Lira's Shortstories (English)

Waiting

She stood in the rain and shivered. She didn’t even notice. She was waiting. What for? She couldn’t have said. She just stood there, waiting. It would happen soon. She would not be able to prevent it, even if she had wanted to. As it was she didn’t care. She didn’t know if it would be good or evil, beautiful or ugly, nice or bad. The rain got worse, it turned to sleet. She didn’t realize it. She was wet, completely wet, down to the skin. She didn’t notice. She was waiting.

“You will catch your death of cold!” someone shouted at her. Astonished, torn out of her dreams, full of amazement like a little child she looked at the stranger. Of undetermined age, he was neither handsome nor ugly. His beautiful dark eyes showed worry for her who was a stranger to him, and sorrow.
Suddenly she smiled at him and hesitatingly he smiled back. “Come! I live over there. In my flat you can get dry and warm again.”
“Thank you.” It had happened. What she’d been waiting for had happened. She couldn’t say yet if it was good but it was change.

The Cup

For years it had been passed on through the family. It was tradition: every bride got the cup. Noone knew why, its history had long since been forgotten. It was simply a family tradition.
Yet one day the son of the family married a foreigner and the young bride was given the cup. It wasn’t a pretty cup, it was made of clay, ancient runes carved around the rim its only ornamentation. Moreover it was slightly cracked and a little piece had been chipped off.
The bride opened the parcel and marvelled. Young she was and foreign. Yet hadn’t she lost the ability to be in a awe, like a child she was. Carefully she let her fingers run over the runs and they talked to her:

Doest thou give me, thou givest joy,
Doest thou steal me, thou willst learn pain.
Doest thou drink from me, thou willst receive life,
Yet doest thou break me, thou doest embrace Death.

She smiled and filled the cup with water, pure water from a nearby spring. Slowly she walked through the rows of people and bade everyone drink. She handed the cup to the ladies and to the gentlemen, to the girls and to the boys, to the old and to the young. She even trickled a few drops onto the lips of the little baby sleeping in the arms of its mother.
She herself, however, didn’t drink. Instead – after kissing her beloved once more – she broke the cup.

Thirst

I’m thirsty. “Water, please.”, I request.
“Water?” She looks at me partly shocked, partly annoyed. “We don’t serve water.” “What else do you have?”, I ask.
“Coke, fruit juice, tea, wine, whisky, beer, liqueur, cocktails – whatever you may desire.”
“I’d like a glass of water, please.”, I insist. “What else are you washing the glasses with?”
“Glasses? Wash?” She shakes her head in disgust. “Not at all!”
I sigh. “What do you make tea from?”
“Tea? We get it already made. But do you want something now or not?” She’s starting to get seriously annoyed.
“Water!”, I repeat quietly.
She shrugs. “Maybe a glass of orange juice?”
Mutely I shake my head and leave.

Outside it’s raining. At first only a few drops fall down, then it starts to pour. I lay back my head and open my mouth.
Water! Finally! Here there’s enough. And I quench my thirst.

Elements

I wake up. I am suffocating. I am hot. I am closed in by flames. Soon I’ll burn. No! Water! I cry for water. And it starts raining. The rain is getting warmed up by the flames, changes into steam and starts rising. I become light, really light so that the water and the air carry me with them. I float up high into the air, up to the clouds. Saved. Barely I can recognize the earth under me. I am suddenly afraid. I might fall. I get dizzy. Water! I cry for water. And again it starts raining. I fall down to the earth, gently, with the raindrops around me. Soon I stand on the cool earth. Saved again. I walk a few steps, and then continue walking, comforted by the contact with the earth, our mother. She is dry, as is my mouth, completely dried out. I am dying of thirst. Water! A third time I cry for water. And a third time it starts raining. It’s raining stronger and stronger. The water covers the earth. I can still stand. Soon it reaches up to my knees, to my hips, to my breast, to my chin. I let myself be carried by the water, giving over my body to the waves, becoming one with my element and passing over into complete harmony. I turned into water, caressed by the wind, warmed by the fire of the sun and held together by dams of earth.

