The Speaker's Journal: A Novella

By Zaire N Farmer

In the forgotten hamlet of Yonnely, Innkeeper Ishmael's routine is disrupted when Elder Godfrey commands the inn's immediate evacuation for an upcoming visit by honored guests. Amidst the chaos, Ishmael encounters a mysterious Oscian woman, sparking his curiosity. As the t

• Language: English
• Publisher: FOURMORESTARS
• Release date: Dec 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798869088314

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Z. N. Farmer

The Speaker’s Journal

A Novella

Copyright © 2023 by Z. N. Farmer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Z. N. Farmer asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This my first novel. In a way, it is finished and in another it is not.

First edition

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

To London,

You told me a little while ago that you wanted to read more fiction. I know I was already writing this, but you gave me so much strength to complete it. Thank you for being so kind to me, listening to my 3 a.m. rants about how this character did that, and making sure I was ok, especially when I wasn’t. You are my hero, and I love you.

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgement

The Dominion of Ulu

A Lost Voyage

I. ONE SONG FROM WINTER

1. Yonnely

2. A Decision Made

3. A Choice Fought

4. An Invitation Received

5. The Storm’s Cry

6. The Sanguine Arbiter

7. Aomoth

8. Lydian

9. Mr Droman

10. An Eye of Glass

11. The Lord’s Arrival

12. Burning Bride

13. Where The River Burns

14. Dove-Lion-Lamb

II. OF RAIN, WITH THUNDER

15. None Whisper

16. The Poet

17. Movement I

18. Movement II

19. Movement III

20. Movement IV

21. The Shape of Peace

22. Vin

23. A Game of Time

24. Otto

25. A Clock

Preface

I feel that, in all seriousness, it doesn’t matter that I wrote this book. In a way, it has been my own journal for over a year. Countless nights with these characters, trying my best to understand them and write for them a story that is unbiased and true. The story ended, long before it was supposed to, and it’s left me wondering what that means for the lives of some of the people in this journal.

Regardless of my view of this work as the author, as me this journey has been nothing but surprises. Lessons learned. Here’s how I would’ve ended the story if I thought for another second.

* * *

Father forgive me for my sins. Cleanse me in the holy spirit apart from the body I’ve laid in, and afar from the bed that I made. Allow me the strength to venture forward, ever forward. I cast out any ill intention against your name and against your kingdom. "Feeling like I don’t have much else to say," Otto said by his bedside, hands clasped and head bowed. He waited.

Just outside his room door, the clatter of his family’s washbin knocked. What do we do now? he said.

The pressure on his head subsided and he caught his breath, adjusting in his prayer and looking at a painting he hung in his room. It was that of a woman, dancing apart from the rain. And yet, denied graffiti was plastered on top in lazy silver strokes.

Thank you, Lord.

* * *

Something short like that.

An experience, I think that’s what this book is supposed to be.

Acknowledgement

Thank you Nama for being my grandmother and editor. I’m still stunned that you could make so much time for me and for this book. A lot of videos on YouTube say that no one will ever care as much as you, or that your grandma is the only one who’ll say it’s good. I’m thankful for you showing me I just needed a hug sometimes.

The Dominion of Ulu

A people’s map of Ulu in the Yonnely Inn. Preserved by Yonnel of Beau.

A Lost Voyage

Otto jumped from his rest to make sure the raft did not capsize as time returned.

Ruthless the waves were as they shook and crashed water onto Otto and Dahlia.

Calm your mind, Otto. Kush’s voice swept into Otto. Okay. He drew a breath before willing his beating arms to continue through the storm.

Thrust forward, ever forward. No land in sight in any direction. Otto recounted the story Ishmael had told him, and it worried him. Did Ishmael spend his time in Oblivion here? After the pub, his friend was so different from him. Arguing, fighting with what Otto would call friends. Ishmael should have been the happy one in this scenario. A sear ran from Otto’s bicep up his arm, across his neck, over his shoulder, and down to the center of his back. The oar in his right hand felt like it belonged to the sea and it needed to be returned.

