quick and bright with an aptitude for summoning. His absence was certainly unexpected; we all expected great things of the boy.
“We waited and waited and every day we expected him to return to class. Autumn’s cold fingers spread her reach across the land. The leaves turned red like hog’s blood and fell to the ground and the first snow was just falling when we decided to set out after the boy and drag him back to class. He was too promising a mage not to.
“There were three of us that went to fetch him. My apprentice at the time, Tamil, whom you probably know better as minister Bahtiyar, Professor Royen who teaches you staff-work and knives and myself, a much younger man in those days. Pamjai was a fisherman’s son in Cirail province and had returned west to help his family.
“As we went, it seems that our arrival was not completely unexpected. Farmers across the countryside were speaking about Pamjai in hushed tones, fearful and hesitant to share, worrisome tales, that he had gone crazy, performed some despicable act, maybe hurt someone, perhaps…perhaps killed someone.“
Some of the children gasp. Most are staring at the old professor with rapt attention, occasionally looking into the dark beyond the campfire with apprehension and fear. No. Not fear. Not yet. There was a spookiness in the air, in the crackling fire and in the cold autumn night not unlike the one old Govannon was describing in slow deliberate tones, the fire reflected in his big grey eyes half-hidden under his trademark eyebrows.
“People knew where he lives with his family but hadn’t heard from them for over a fortnight. The last they had heard, the father had been worrying for his son and had talked to a priest of Junil. The priest had returned to the fishing camp with the father, promising what he could for the boy, but none had heard of them since.
“The day we arrived, the sky was dark and full of clouds racing across the sky driven by gale-force winds off of the bay. Dry lightning crackled within this celestial race with raw, barely unleashed energy. It was a storm unlike any we had seen and though it was afternoon we could hardly see fifty feet from the darkness of the clouds. Pamjai and his family lived in a small valley, not much more then a dry gully between two dry-grass hills. Even though we couldn’t see Pamjai’s home and had never been there before, we knew we had arrived. You see, despite the wind and the clouds and the strange lightning, the sky was full of seabirds, all flying wildly about, swooping and diving and climbing again, the whole time being thrown about by the gale like rags in a, well, in a storm.
“Where was I? Oh yes, so we knew we had arrived because of the seabirds. As we approached, a strange sight was waiting for us. A dark conical tower as tall as the ancient texts tower of the main library on campus rose into the darkened daylight sky. Perhaps 30 feet around, at its base, it got much wider, but not in any uniform way. It had a vaguely repulsive form, but at the time, we certainly couldn’t identify it; We only knew that it repulsed us, and perhaps, perhaps it scared us a little bit too. You won’ tell anyone ol’ professor Govannon was scared now will you?”
The boys nod silently. Not a single one is not paying rapt attention to the storytelling.
“The seabirds where flying into the tower, pecking away at it and flying away with small pieces of it. We got closer and closer and before we could see what it was, our noses told us the tower was fish, fish and fish bones and shells of crayfish, seaweed and sand, rising high into the sky. In the dark we had to brave the feeding birds all whirling about so chaotically to tell what it was. We approached, occasionally pecked or scratched at by an angry confused bird. A cacophony of flapping wings and racing wind and sudden jolts of intense light from the lightning all made the experience very difficult to see, let alone appreciate what exactly it was we were seeing. As we got closer, it became all too evident. The tower was a statue, a statue of a giant bulbous head, not human, not fishlike, but like both, and something else too, something… something… I don’t know… something alien I guess. The head was perched on tentacles, five of them, like some strange octopus, only intelligent, and… evil. The whole thing was indeed made of fish parts and plants from the sea, decorated with pebbles and seashells. The birds were pecking away at it, an ecstasy of feeding, the sheer size of the oceanic offering attracting thousands if not millions of them.
“We knew it was evil just from looking at its gruesome visage but our beliefs were confirmed when we examined it more closely. Black wax had been dripped into the sands all around the statue between its curling tentacles and all around its circumference. That wax was infused with herbs and secret ingredients I know about but you definitely don’t and Pamjai, as far as we knew, didn’t know either.
“What kind of ingredients?” one boy asked quietly.
“Be quiet Jopa,” another retorts. “He just said it was a secret.”
“For hours we examined the statue and the magical glyphs. We searched the hut and the fishing boats too. We could neither make sense of the statue and its glyphs nor could we find Pamjai, his father or Junil’s servant. As we searched, examined and, yes, sometime prayed, the statue continued to disappear before our eyes as the seabirds continue to carry it off piece by piece.
“Soon enough the statue was gone and the clouds sped away taking the lightning and the wind with them. A calm came to the strange site. In the clarity and calm we searched again. There was no sign of the three. All we could find were a few traces of wax from the glyphs and three badly damaged trails, footprints. These led into the sea.
“And they didn’t come out again”
The boys looked about themselves, fearfully into the dark and the shadows. They had asked for a scary story and they had got one. Soon enough the youthful fearlessness of 11-year old boys returned and they were soon chasing after each other spinning minor cantrips they had learnt only recently shouting “Here comes Pamjai. The Dark Castle. The Dark Castle is gonna get you.”
None of the boys asked Govannon if the story was true.