The Candle

He strolled through town when a little shop captivated his attention. He couldn’t remember having seen it ever before. They sold mostly candles here. One of the candles – it was made of blue wax with a pattern of shells – took to him straight away. It seemed to call to him; yet it wasn’t even burning. Before he could decide to enter the shop, the vendor, a young girl – neither pretty nor ugly – left the shop and gifted him with this one candle. He didn’t understand but he was glad.
He hurried home; barely arrived he alighted the candle. Never before had he seen a candle shine so vivid. All evening he didn’t need another light, it was so clear. He could have believed that it was talking to him; it was just so extraordinary.
But in the next morning he was so disappointed when he saw that the candle had burned down completely in just one, so short evening.
He wanted to cry when he saw a sheet of paper exactly in the place where the candle had been. He didn’t know how it had come to be there but he was not surprised. There was but one sentence on the sheet: Only the candle has to die to spend light.

A New Face Every Day

She took off her glasses. She knew how she wanted to appear to him: vulnerable, fragile, mortal, young like a fresh green leaf in spring which would dry up and fall from the tree one day all the same; perhaps even a little ill, overworked, with dark rings under her eyes; not really pretty but beautiful in a way not quite of this earth because of what shone through her pale, nearly translucent skin.
Yesterday she had presented herself as an intellectual girl who didn’t waste a single thought on her appearance, intelligent, eager for knowledge, nearly asexual in her fervour for the world of mathematics.
Tomorrow she might show herself as a strict professor, or as a mature woman one could desire, with sparkling red lips and a sensuous look in the eyes.
The day after perhaps as a child, overflowing of happiness, glancing around full of curiosity, exuding happiness, laughter and sun, the mere word of illness foreign.
Every day she would show him a new face. She knew how she could fascinate him, enchant him, bind him to herself. Ever stay a mystery, ever appear a new woman. Every day a new face.

Only One Question

Why did you never ask me this one question? I had so much to tell, I had wanted to tell you so many things, I could have told you everything but you never asked.
Often I tried to steer you there by my own questions but your questions were different, completely different. My world was not important for you. Yes, you took the time to listen to me but no matter what I told you, my world was foreign to you and kept foreign. Never have you found out how to react to it, how to experience my world. It was me who adapted to your world, who broadened my view and narrowed it, who learned and lost. But all the while it was you who claimed, who assured to learn from everybody. Else – so you said – a friendship was pointless. Thus our friendship was pointless for you. It hurts to hear this, from others - indirect, in pieces, like a mosaic.
I would like an answer from you that I’ll never get, however. Because I don’t have the courage to ask that one question: “Who are you?”

The Phone Call

And again she sat at home waiting for a call that wouldn’t come. She had often vowed never to make this mistake again, but again and again she made it. At first she waiting full of anticipation, more and more discouraged as time wore on, she lay on her bed and tried reading a book which didn’t manage to captivate her attention anyway. Again and again she would look up from her book, cast a glance at the watch, look wistfully at the phone and finally return to her reading. It might be full of suspense but not suspenseful enough to keep her from thinking of the phone call she was expecting, this phone call that wouldn’t come.
There, the telephone rang! Full of joy she jumped up and picked up the receiver.
“Sorry. Wrong number.” A sullen voice at the other end replied somewhat confused and hang up on her.
A sad expression on her face she put back the receiver, sat down on her bed and took up her book once more.
“No!” a voice inside her suddenly screamed. It was enough. Three hours she had waited for that call that wouldn’t come. Outside the sun was shining. Suddenly determined she picked up her bag, stuffed her key and money into it and hurried through the door. She would enjoy the sun out in the open now.
As she ran down the stairs she heard the ringing of the telephone behind herself. She didn’t care. She had waited long enough. Now she would enjoy life.

The String

I read this poem and this poem touched a string in me, a string I didn’t know I had.
So I am sitting here, completely renewed, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the music that is suddenly resonating inside me, inside me and around me, to break my loneliness. Waiting for him to come, him, who is the other part of my soul, him, who possesses the same string as me, him, who this poem will touch as much as if he had written it.
Yet he doesn’t come. Instead there are a lot of vultures coming, called by this sound, that is strange to them but seems to promise food.
Using the complete force of my will I stop the vibration of the string, make the sound fall silent.
Sniffing, listening, the vultures sneak around me for a moment before they run in another direction, leaving me alone once more. I chased them away. Yet the string doesn’t resonate anymore. Was this a victory or a defeat?

Who Was He?