Ever forward.

Though it felt like a lifetime, it wasn’t long before Otto could finally set the oars down once again. Dahlia was still asleep, and Kush decided that the lack of rain made for the opportune time to sit on the plank seat between them. Maelaun joined Otto, though notably exhausted - sharing Dahlia’s exhaustion.

Kush watched the birds in the sky. You’re doing well, you should know.

Am I? Otto said, panting quietly.

Of course you are. Otherwise, I should go back to the cove for another millennium.

"How old are you?"

Oh, I’m only 7.

What?

Were you directing that question towards me?

I mean, I suppose that’s the right math.

Kush chuckled. Years are a funny thing when you get into familiars. There’s far too much to unpack in one sitting.

It feels like we have forever and a day.

Ah, no. You maybe have only ten minutes before you collapse like Dahlia has. Interesting though, she’d more than likely be waking up at the same time.

You can tell?

There are a few purposes to having a familiar, I can tell you that. Reading another weaver’s luminance is one of those. It can be helpful in certain situations, though reading uses your own light.

But you do it?

Yes, there’s certain intent that I am keen to, as are all familiars. They will exercise the will of their partners, akin to how your heart beats.

Huh. Otto sat back and looked at the birds Kush watched. Then, there over the horizon, what looked like a mountain. Is that Lorain?

No, but Lorain is in that direction.

Otto’s cheeks filled with cheer before dissipating. A wake of tired emotive leapt through the muscles in his face, unlike any of which he had felt before. His back shivered as he lost control, his eyes spinning to the back of his head. Ripples of water streaked across his arms and his head twitched.

Otto!

Kush’s voice was faint, but a whisper screamed at a distance. Otto could not tell which direction it came from, but it was soothing. Freeing, even. Maybe if I break into the narrative of my life, maybe then I’ll find what I am looking for. Is it my pa? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t there for me. Nor was it some situation where I ever felt like I couldn’t call out to him.

The customs. Mr Droman this, Mr Droman that. It made no sense. Here I am, in the middle of the sea, wandering off into whatever this is called. It’s so… dark? The wrong word. Calming? No. It’s getting hard to think, harder to feel. And my arms, why do they burn?

Maybe it is fine to let the narrator change places with the spectator, to challenge traditional conventions in the art form we call life. It’s wrong, Otto! You’ll let a monkfish do your job.

But I’m better than that, Otto thought. Better to keep the monsters at bay. The turok, wonderful beings that inhabited Lucian’s sea, graciously named after the Old Queen’s husband. They mocked and mimicked the mind of its travelers - requiring unknown magic to traverse it. So many in the southern claims decided it best to stay where they were.

Otto’s eyes shook themselves into place, locking onto a single bird in this sky.

What happened? Kush asked.

Otto shook his head, unsure of where to place everything. His body vibrated in response, to which he decided a healthy dose of salt and water would clear his mind.

A breath.

He shook his head again. I’m not sure about any of this.

Is that was just happened? Your body has a very serious-looking spasm. I couldn’t reach you.

Is that what happened? Otto chuckled nervously.

It was a gull, a small, gray and pink bird, with wings that could block out the sun.

I can’t lie and say I’m not worried.

You shouldn’t brace yourself for the worst to happen, you know? Otto slacked his head back and kicked out his feet, sure to not hit Dahlia. His eyes watched as the bird flew out into the distance, over the horizon, and out of the way. I think I know how to get my notebook back.

Otto.

No, listen. I could simply marry her. That wouldn’t solve any of my other problems. I don’t know her well. But those aren’t hers to solve, regardless. When we’re married - all we have to do is exchange a gift and believe that love is real, Otto smiled through his weakness, A simple task if I say so myself.

Kush stretched across the center plank. He shrugged his shoulders and drew a breath. Otto sighed.

Focus on the task at hand.

I am, swear. If I know Ishmael well enough, then I know he’ll be fine. I also gave him my word. That’s enough for me.

Do you think you’ll be able to sleep? Kush asked.

I’ve got enough rest in me, Otto smiled, picking up the oars once again and propelling the raft forward.

