Day 336 - Journeyman Story

Journeyman Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

At the end of the day I stopped at the refreshment-house, The Three Taverns. I had intended to drink until I could no longer feel my nagging feet, and then I intended to drink some more.

It was there at the tavern that I met the stranger, a fellow traveler. I was traveling north and he was traveling south. He had arrived while I was eating my dinner and I hadn’t paid much attention to him. It was after my meal that I came to know him. I had finished my meal with a strong drink of Passum wine and was preparing myself to transition to beer, when the stranger spoke and asked me if I would care to join him for a drink. While not accustomed to meeting and talking with strangers, I did find myself in one of those rare states that such an activity was welcome. The night was long and I had nowhere to go and drinking along with someone seemed to be a better adventure than drinking alone.

We received fresh drinks and found a table in a back corner where we could sit and relax and not be bothered. We passed the time with wine and beer and the occasional hand of Morra. I was odds and he was evens and for some reason I couldn’t figure out he seemed to win more often than not. Perhaps it was because I had begun my drinking hours before his arrival. Somewhere during the night, the chants of “Once, twice, thrice, shoot!” grew louder and louder and we both realized we were very drunk.

It was after we became very drunk that the stranger made first mention of his story. He had come from Carteia with no intentions of making his way to Roma at all. But circumstance and chance had conspired with destiny and the fates, and so here he was, walking his way to pray for forgiveness from the furies. He didn’t elaborate as to his crime and I didn’t ask. Instead I suggested another round of drinks and another game of chance.

I don’t remember how things transpired exactly or how many coins I lost to him. There were too many drinks and too many interruptions. I do know that sometime later, he began to tell me his tale. I listened as intently as possible, for I could tell that he was speaking with great purpose so it must have been very important. There was too much alcohol involved, but I remember most of the significant parts he told me.

The stranger said to me, “While I was wandering, I met a man on the road. We were heading in the same direction and ended up walking together and talking. Often times there will be little or no great amount of trust between strangers whom you come upon, but we instantly hit it off and found each other’s company more than agreeable.

This man told me that he was a journeyman – an apprentice. He had trained to be a blacksmith. His training was complete, but still not finished. He was supposed to work for three years for his master, but he had lost his interest in the efforts. Instead, he had set out traveling in order to find himself and find his new purpose.

The interesting thing was this journeyman never once showed any signs of skill or purpose. He was a talker. He liked to hear his own voice, but I supposed we all like to hear our own voices. But this man had a certain excessive vanity that was beyond compare. He talked and talked and then he was also far too obsessed with his appearance. He carried with him a shard, a broken piece of a mirror. He looked at himself whenever he could. I even saw him holding onto it at night. He clung to it like it was his life.

What did he see? I always wondered. It seemed important. I saw him stealing glances into it whenever he thought I wasn’t looking. I asked him once, what it was that was so important. He got dead serious and looked me in the eyes and it was frightening. He was so frightening. He looked at me and he told me “I get to see what I could have been.”

That’s what he said. He got to see what he could have been. I didn’t know what he meant at first. I didn’t understand. He was always looking in that mirror. Always consulting it. Always asking it questions. I think he thought the mirror was telling him some secrets. It was like he thought it held all the answers.”

And that was all the stranger told me at first. He didn’t mention his involvement in any crimes or why he needed forgiveness. The story made no sense to me. I thought it might have been the alcohol. Perhaps I had missed something vital.

Maybe the stranger could sense my confusion. Maybe the stranger wanted to confess. I don’t know. But it was right when I was about to ask that the stranger pulled out a fragment of a mirror – it was the journeyman’s mirror. The stranger had the journeyman’s mirror.

Confused, I had to ask him if he was the journeyman from the story. He laughed at me and said no. He wasn’t the journeyman, but he had his mirror. I asked how he came to possess the mirror.

The stranger answered me, “The journeyman was convinced he was talking to the fates. He could see the future. See the past. He could see other worlds and other lives he could have lived. He was so obsessed with what he saw in the mirror that he couldn’t live his own life. He was so convincing when he spoke. I believed him. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to see what the mirror could show me.”

And then the stranger told me the thing I would never forget.

He said, “I smashed in his head with a rock one night.”

It was a plain and simple statement. Hardly any remorse, just matter of fact. I thought at first he might be joking. But then he smiled and chuckled to himself. He was slightly pleased with himself.

“I wonder if his precious mirror showed him that in advance and if he believed it was going to come true. I still don’t know what it was. The mirror never worked for me. Not even to show me my own reflection. It was blank. Always blank. Whatever the secret of the mirror was, he took it with him to the grave.”

The stranger told me this was his crime. This was his sin. He had violated the rules of hospitality and murdered an innocent man. He was sure the Dirae were going to punish him. That was why he couldn’t see his own reflection – he was already marked for death. There was no future to reflect. He was already dead.

The stranger continued to mutter about the mirror being blank. But he grew quiet and solemn. We sat for a while in silence. I didn’t know what condolences to offer him. I still wasn’t sure what to believe or which parts of the story were true.

I don’t know how much time passed, but eventually I began to fall asleep where we sat. I could hear the stranger speaking occasionally, but I couldn’t follow what was being said.

Later I opened my eyes and he was gone. I thought I had just blinked, but the night outside was growing light so I must have slept for an extended amount of time. As I prepared to find a more proper sleeping place I noticed he had left behind the mirror.

I picked it up and gazed at myself. The mirror, which had come to me from the journeyman by way of his murder the stranger, was now mine. I looked at myself and looked for an answer. I was confronted by a man that looked exhausted. I decided I needed sleep more than I needed a prophet. Still, I pocketed the mirror all the same. Perhaps in the refreshed light of day, I might see something after all.