She wanted to understand. Who was he? He had looked at her, had cast just a glance in her direction and he had seen her, really seen her. He had smiled, had walked towards her and had whispered to her, “Your eyes are beautiful!”, before he had disappeared in the crowd.
When they had met for the second time he hadn’t said anything, he had contented himself with smiling. She had smiled back at him but hadn’t dared to say anything for fear of breaking their silent companionship, for fear of destroying the soap bubble that separated them from the rest of the world, for fear of driving him away. Even so he hadn’t stayed long.
Who was he? Why was he coming to her? She needed to know. She wanted to understand. Could she hope to see him again? Perhaps even hope for a common future? The next time she would do something. Third time is the charm. The third meeting was always fated to be the last one, the definite one if one wanted to keep one’s beloved. The next time she would hold him, ask him questions, tell him she had fallen in love with him without even knowing him.
Yes! He was here! Near enough for her to touch him. She extended her hand and took his wrist. Her hand passed right through him. She held nothing but air.

Fascination

Slowly she walked through the rustling leaves that covered the ground like an ever-moving, golden carpet. The wind alternately blew her hair into her face and then again away from it. She lifted her face up to the sun and with an ecstatic expression she deeply breathed in the fresh air of October. In this one moment she was happy, absolutely happy. All her troubles were forgotten, her daily life was nothing for an instant; she was pure happiness, harmony, ecstasy.
She hadn’t paid the least attention to her surroundings and suddenly he was standing in front of her, he whom she greatly admired in secret, and yet feared a bit.
He had seen that unguarded expression of utter happiness, she was sure of it. Her heart was beating as if it wanted to fly away. Just don’t show any weaknesses! With a friendly smile she looked at him.
He only greeted her with a slight nod of his head.
“I like the wind and the sun.” she said breathlessly. “The wind – it reminds me so much of home.” As she felt he was waiting for something else, she added – purposely seemingly to overflow with happiness – “Isn’t life beautiful?”
Had she shown him a weakness now? Had he seen through her? Inwardly she was all in knots, outwardly, however, she kept her smiling façade.
He looked at her, gazed deeply into her eyes with a virtually hypnotic glare.
Unsure if she should expect a reply she stood tall, calmly waiting, head held high and looked him straight in the eyes. Inwardly she was trembling. Somehow she was hoping for a reply, something, anything, some kind of comment, maybe a question so she could explain, justify herself in a way. Yet at the same time she was afraid, afraid that he would ask her a question because she couldn’t have replied without a trembling in her voice, a betraying trembling; and if he asked her something – whatever he might ask – she would tell him, everything.
He kept silent, however. Aloof and unspeaking he looked at her, gazed deeply into her eyes as if he meant to hypnotize her. She refused to blink.
After a time that seemed like an eternity he nodded again, only once, still without speaking, and walked past her.
Gradually her smile lost its cheerfulness, then it disappeared altogether; slowly she turned and watched him walk away through the rustling leaves and disappeared behind the trees.

Foreign

So dark and yet so light! She didn’t belong here, not now, not ever. Eyes from fire were looking at her, holding her fast, banning her from her true place. Yet what was her true place? She didn’t belong here, not now, not ever. This couldn’t be everything. This couldn’t be reality, not the only reality there was. She was foreign here, strange and foreign. She didn’t belong here, not now, not ever. Yet where did she belong?

Wings

He woke up. The open window let in the fresh morning air, yet he was comfortably warm. He was covered completely, by warm feathers. Feathers? He opened his eyes. He was lying under white feathers, feathers that made up a gleaming white wing. He blinked. The wing was still there. He turned his head. Besides him – as far as he could see at least – there was a beautiful young woman. She was lying on her side, one arm under her head. The only strange thing about her, however, was the fact that a wing originated under her other shoulder blade, the wing that was covering both of them. He stared at her. He couldn’t remember ever having seen such a creature before.
She opened her eyes – green like the eyes of a cat – and smiled at him as soon as he saw that he was watching her – maybe it had been his stare that had awakened her – she smiled at him and started to stretch – again like a cat. She was naked, an ordinary woman with an extraordinary body and an extraordinarily beautiful face. Had he only imagined the wing? He asked her about it.
She smiled at him coyly and gently shook her head as if saying: “Wing? What wing? Do you think me an angel?” She laughed softly and although no sound escaped her full lips, he heard her. “To my knowledge angels don’t spend their nights with strange men...” She softly laid her hand on her shoulder as if inviting him to feel for himself that there was no wing. He gently placed his hand on her shoulder; she sighed with pleasure when his soft touch become a caress, first only one, then more; she reacted to them full of passion and softly placed her hands on his.
Then she got up, had a shower and slipped on the white dress she’d worn the day before. With slow marked steps she walked out onto the balcony and looked down at the town lying at her feet, taking deep breaths of the cool morning air. He’d barely left the room when she opened her wings and flew away, towards the rising sun.