Ever forward.

* * *

Dahlia woke, floating on a raft toward a mountain cliff. Night was approaching, and the lack of light from the land worried her. It would be so easy to veer off of the course she set herself to. One wrong move of the oars was all it took. So she moved the oars from resting Otto’s lap, and paddled.

She was only directed to take the journal to Lorain, not to whom or where exactly. The cleric, Phaedra, would have been her first option if the woman hadn’t carried her fear on her face when they left. Another option would wait in a hovel, then proceed through Ulu, on foot or horseback, to Oscia. Ishmael. He complicated things.

The journal was no longer the property of the Grand Library; it was Ishmael’s, and if he truly was the new speaker, the world, as Dahlia knew, would cease.

Wake up, Dahlia shook Otto’s shoulder as the raft stuck into the sand. The whispering waves and chattering wind were the only things that lit up the black beach, with the addition of Otto’s sleeping grumbles. Dahlia shook some more, and Otto snorted forward.

Are we there yet? He said. Dahlia could still see his eyes in the low light, confused, detached.

We have to climb this cliff. Then we’ll be able to see how far away we are.

Dahlia could feel the mounting fear as Otto look up to the curtain’s shadow, the back of his head nearly level with the raft before stopping at the sight of stars.

"That. We climb that."

"Plaegimi’s Curtain, yes. We climb that."

So this Plaegimi must own Ulu.

To a degree. Dahlia helped get Otto up and out of the boat. She checked her bag. Enough provisions to last a day, the journal, and her link. She cursed herself for forgetting her blade. When we reach the top, we will say a prayer, alright?

Of course.

And the two climbed. Dahlia was certain of her ability, so she only led for a quarter of the way, beside Otto - making sure he gripped the black rock properly. Twice, Otto nearly fell, once catching himself, once forcing Dahlia to hang by a thread to catch him by his collar. Otto learned from his mistakes, and soon could make it a quarter of the way up without an eye. His arms grew tired.

A grip.

Huh?

Close your eyes, steady your breath, and concentrate on your grip. It’ll help.

Otto listened - making his way up Plaegimi’s Curtain, leading Dahlia at the last quarter.

Let’s take a break for a moment, yeah? Otto said as his hand clasped his knees.

If memory serves me, this is still Plaegimi’s domain. We must pray before we walk into the forest.

And why would you do that? A voice called to them both. You have set from my spiral and ascended my curtain. It is only right for you to embrace the world around you.

Dahlia shivered. Run.

Holding onto the book was the last thing that the woman wanted to be occupied with. If she could let go of the book and give up protecting it, she would. However, she had agreed.

Don’t let go, she thought to herself, struggling to breathe in the dense shade. Her legs were burning, her arms weakening with each passing yard. Sweat bit her eyes, and ensnaring plants cut at her legs for daring to traverse them.

Don’t let go.

Why do you run from the inevitable? spoke Plaegimi, passing through the air from every direction.

For a split second, the woman wondered whether she should look at the trees, to see where the voice had come from. She continued, summoning what adrenaline she had left to push through the thick brush. If she could just make it to Lorain, she could rest, but the night approached. The book she held was worth her life. At the very least.

A pressure grabbed at the woman’s shoulder. Her eyes widened, and she nearly let out a scream, looking for its cause. She saw nothing but the clothes on her back. Then, to her dismay, her legs ran straight off of an unforgiving cliff.

The world around her moved at a snail’s pace. The wind ceased to exist; a caring moon stared into her soul. She felt an absence of fear in what she considered a final breath. She had already come to understand her mission’s risk.

A mist of composure, a serenity, washed over her aching bones. No more dreadful responsibility. No more watching it all fall out of my hands.

You cannot come to an agreement with Death without consent.

Dahlia blinked, then scrubbed at her eyes. Suspended in the air, not falling or rising.

Now, I am sure you are wondering-

She was.

-why? Do not fret, you are safe. I am sure we will meet again. And with those words, Dahlia’s body lifted from the air, and her feet planted gently on the cliff’s edge.

