A Tale for the Telling: A Collection of Short Fiction About What As, What Is, and What Could Be…Again

By Brian Morache

This is a collection of tales that take one back to those days when we would listen to a story before bedtime or when we were sick.
Each will take you to another time and place, some in the far away past, others the distant future, and just a few in the here and now.
They touch the soul and heart, stirring the mind to reflection and humorously reminiscing. Some will remind you of those classic bedtime tales, others of
childhood stories you might want to share with your own children, while others will hit you right in your own emotional kitchen and you will find that
you are not alone.
As you read these pages, you are invited to partake in that ultimate journey called life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 15, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469733098

Brian Morache

Brian Morache lives in Bristol CT, and has been writing short fiction for the past four years. His tales, offering a unique perspective on life, are a reflection of the author's personality and spirit. They are an extension of himself and a reflection of events in his own life. The author's ability to see life through a different set of eyes offers the reader a unique perspective and one that will undoubtedly touch the heart and soul.

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All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Brian D. Morache

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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Contents

Forward

Maiden, Mother, and Crone

Track Nine

Sentinel

One of the Few

A Miracle in White

The Blue Tongue

Under the Hawthorn Tree

Ruins Included

Fates

The Catch

The Great Library

Passing

The Tale of the Two Suns

Dusk of Boyhood

Pwyll and Rhiannon

New Fire

Trees

The Muse

Second Chances

Shadows

Between Thee and Me

Cleaning Your Closet

Reprieve for the Dead

A Dog’s Tale

The Misty Isles

I dedicate this to one who has been my devoted friend throughout this great journey ofdiscovery called life. A kindred spirit and a woman I love more than mere words could express. Raven Turquoisemoon

Forward

It is as old as time itself; the story. How often in our youth would we listen to tales of wonder and romance, adventure and intrigue, heroes and villains. Our nights were filled with dreams of those far away lands, damsels in distress, and last minute rescues from danger’s grasp. So much of how we look upon life has been subtly formed by those childhood tales. For myself, the best memories of my father are when he would tell me a story.

In the time before TV, movies, or even books, there was the storyteller. In any culture, there were people who kept the legends and memories of those who had come before alive for the next generation. These were the Bards of old, the ones who would captivate a hall full of children and adults alike. In the cold of winter, the people would be seated with the Bard in the center, ready to pass on the legacy of his people. It was a time when men relied upon what they could keep in their heads, a society built upon a person’s word. These tales, much as those told by your father or mother, inspired and shaped the lives of those who heard them.

Now we are coming again to a time of story. People go to libraries and bookstores to hear poetry and short tales, yearning for those days of youthful innocence and a tale before bedtime. We buy magazines with stories of far away lands and exotic cultures. In our time of thirty- minute sitcoms and one-hour dramas, there is a call for something simpler, yet no less vital.

Within these pages are tales that are not simply meant to be read, but shared with others. As with the Bards of old, they invite the reader to become a part of the story and in their telling take the listener with them. These are tales not just of my life, but perhaps a bit of everyone’s life. Some are stories of a time long forgotten, while others speak of the here and now, and still more share a vision of what might yet be.

Enjoy...

Brian Morache

Maiden, Mother, and Crone

I am very old now, but a shadow of my former beauty. My paint is fading and my once finely detailed features are now worn and dulled. I no longer house goods or people and I only travel on special occasions. These old eyes of mine cast their gaze to the open sea no longer. Still, I am not so old that I can not remember the glory of my maidenhood. One should never allow themselves to become so old that they forget their youth.

It was not so long ago when I slipped from my berth as fine a maiden as any had been seen before. My hair was long and crimson, my eyes were as green as malachite, gazing forever onward. I was not very large, no more than one hundred and twenty five feet in length, but I was given the body of a sculptor’s model. I possessed the kind of lines that could tempt any man, and that I did very well indeed. I knew I was beautiful and my lovers knew it too. They would feel more for me than any woman and my hold upon them would be stronger than any wife.

