The Prince and the Key E-Book

David J. Greening

• Herausgeber: Schreibstark-Verlag
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

These are the fables from the world of the Sea People, who ply their trade across the Peaceful Ocean on their mighty sailing ships. Tales, like those of the evil magician Hazin, who finally turned good, of the Dancing Fool, or of Inka-Ji the Fire Snake, of wolf men and swan maidens and the Lele Mo'e, the flying dreamers. ... and of course the story of the Prince and the Key.

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

The Sorcerer and the Djinn

The Stone Idol and the Momo’e

The Prince and the Key

The Wolf Men and the Swan Maidens

The Falcon and the Nightingale

Paku-Paku and the Manulele’telé

The Boy and the Dark

Inka-Ji and Toa-Toa

Three Brothers and the Great Snake

The Lele Mo’e and the Ho’oponopono

The Stallion and the Apple Tree

The Sorcerer and the Roc

A SCHREIBSTARK BOOK

Copyright © 2018 by David J. Greening

Second edition 2020

Cover illustration by Kostas Nikellis, interior illustrations by Thanos Tsilis, cover design by Patrick Toalster & Martin Henze

kosv01.deviantart.com

thanostsilis.com

SCHREIBSTARK

An imprint of

Schreibstark Verlag der Debus und Dr. Kuhnecke GbR

Saalburgstraße 30

61267 Neu-Anspach

ISBN 9783946922766

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, organisations, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Θ

David J. Greening

The Prince and the Key

Fables, Riddles & Tales

Θ

Θ

For Inka Jessica Sabine,

my Sea of Stars

Θ

Acknowledgements

I am deeply indebted to several people whose help was much appreciated during the writing of this book. First and foremost Elmar Köhler and Inka Scheunert, Charlotte Knöll and Nina Merget; Kostas Nikellis and Thanos Tsilis for their artwork and finally my brother Patrick Toalster and my colleague Martin Henze for their cover design.

Θ

David J. Greening

The Prince and the Key

Θ

PART ONE

Good and Bad

Waste no more time,

arguing what a good man should be.

Be one.

Marcus Aurelius

Meditations, Book X, Chapter 16

The Sorcerer and the Djinn

Once, there was an evil sorcerer. He lived in a village named P’tol in the centre of the world, far to the east of the Green Country, but just as distant from the Lautan Tedau, the Peaceful Sea to the west, and so the land was called the Middle Kingdoms.

Each of these was ruled by a king or queen, often competing with one-another both peacefully and in war. While he was truly wicked, the sorcerer did not have any real power to subdue others or force them to his will. That is, until one day he bought a lamp on the bazaar of his home town.

It was made of brass, without ornamentation and cheap, as he was poor, having no spells of power to his name, only being able to sell love potions, amulets and other trinkets. He took home the lamp and began polishing it, as he was too reduced in means to even be able to afford a servant. As he rubbed the metal, something strange happened: Much to his surprise, a djinn from the realm of the spirits began pouring like smoke from the spout of the lamp! The sorcerer dropped the lamp in fear, making his way backwards on all fours until he found the back of his head bumping against the rear wall of his pitiful little cottage.

“Who dares waken me?” the creature, that by now had begun to fill the room in its entirety, boomed in a voice as deep and loud as a bell. “Instantly, I will have thy name!” it demanded.

“Ha-Hazin,” the sorcerer stuttered.

“Hahazin thou hast awakened me! I will now hear thy reason for doing so!” the djinn boomed in reply.

“I-it’s Hazin, actually,” the sorcerer answered demurely, holding his hands above his head in expectation of some drastic form of reproof, which, however, failed to come.

“Hazin then. Oh Hazin, hear me!” the djinn stated, “I have slept in this lamp for a hundred times a hundred years. The first five hundred years I vowed to grant the man whosoever freeth me every wish, but during the second five hundred years I was filled with wrath at my imprisonment, and so have vowed to destroy the man who frees me! Prepare to die, Hazin!”