I

One Song From Winter

1

Yonnely

Ishmael jumped up from his bed and shivered at the sweat on his neck. A dream. Another one of those aggravating dreams he had been having recently. He thought little of it, probably from one of the countless books and papers around his bedroom in the Yonnely Inn. After giving himself a moment to gather his bearings, he shuffled to his window and let in the brisk air.

All the sounds of nature were absent, and all the hustle and bustle of daily life was slow to wake. Many townsfolk decided it best to sleep in on days like these. There was rarely anyone who would pass through the forgotten little hamlet of Yonnely during this season anyhow. One might call it a blessing disguised, others would call it a curse, as the cold only brought impassable trade routes and a lack of crops for the town. Ishmael was probably the only one awake at this hour. It was part of his routine, and he loved it dearly.

I wonder what today has in store, he said to himself, while scratching his head, eyes searching carefully for the right book. It’d be a miracle for anyone besides Ishmael to find anything in this room. Most of them were new to him, as he decided just before the frost to study myths and legends about his homeland. Tales that the people of Yonnely disdained, but it didn’t matter to Ishmael.

Ah yes, there you are.

A ragged, black book sat on his cluttered desk. There seemed to be nothing special about it from first glance, outside of a discolored red symbol on its bind. The most recent gift from his friend, Ishmael, planned to take the day off with a slice of cake and a read. He opened the book when a loud knocking shook his room.

I’ll be right there, Ishmael called out. Before he could even set the book down, the door flew open, sending loose papers into a frenzy. He leapt back from the door, fumbling with his hands to keep the book steady.

There stood Elder Godfrey, one of the three highest-ranking individuals within the hamlet. A lanky old man with the face of a monkfish. Everyone knew that his presence was never a good sign. Yet, whenever he appeared in front of Ishmael, Ishmael never seemed to understand the magnitude.

Oh, Elder Godfrey, I apologize. I’m still in my sleepers, Ishmael said, as he rushed to put on more appropriate clothing.

The elder was unfazed, whisking his hand away as if a fly had crowded his vision. I need you to make sure the inn is properly vacated immediately. If there is anyone here, issue them a refund for their time remaining, and under no circumstances are they to be allowed to stay, he commanded with the voice of a dragon. Honored guests will be here by the end of the week, and I want it spotless. If this- he looked around the room, his face spewing disgust, if this hellhole cannot be cleaned, lock it tight.

Before Ishmael could even mutter his agreement, the elder turned and slammed the door behind him. Well, he seems hungrier than usual, Ishmael thought as a muted chuckle passed through his lips.

Right away, sir! he called out. It sounded absurd to Ishmael, though. He had never had to clear out the inn before, nor did he remember a time they had cleared it for any occasion. He put the book back down on his desk and headed out the door.

Yonnely Inn was rarely populated, at least in the recent years. Even though Ishmael was sure no one was there, the idea of an unknown honored guest was more than enough excitement to shoo away the thought of a day off. Could it be the king visiting? No, that wouldn’t make any sense. The king could effortlessly send someone in his place. A diplomat? A lord?

As he neared the end of the last row of doors, he rattled his skeleton key into the lock and attempted to turn it, but it did not budge. This was odd, only because Ishmael took great care of oiling the locks regularly, alongside his long list of maintenance duties. He wanted no one to have any trouble while they were under his care.

Hello, is anyone in there? he called through the door, pressing his ear against the wood.

Silence. He tried the key again, this time with a much gentler and precise motion. It still didn’t budge, as if someone had removed the lock mechanism and left it as a solid metal with a hole in it. He knocked on the door, with a bit of force, just enough to wake up whomever may be sleeping.

I have to clear out, sir or lady, he called again. Hello? Frustration flooded over him. Another moment passed before the door next to him opened, with a woman poking her head out to look at him.

Ishmael stood there, stunned, a complete loss of words at the sight of her. She was an Oscian. The unusual, yet ornate markings at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, a gentle lilac. Her hair even seemed to glow. Ishmael carried no doubts. They were a people he had only ever