The Room

She was standing before a door. The door was prettily decorated with carvings that reminded her of flames. The door drew her – as if by magic – yet at the same time she shrank away from it. She didn’t want to step through, unsure of what might expect her on the other side. She only knew that there was a small room behind it, yet she didn’t have the least idea what this room might contain. Maybe there were wild lions or spiders. She shivered. Maybe she’d have to walk through flames like the carving seemed to imply. She gulped. No, definitely she didn’t want to enter this room. All but this!
Yet, at the same time she knew that no way would lead past this room. To get out of this maze she’d have to walk through this room. She might be able to take detours, go through other rooms first but finally she’d again stand before a carved door, a different one, though, yet still a door leading to this room. After all this room – small as it was – had many doors. And she’d have to go through one of them. Undecided she kept standing before this door for what seemed like eternities, occasionally taking a hesitant step forwards only to make two hasty ones back. Already she’d meant to turn and run, but then – without any visible influence from outside herself – she went towards the door with quick, deliberate steps and threw it open.

The Flower

She was feeling restless. Actually there were quite enough things that she should be doing but she lacked the calm to even begin any of them, let alone finish anything. So she started walking through town, restless and without any destination in mind. She kept walking nearly blindly, without looking left nor right. She ran simply forward till she found herself standing in front of a little bookshop. She loved books above all, all kinds of books, yet she’d never seen this bookstore before. She looked around and considered, yet she couldn’t quite say if she knew this district or not. Somehow it seemed vaguely known to her, yet at the same time it felt completely unfamiliar as well. Had she ever walked through this street before? How come she’d never noticed this shop before? Still wondering she opened the door.
A low jingle of bells sounded as she entered. The shop was small, the shelves were stuffed full to the top with books, however. She smiled at the number of books. This was heaven to her. On the counter she saw a vase with one single flower that hadn’t opened yet. She didn’t know this flower. This unknown bud had her really curious. She’d have loved to know how the blossom it was hiding would look like. She wished the flower would open at once for her to see.

She was so lost in watching the flower that she hadn’t even noticed the owner. “Good afternoon,” he said quietly.
Nearly jumping out of her skin she turned around. A gentle, old man, who seemed surrounded by an aura of melancholy, was standing before her. “Good afternoon,” she replied and smiled shyly.
He smiled as well. “Are you seeking something in special?”, he asked politely. Softly she shook her head. “I…”, she started hesitatingly before breaking off. She’d have loved to tell him she adored books and read everything she could get her hands on. She wanted to explain that she’d come here by accident on a day when she hadn’t managed to find calm anywhere else. But she didn’t know where to start – and it would hardly interest him. “I am sorry.”, she stammered finally. “I… I didn’t mean to disturb you.” And took a step in direction of the door.
“But stay a while.”, he said gently and extended one hand into her direction as if he wanted to welcome, maybe even hug her. “I was just about to make some tea. You will have a cup with me, won’t you?”
She threw a glance out. Outside it was foggy. It was dusk already. Nothing drew her out into the cold. And she was at ease her, and she felt welcome. Moreover it was comfortably warm in here. This little shop seemed a haven of security. All the books. The strange flower. The friendly, old man with his calm, melancholic voice. If someone else had invited her for tea, she’d probably have bolted away – like a scared rabbit. “Yes,” she said softly, “Thank you.”

With a slight smile he gestured towards a table and two chairs standing in a corner of the room that she hadn’t noticed before. Hesitatingly she sat down, only to jump up again as soon as he’d disappeared into the backroom and to leaf through some of the books. Yet all of them were written in a tongue foreign to her. Whenever she thought she might understand one or the other word, the sense escaped her again altogether a moment later. Slightly astonished and somewhat discouraged she sat down again and stared at the flower that was standing there unchanged. When the melancholic, old man re-entered the room she heard low piano music in the background. “Schubert!”, she categorized automatically. He placed two cups on the table, a pot of tea and a small can of milk before taking the seat opposite her. Without consulting her first he poured a bit of milk into her cup before filling it with tea. He himself didn’t take any milk. She wasn’t surprised much that he seemed to know exactly how she was used to drink her tea. She took a sip. The tea was just perfect – neither bitter nor tasteless. She closed her eyes to savour it the better.