Shaking, the sorcerer clenched his eyes tightly shut, holding up his hands in fear in the hope of somehow stopping the mighty djinn from performing its vile dead. To his own surprise, nothing happened, the spirit suddenly having paused. Slowly, the sorcerer opened up first one eye, then the other, only to see that the djinn, whose form had solidified from the thick smoke that had erupted from the lamp, was now sitting back on its haunches, its body all but filling the tiny house.

“If you wish to kill me, then do so swiftly!” the sorcerer finally said, but strangely enough, all the djinn did in response was bow deeply, until his forehead touched the compacted clay of the floor. Shaking his head in disbelief, Hazin said, “I-I thought you wished to kill me? Why have you stopped?”

“My sincerest apologies, oh master of wizardry,” the djinn replied. “I saw your amulet and knew you to be a man versed in the lore of magic. I would not contend with such a powerful wizard.”

Taken aback, the sorcerer looked at his hands: And indeed, hanging from his left wrist was a love-inspiring amulet he had fashioned earlier that week, but had failed to sell, as most the people of his town had by now heard his spells and devices were no more than trickery for the gullible.

“I am a sorcerer!” Hazin exclaimed, brandishing the bracelet woven of glass and silver beads, feathers and bits of fur. “The mightiest!”

“I apologise, my master,” the djinn replied, bowing down even deeper. “Your will is my own, my arm is yours to use, your wish is mine.”

“Thou art mine to command?”

“I am indeed, my master,” the djinn answered.

The sorcerer rubbed his chin. This all had been too easy, he thought to himself. This djinn was a mighty spirit indeed and had nearly killed him moments ago. He needed to bind him, so his powers were his and only his to use. Finding his initial fear quickly being replaced with his customary wickedness, Hazin said:

“I command thee to obey me, for one hundred years, until I think of further demands I would make of thee!”

“To hear is to obey, my master,” the djinn replied in a subdued voice, once again bowing deeply.

And so, the djinn granted all of the sorcerer’s wishes. Within a short time, Hazin had gained control of P’tol, subduing all of its citizens and putting them to his evil work. With the aid of the djinn, in a mere span of years he had made all the cities of Pajjiz, the part of the Middle Kingdoms he lived in, submit to him.

And so Hazin ruled his subjects with an iron fist, tolerating no disobedience or questioning of his authority. And thanks to the djinn, while he aged, he remained hale and healthy, with neither his body nor his will suffering any decline. But then, before Hazin realised, the span of one hundred years was up and the djinn presented himself to his master.

“For one hundred years I have served you, my master, not one day more, not one day less. Now I would take my leave to bid you farewell,” he said, bowing deeply.

“Farewell?” Hazin cackled, who was now no longer referred to as a mere sorcerer, but as ‘your majesty’ or ‘lord’ or the like. “I will not let thee go, djinn! Quite the opposite, in fact! I still have plans, I do, and thou wilt help me with them!” and he laughed mirthlessly at the look of disappointment and despair in djinn’s face.

“I will be truthful with you, my master: I have bowed to your each and every whim, for ten times ten years. But a djinn must roam, or he will lose his powers. And without them, what use would I be to you?”

While he was not sure about the first bit, the second was only true, Hazin thought to himself, stroking his chin absent-mindedly. Where would he be without the mighty djinn? Back in his cottage selling trinkets and love-potions probably, he realised. He needed power, more of it! And soon, before the djinn forsook him!

“I will agree to let thee go,” he began, instantly causing the djinn to smile beatifically. “Under one condition,” he added, causing the smile to evaporate as soon as it had appeared. “I require a new familiar to serve me. If thou findest one, thou shalt be free!”

Surprisingly, the djinn smiled as he bowed deeply, only to stand up again and hold a feather before him. It was fully as long as the sorcerer’s arm and he was taken aback at the thought of the beast it came off, but quickly managed to subdue any semblance of apprehension.

“A feather?” the sorcerer said, “What am I to do with such baublery?”