You always remember your first time and I am no different. He was not overly tall or striking, certainly not the man of anyone’s fantasies, yet this man was caring and compassionate to me. He was the kind of gentleman that a woman could take to readily; he was comfortable. I was still but a maiden and he was careful to teach me only that which I was ready to learn. He never asked for more than I could give and I never let my beloved down. He loved me more than his life and I gave totally of myself to ensure that we always returned home. Our dances together were guided by the stars and our journeys had a timeless ecstasy about them. Through him I would come to understand the meaning of love and devotion.

I was to be his last woman, for time does go on and my lovers age more rapidly than I. He passed from this world one evening in my arms. I wept with his friends as they returned his body to the deep. I could not understand death, I thought we would be together forever? But alas, forever could only last his lifetime. In a way however, we are still as one, for his spirit dwells within me to this day.

There were others, of course, and some brought wives with them. These pests did not concern me, for I held onto my men tightly. A wife could never understand the love I share with my man. Human women have such a difficult time comprehending the passion men have for the sea and the ships they sail. Mine is an allure that no mere wife can equal. The sea may be a workplace for some, a highway for others, but the ships they sail are partners with their souls. We share a bond greater than man and woman, for our very lives are intertwined.

All my men loved to travel and these eyes of mine have seen many wonderful places. I remember fondly the ruins of Greece and Malta, the wines of Brest and the cold chill of Narvik. There are so many other places that I could never remember them all; some are too wild to forget and others so terrible I wish they could be wiped from my memory. My eyes have gazed upon the Atlantic, the Caribbean, Mediterranean, and the Aegean. I have weathered tremendous storms and been becalmed for days at a time, but I always brought my lovers back safely. There is only one home and as with my beloved, home has an allure stronger than any other place.

After what seemed like an eternity of happiness with my lovers, one by one they all deserted me. Some left for the peace of the land; others for younger, more modern ladies. These new women were large, smelly creatures that defiled the water wherever they went. I cared not for the kind of life they offered, so I was abandoned to a lonely berth to rot, forgotten. I felt very much alone and betrayed. Was this love? Surely not. Was I to be used and ridden for all I was worth, then cast aside like so much obsolescent junk? My anger nearly drove me to insanity, but after a time I was to learn that what lies beyond the horizon is truly a mystery.

I was resigned to this resting-place when my eyes did spy a young man whom I once would have been worthy of. He was tall and well dressed, a man very sure of himself. His features were as finely cut as any as I had ever seen. I thought he would surely pass me by, to go on to other more youthful maidens, but he stood before me with his eyes drinking in every line of my body. His stare penetrated my very soul and I felt embarrassed to be seen in such a depressing condition, with rigging worn and timbers rotting. The man eventually did leave, but later in the day I found myself being towed to another place. The other ladies laughed at my tired, ragged figure passing before them. I didn’t mind this, for I too would have found my sight quite amusing in the vanity of my youth.

The journey to my new home was short, but welcome, for I was pleased to be away from those disgusting, smelly creatures. My new master washed my body, replacing my rotted timbers and rusted fittings. He gave me a fine new coat of paint and returned my figure to its intoxicating rapture. My rigging was replaced and he had new emerald sails of the finest canvas made especially for me. He did make some changes, refitting my living quarters and cargo hold, making me more suitable for my new role. Everything changes with time and I no longer carried goods; now it appeared I would house people. I learned at this time that my new lover cared about me, for he was mindful to respect my soul and for that I am truly grateful.

Our first dance together was but a short one, for my new lover was young and unskilled in such things. For all their exuberance and energy, every young steed needs to be guided by an experienced hand the first time. He seemed a bit clumsy and nervous at first, his hands sweating at my helm, but he eventually let his passion free to guide him. In time I would teach my man the proper way to pleasure his lady, to dance with me as if we were one being. He would learn to hold me as close to the wind as I could bear and just how much sail I could handle in a stiffbreeze. He was to learn well and together we became inseparable, passionate lovers.