“So you love books.”, he said. It wasn’t really a question, rather an observation of a fact.
She nodded.
He smiled and waited.
“Your books…” she began after a period of silence that had made the background music seem loud, “…they are so strange.”
He smiled. “My books are in a language not everyone understands. Few can read it and even fewer speak it.” He looked at her thoughtfully, finally he nodded. “Yes, you could learn it.”
He didn’t say anything else, yet she heard what was behind his words: it would mean much work, long years, and one day the flower would open.

Singer in the Moonlight

It was the full moon. Somehow the full moon always drew him out into the forest. He didn’t know why but whenever the moon was shining bright, he just had to go out and walk through the night. And now that he was finally living alone this was not a matter of sneaking down the stairs and climbing through the kitchen window.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breathe. Somehow the air in a night of full moon was special. Walking with closed eyes, continuing to enjoy the balmy air, he went onwards and suddenly he heard someone sing. It was a sad song, full of grief and mourning. His eyes flew open and he went into the direction of the sweet voice. The singer was sitting besides the lake. She was beautiful, unearthly beautiful. He listened and watched. He didn’t dare approach too close for fear of frightening her. Yet somehow she must have noticed him for she turned into his direction, eyes glaring. “Who dares disturb Elindyelyana?” And in her anger – without giving him a chance to reply – the Elven woman called down the lightning and disappeared. The worst thunderstorm ever that he’d lived through ensued. Shivering in the rain, he tattered to find his way home. The balmy night air was gone, the moon who’d lit his way was hidden. Finally he reached home and fell into his bed. “Elindyelyana!” he called, and he kept calling for her all through the next three weeks in hospital where they treated him for a bad case of pneumonia. A month later, at long last, when it was the time of the full moon again, he couldn’t help going out, back into the forest, back to the lake. “Elindyelyana!” he called all through the night and in the end she stood before him – but it was her who’d found him. “What do you want from me, mortal? Why call for me?” she asked coldly.
He stood before her and couldn’t speak. How could he tell her what he felt? Tell her that he’d fallen in love with her? Tell her his longing for her? He was a mere mortal as she’d said, and she was an elf.
But she seemed to have read his thoughts. “You don’t know what you ask.” she said. “You have no idea who and what I am.” She sighed. “My touch is death. You are too young to long for death.” Suddenly her eyes blazed. “Go. Go back and live. And don’t come back to me before you’ve lived a full life. Then I’ll be there for you.” And with these words she turned and went away.
Many a night of full moon he tried to search for her but in vain. She had disappeared. So he finally followed her order. He lived, and suddenly everything he touched went lucky. He lived a happy and fulfilled life. And one day – when he’d fulfilled his life – he saw the full moon shine again. And he knew it was time. He went out into the forest and besides the lake Elindyelyana was awaiting him. She kissed him and in her arms he died.

Damiel

“Mum, tell me again how you and Dad met. I love to hear that story. It’s so romantic.” Five year old Jana ran up to me. I smiled and gathered her close. “Of course, my dear.” I closed my eyes for a moment to remember better, then I began: “Well, I always hated going by car. I didn’t like driving myself at all and even if I got a ride with someone else, I got easily sick. So I always went by train when I could. There I could read and sometimes when the mood took me even work with my notebook. I just asked people to meet me at the station so I didn’t have to carry my books too far. You know how much books I always carried around. All those books I had to read as lector and always a couple of those that I read for fun.” I laughed, and so did my daughter Jana. She’d learned pretty early that she needed to be very annoying to catch my attention when I got hold of a good book. “Well, one day I was going pretty far in train. I was supposed to meet one of my authors to discuss his newest book with him. Usually those authors were supposed to come to meet me but he had had a car accident recently and so had troubles walking. Well anyway there was a bad storm outside. I was very glad to be in the train instead of driving in such a weather. I shuddered when I looked outside for a moment. It was dark as the night although it was early afternoon. Quickly I returned to my book when suddenly the train lurched to a halt. What had happened? This was far from any station! A few moments later the conductor came. We were supposed to stay in the train for now. A huge tree had fallen over the rail and the train could not go on. Maybe I’d have been better off with my car after all… With a sigh I returned to my book. After that the thunderstorm was soon over and the sun returned. The conductor went through the train again. If we wanted we could go outside for a while. It’d take at least another hour for them to deal with the tree. We just shouldn’t go far.”
I stopped for a moment to look down at my daughter. She listened enrapt. I smiled and continued: “With a relieved sigh I got up and walked outside. The moment I left the train, I nearly stepped onto a small black cat. ‘Oh, poor you!’ I said. ‘Who left you here all alone?’ I picked the cat up who purred. I looked around to see if someone was missing their cat. ‘Damiel!’ I heard, ‘Damiel! Where are you?’ I walked into the direction of the voice. ‘Is this your cat?’ I meant to ask but before I could start to say a word I looked up in a pair of dark brown eyes so dark that I sank into them and forgot the world around me…”
At that moment Damiel who must have heard his name jumped upon my lap and purred. “And that’s how your father and I met.” I concluded my story. “And Damiel of course.” I quickly added with a wink at the black cat.