“This is not just any feather, my master,” the djinn replied, “large as it may seem, it is but one of the smallest feathers from the wing of the mighty Roc.”

“The Roc?” came the reply, “I thought the bird mere myth!”

“No, my master, the bird is as real as I am,” the djinn answered, with the slightest hint of mockery, which, however, luckily for him went unnoticed by the sorcerer. “The Roc sheds only one feather every year. With the correct spells, in whose possession I am, he who finds it can gain power over the bird’s magical abilities.”

“Give it to me, now!” Hazin commanded, reaching out with a claw-like hand.

“Alas, while I can of course do so, the spell that is necessary to bend the Roc to your will must be given of free choice – which I of course no longer have,” he added, bowing deeply to hide the broad grin erupting from his face.

Hazin scowled at his current familiar, gradually nodding as he realised the cunning behind the djinn’s plan. Giving in to inevitability, he said:

“So be it, my servant. I will set thee free if thou givest me the spell to bind the Roc.”

“I would bid you to swear to this, lest you forget your promise by mishap,” the djinn replied.

“A wicked spirit thou art, djinn!” the sorcerer answered. “So be it then, by all spirits of land, sea and sky, I swear to set thee free, for the price of commanding the Roc! Now: the feather and the spell!” he demanded.

“Thank you for finally setting me free,” the djinn began, with nearly all of the traces of respect gone from his voice at once. “Now I shall keep my part of the bargain,” he continued, handing Hazin the feather in a fluid gesture befitting a creature made of smoke. “To subdue the mighty Roc, you must burn the feather in a fire of amber, speaking the following words: Bow to me, oh Roc, and be mine for a hundred times a hundred years!”

“A hundred times a hundred years?” the sorcerer repeated.

“Or less. Though far greater than my own, sooner or later, the Roc’s power is spent. But I am sure you will find a new familiar in that time.”

And without further ado, the djinn laughed at his newfound freedom, evaporating before Hazin’s eyes until he had literally gone up in smoke. Toying with the huge feather, the sorcerer made a gesture of good riddance at his erstwhile servant’s departure, wondering what exactly amber was and where he would be able to obtain it.

The Stone Idol and the Momo’e

Once, there was a girl whose name was Kura-Kura. Her people, the Shardana, which means ‘Sea People’ in our tongue, lived as fishers and traders on the Peaceful Ocean, far to the east of the world. After losing her parents to a storm she had been adopted by Tawhito and Tua, an old couple who did not have any children of their own. Sometimes, when Kura-Kura could not sleep at night, she would ask her father to tell her a story.

“Can you not sleep, Tamaiti?” Tawhito would say to her, and Tamaiti, means ‘child’ in our tongue.

“No, ayah,” she would answer, and ‘ayah’ of course means ‘father’. “Will you tell me a story?”

Her father would sigh, pretending to be busy, tired or both. But then he would always sit down beside her and begin telling her a story.

“What story would you like to hear, Tamaiti? Maybe the tale of the Korua Raksasa” he asked and smiled, for he knew that this was her favourite.

“No, another one,” she replied. “I have been wondering: Where do the shamans learn of the momo’e?”

The shamans were learned men and women on board the mighty vessels of the Sea People, who knew all there was to know, or at least all the Shardana knew. But the momo’e, that was the power only few of them had, and that is the power to enter the Spirit World. Tawhito scratched his head at this request, for the origin of the momo’e was an old tale, nearly forgotten, even by him. In the end, after a few moments of contemplation, he nodded and said:

“Once there was a daimon, a spirit called Kohatu. He was of the family of spirits of dryland who are not directly subject to Mother Ocean or Father Sky, but rule themselves.”

Kura-Kura nodded, she had of course heard of the spirits of the land, the Wairua Whenua, but being the People of the Sea, her folk did not have much to do with them.