I was disappointed, even hurt, when he brought his family aboard. I desired this man for myself and could not imagine sharing my beloved. I wanted there to be nothing between us, least of all a human woman. This was another new feeling and I was a bit ashamed of the jealousy I felt towards his wife. She was an attractive woman with fair skin, long red hair, and a figure that flowed like the lines of a sloop. It was not until we eyed each other closely that I realized that she looked very much like me! I was also surprised to find that this woman liked me. She was one of those rare wives who did not feel threatened by their husband’s new flame. She added some personal touches that made my cabins feel more like a home; although I found her fondness for plants to be a bit annoying. We complimented each other well; she seemed to feel as comfortable in her relationship with her husband as I did with my lover. We became fast friends she and I, even partners. She brought something else with her as well; children.

The little ones were a nuisance at first, always scurrying about; but as time passed I found their curiosity refreshing. They insisted upon exploring every nook and cranny of me, especially those places they shouldn’t. I recall many a time when one or the other would be dragged from my sail hold or crows’ nest. The children wanted to know everything about me, what went where and why. Some things they did not understand, but they would learn in time. For now they just reveled in my existence.

The children pictured themselves as my companions through my life. My body provided the scenes for their greatest adventures at sea. I was their pirate marauder, their sloop o’ war, and their ship o’ the line. Many adventures their parents would never have approved of, but I was to be their confidant, their mother, and their friend. These children would grow up upon my decks and in my cabins. Their son would lose his youth in my stateroom one night; both would be married upon my decks and under a full spread of canvas.

My beloved took great pride in me. We regularly hosted parties and business meetings, spending many an evening under the stars and harbor lights. I could sense the intentions of his guests through the way they would traipse about my decks. Feeling their hostility or friendship permeate my planking, I made sure to inform my darling in my own subtle ways. I recall on more than one occasion an offer being put forth to buy me, but my lover always refused them. Some people just can’t understand that money does not buy what my beloved and I share, for it has no earthly price.

While I enjoyed my lover and his family, I still felt the tugging of those far away places of my youth. I wondered if they still remembered me; how had they fared over time? Would they welcome me as a friend, or turn me away as merely someone they used to know? I began to resent all the short weekend cruises and even wondered if I could still race before the wind anymore. By now my lover could sense my uneasiness and as if he knew my thoughts, his family and I took to the sea once more. This time for those distant shores that so quietly, yet strongly, called out for my return.

It was truly wonderful to stretch my legs once again, to feel the wind fill my sails and the sea bite at my feet. My eyes once more cast their gaze to the open ocean. After a long trek across the Atlantic, at times braving towering waves and chilling rains, we came upon the more tranquil waters of the Mediterranean and the places of my youth. The Rock of Gibraltar had changed much since my last visit, but her soul remained as it had been; she was still the guardian of the Mediterranean. Malta and Greece were much as I had remembered them, changed with the times, but with their essence still as it was. Wherever my beloved and I went we were welcomed with the affections of old friends, reunited once more. I would show him all my old haunts; Alexandria, Sicily, Crete and LaTesse. He was to show me some new places as well, Venice, the Riviera, and Monte Carlo. All were beautiful and unique in their own way and we drank in each place to its fullest. My lover made his lady feel young once more.

As we once again passed between the Pillars of Hercules, I felt sadness upon leaving the waters of my youth. They had supplied so many memories that I will forever treasure. But my beloved had more than a few surprises for his old flame. We came upon waters that I had never felt before. This made me a bit nervous, but my lover knew when a firm hand was reassuring to me. These were warm, sweet waters with winds that did not have the bite of cold I was used to. My beloved called these waters the Pacific.

I had heard of such a place but had never laid eyes upon it until now. This was a large ocean with landfalls few and far between. If I had wanted to stretch my sea legs, then this was the place to do it! We rested in safe havens like Pearl Harbor and the Aleutian Islands, where great battles had been fought long ago. I could feel the souls of the ships that had died there, still screaming in agony from some unknown terror. Manila Bay, in a place called the Philippines; a smelly, disgusting place filled