The Messenger

“Why me?“ She screamed. “Why always me?” It didn’t matter that no one was listening to her. Just the fact of screaming seemed to help. But she had no choice. She’d been designed as messenger again, so she’d better go. With a sigh she opened her wings and flew where she’d been told to go.
Hiding her wings with a glamourie she approached the first human. She cringed slightly at the strong distress emanating from him, yet this was why she was here. At first he tried to send her to hell, but after a while she came through to him. And after a time that seemed like an eternity she managed to bring him out of his depression. She’d barely finished her work onward when her duties drew her onward. A young girl this time, way too young to yearn for death. Yet here she was, unhappy and much in need of help. What were those humans doing to their children? Where had they lost the ability to care? And again she did her duty. And again. And again. Yet the sea of tears didn’t dry out, it kept growing. And when – at the end of the day – she was flying home, entirely devoid of energy, she fell into the sea and drowned.

The Curse

He was a proud young lord, rich and cruel and selfish. One day he chose to hunt. And bad luck followed him all day long. His arrows kept missing, his horse threw him and in the end he lost his hunting companions. He was by now feeling quite miserable and angry. So when evening came, he decided to make camp. But woe him who’d never before in his life had to make his proper fire. It came hard on him to have to collect his own wood and instead of collecting the dry wood lying around, he hacked off a couple of green branches with his sword. And they made a bad fire of course, smoking and everything. But it was a fire. And it was this fire who seemed to draw her to him, she who he could have done without… He sneered when he saw the old woman making her way to the forest: “Good lord, might I warm myself at thy fire for a moment?” she asked in a trembling voice.
Alas, he was so selfish to even begrudge a poor old woman that tiny bit of comfort his bad fire might offer. “Away with you!”, he shouted, “I don’t have any use for the likes of you.”
Her eyes narrowed and a moment later a beautiful, young maiden was standing in front of him. “I’m one of the Guardians of the Land. I’ve watched you and your cruel ways for a long time. I came here now to test you and to give you a last chance. But alas, you failed my test. So now I curse you. From now on you will wander the land, never finding home nor hearth till the day a woman will love you.” And with those words she was gone.
He sneered. What power could a woman, even one who could change shape, have after all? No one had power over him.
Yet when he searched for his castle the next day it was as if it hadn’t existed. And he kept wandering through the forest for a long time till he finally found a mansion. He asked to meet with the owner, yet his servants sneered at him. “Our lord has better things to do with his time than meet a beggar such as you.”
“You dare talk to me like this? Don’t you know who I am?” And he started to tell them of his lineage; the servants, however, kept laughing. As he insisted on being a lord, they finally grew tired of him and had the hounds chase him off.
Finally, hating the witch who’d cursed him thus, he settled into his life as wanderer. Every so often he tried to find work in a castle or other great house and as he had never learned any better work, they kept giving him the most menial of tasks. Whenever it seemed to look as if he might settle in or even be promoted, something happened so he had to leave quickly. Either he broke a valuable vase so the lord had him chased off without any of his wage, or a ring got stolen and for some reason he was accused of it. Another time when he was herding horses, the most precious one ran off. And once again he had to leave for fear of the lord’s wrath…
Many years he wandered thus. And if he hasn’t found a maiden to love him yet, he’ll be wandering around still.

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