“Well, this Kohatu turned out to be a bad sort,” her father continued. “He loved to play tricks on the men and women of dryland, turning their milk sour, causing their crops to fail and sometimes even making friends turn on one-another, out of spite and love for trouble.”

“That is bad,” Kura-Kura said earnestly.

“It is indeed, Tamaiti,” her father answered, nodding. “And while we Shardana can simply sail on if we find a stretch of the sea under the influence of a bad spirit, the men and women of dryland can of course not. They must remain and tend to their fields and orchards and animals. And so, after a particularly evil prank in which the Kohatu had caused so many crops to fail so as to let the people of dryland go hungry for a year, the other spirits of the land decided to punish him.”

“Can a spirit be punished?” Kura-Kura asked in surprise.

“Oh yes, Tamaiti,” her father replied. “While we are beings of the material world, the spirits are of course beings of the immaterial world. What would be the worst punishment for such a one, do you think?” he asked his daughter.

“To make it… material, maybe?” she guessed, at which her father nodded, pleased that he had such a clever daughter.

“Indeed; and so, it was decided and so it was done. The other Wairua Whenua gathered round and cast spells on the evil Kohatu, trapping him in a giant stone idol, which they removed to a remote valley, in a remote part of dryland. And so, he slept inside his stone.”

“And the Kohatu was there all alone?” Kura-Kura asked.

“Yes, Tamaiti, he was, for many a lifetime as we Shardana measure things. But then, one day, the valley was discovered by a tribe of Pirumbi,” and these are the dark-skinned people of dryland, the cousins of the Shardana. “The plants were lush and there were many animals to hunt or husband, and so they settled there.”

“But what about the Kohatu inside the stone idol?” his daughter wanted to know.

“Oh, he was still there. And as soon as the Pirumbi had made the place their home and their plants and livestock prospered, the Kohatu awoke from all the bustle around him and he began influencing their minds from within the stone statue he inhabited, playing his evil tricks on the men and women once again, even if he was of course much less powerful than before, being trapped inside the idol.”

“Did he do much harm?” Kura-Kura asked.

“As much as he was able,” Tawhito shrugged. “He had been trapped in the stone for so long after all that this was all he was able to think of: doing bad deeds.”

“That is sad, ayah. I feel sorry for the Kohatu,” his daughter said.

“It was a sorry time,” her father said, stroking her hair in affection. “Things had not been going well in the village for some time, and it had gradually become clear to the men and women this had something to do with the stone idol. But as I already said, the people of dryland cannot easily leave…”

“Because of their fields and animals,” his daughter completed the thought.

“Exactly,” Tawhito nodded. “And the stone idol was huge, as large as several men, if not larger. And as they could neither leave, nor move it, they tried to placate it with gifts and sacrifices.”

“Did that help any?” Kura-Kura wanted to know.

“Alas, no. It only made the Kohatu more powerful. And he immediately used his powers to wreak yet more mischief and evil. But then the Dancing Fool came.”

“The Dancing Fool?” Kura-Kura said, smiling at such a strange name.

“Indeed, the Dancing Fool. Nobody knows if he was Kersang, Pirumbi or even Shardana,” Tawhito said. “Some claim so, others differently, but no-one really knows for sure. What is known, however, is that he danced, all the time when he didn’t eat or sleep.”

“Like a fool?” his daughter asked, grinning.

“Like a madman possessed,” Tawhito replied, grinning back. “Now the interesting thing is that when the dancing fool danced, his spirit was able to leave the material world…”

“And enter the immaterial one,” Kura-Kura completed the sentence.

“Yes,” her father agreed, nodding. “So, the Dancing Fool danced his way into the village, much to the surprise and wonderment of the inhabitants. And then one of the men or women living there decided to lead him towards the stone idol, in the hope of… well, in the hope of placating the stone idol, I suppose.”

“Did the bad spirit in the stone change for the better, ayah?” his daughter asked.

“No, in fact the opposite happened: The Kohatu became angry and jealous of the Dancing Fool’s capability to enter the spirit realm that was barred to him.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---