Chronicle of the Golden Orb: Chapter 1
Chapter 1
In the city of Caine alongside the life-giving waters of the great river, a boy child grew in the home of the tailor Ardul. This boy, Ballomel by name, was a joy to Ardul after the death of his mother. He was small and quick, with a smile on his face that shamed the noonday sun to shine.
It occurred one day while Ardul was hard at work selling his wares in the marketplace that Ballomel saw a glint of something through the throng of people and desired to see what it was.
He turned to his father and asked for permission to go and play with his friends.
“Of course, my own,” Ardul replied. “But be sure to return before dark to help me carry the remainder of our goods home.”
“I will, father,” and with that the boy turned and made his way toward the golden light he had seen. He picked his way through meat sellers and music makers, between large women carrying large baskets and among small children at play. The hustle and vibrant colors of market activity would have been enough to entrance most children of Ballomel's age, but he did not turn away from his goal. He went on, to satisfy his curiosity concerning the source of the glint he saw from his father's booth. He went on, to satisfy his curiosity about the world.
Eagerly he came to where he thought had seen the glint and was somewhat disappointed to discover only an old, one-eyed man leaning on a cane chatting with a fair-haired farmer's wife. Sensing Ballomel's approach the man turned and bent down on one knee.
“Hello young Ballomel,” the old one-eyed man said. “I was wondering when you might appear.”
Marveling that the man knew his name he hesitated and then returned the greeting. “Hello sir, the shade of the day be upon you.”
“Well! Aren't you a polite young man?” The old man smiled a smile that might have greeted the first sunrise. He smiled a smile of dusty places and arid heat. He smiled a smile that would have rooted a man to the ground if it was meant in anger. It was a smile of pleasure.
“Here my child, I have a gift for you,” he reached into a beaded pouch at his side. “Take this ball and play.”
Ballomel stared as the old man dropped the shining golden ball into his outstretched hands. The ball seemed to capture the sun's light and hold it for its own. It did not reflect light but rather it glowed with an inner light all its own.
“Thank you, sir, oh, thank you!” Ballomel cried as he turned to face the way he had come. “I must go show my father my good fortune.”
He turned back to make his good byes to the kindly gentleman, but both he and the fair-haired woman he had been speaking to had vanished. No more sign marked their passing than that left by the passing of the morning dew. Ballomel wondered at this for a moment, but as he was a young boy and full of life, he was drawn back to the ball and he ran laughing through the market place to show his father his treasure.
The market place was at the center of the city. Commerce was the life blood of civilization. The idea of trade freed men from the shackles of forever toiling in the fields. If one person had something that someone else wanted they could trade with them for the things that were necessary. It was the dawning of an age of possibility, when men came together and worked with a goal in mind there was no telling how far they could reach. The city was founded by a man who killed his brother. The land was bought with blood and the government was determined by right of combat. In those days a farmer must also be a warrior if he would keep his lands. Truthfully, the world has not changed so very much from these humble beginnings in blood.
Far away on a distant mountaintop the fair-haired lady turned to the one-eyed old man. The old man now stood tall and his face was missing the lines that had showed his age. In his hand, what once was a gnarled, crooked walking stick was now a thick, straight staff.
“Do you think that was wise?” she asked.
“He has the heart we seek. And it is no matter. If the ball will not lead him, it will return to me. We can wait. We have time.”
“Yes,” she replied. “That, we do have.”
Ballomel practically danced as he ran. Such luck! He had never even heard of a thing so beautiful as this golden ball and that man had just given it to him. Given! Perhaps he was a friend of father's, Ballomel thought; he must have wanted to surprise him. And oh, such a surprise.
But Ballomel ran forward with too much joy in him for caution. His eye was too keen on looking at the ball to look after his step and so he tripped, hard over the lead of a wagon that a fruit seller had brought his crop to market in. Tumbling, he tried to retain hold of the golden ball, but to no avail. It sailed from his hands and began to bounce and roll down the crowded street.
Oh no! Ballomel thought. Someone will surely steal it for their own! But each person that the ball came near to turned away, just as it had entered their line of sight. Each and every time, almost as if something else had caught their attention. And the ball rolled and bounced onward down the steep city street. Ballomel pulled himself up from the ground. And sparing not an instant to dust off his clothes or brush the gravel from his knees or palms, he ran desperately down the street after the ball.
The ball rolled faster than Ballomel’s legs could carry him. It jumped and bounced over uneven ground, weaving between sandal-clad feet; it rolled beneath carts and crates, always just out of his reach. As he went, the river of people along the street began to thin to a trickle and finally to dry up. Soon Ballomel was alone as he chased the ball. Ballomel did not know how far he had gone before the ball stopped. Yet finally it did, and he stopped too; short of breath and panting, his legs bruised and battered from the crowded streets. The ball was right before him, yet he did not reach for it. He looked around and realized, he was outside the protecting walls of the city. In fact, he was almost to the seashore, the salty sea where the fishermen cast their nets. The damp sand that squished between his toes so unlike the desert sand that burned his bare feet. How had he come so far, so quickly?
Ballomel looked up and was surprised to see that the sun too was farther in the sky than he had thought. Looking around wildly, his eye fell once more on the ball. It balanced on the edge of a precipice. He took a step toward it and it seemed to vibrate. Another, quicker step and it wavered. He leapt to grab it, but it fell and he fell too, down and down into a darkness untouched by light.
He did not know when he finally reached the bottom, for consciousness had fled from him at the fright.
When he awoke there was no light to show him that there was a sky above him, or a ground below. Except that the ball was at hand, and it glowed with a pale light. The light did not reach up to the roof of the dismal cave. He could not see the hole he had fallen through. It must be night, he thought, or else the sun would shine through the hole. Neither could he see the roof of the cavern he was in; either the light was just not strong enough, or the roof was just too high above. Ballomel did not know and had no time to contemplate it. He was unhurt and that seemed to be the most important thing..
“Where am I? I’m lost. How will I get home?” His voice echoed through the dark, black cavern. The wonder of receiving the ball had melted away from his fear at being lost and alone.
Tentatively he took one step and then another. I must get home, he thought; what will father do by himself?
As he explored his new surroundings he saw a glimmer of something far ahead. “A way out?”
Ballomel walked and walked but still the light did not grow any closer. Instead the light from the ball pulsed a little stronger with each step he took. Soon noises reached him.
“I hear singing!” said Ballomel, “I hear laughter!” Sounds of merriment and revelry, but the laughter was strange. It was a barking laughter, mixed up with the clatter of metal and the lilting cacophony of strings and winds.
As Ballomel stepped into the circle of light the music stopped. Crowded around dozens of low set tables were rows upon rows of small men. Suddenly, a hundred eyes turned as one and measured the young boy’s stature, for he was bigger at his age than they.
What tiny men, Ballomel thought as he met their amazed stares. And what long whiskers!
Finally, one of the tiny men broke the silence.
“What a large child,” the tiny man said as he stroked his long beard. “And where did it get that Golden Orb?”
“Yes,” said another. “It looks much like the king’s favorite bauble. You know, the one he lost in a wager to the Duke of Orcaines. But how did the child come to possess it? And how came he here?”
“Hello,” said Ballomel.
“It speaks!” exclaimed a third. This, the shortest of all who had spoken, clad in purple with a beard so long he wore it wound twice around his waist as a belt.
“Master of the obvious, as always Grimlod,” his neighbor at the table sniggered.
“Silence,” the first who spoke commanded. “What is your name, boy? Or are you a girl?”
“I’m a boy,” Ballomel said firmly. “And my name is Ballomel. As for where I got this Orb, it was a gift. But I do not know how I came to be among you.”
“We should take him to the king.” a chorus of voices cried.
“Today is the feast of the great treasure, and the king must greet every visitor on this hallowed day,” said the one named Grimlod.
“There you go, saying what everyone already knows,” his neighbor elbowed him in the side. “What a puddle brain, I bet you wake up every morning and say, ‘My name is Grimlod. I am awake. Boy I’m glad I’m not a rock.’”
“I do not, Jarenth. I simply say what I think is important. And I’ll thank you to keep your elbow to yourself.” Grimlod scooted down the bench to avoid Jarenth’s pointy joint. “Besides, you’re the puddle brain.”
“Now, now, you two, you know there can be no fighting today. We must be friends and gather together in harmony, as is the custom on this day.”
“You’re right, Derithi,” Grimlod said.
“I’m sorry.” Jarenth hung his head abashedly.
“All right then,” Derithi turned back to Ballomel. “Come along youngster, we will bring you into the presence of his Majesty the Exalted Revered Potentate King Ezerablenacsogoreth.”
“King Exarblonacsageroth?”
“No, King Ezerablenacsogoreth.”
“Oh. Do you think he’ll mind if I just call him ‘Your Majesty’?”
“That would be quite within the limits of propriety, Ballomel.” Derithi smiled.
He took Ballomel by the hand and led him down a winding corridor. They were followed at a distance by a large number of the curious, short men. Jarenth and Grimlod were at the head of the group, but they pointedly ignored each others presence.
The corridor Derithi led Ballomel along was hewn from solid stone. Strange carvings decorated the walls and glowing lamps hung from the high ceilings over head. The floor beneath their feet was worn smooth by generations of tiny feet walking along the path. Derithi was a little taller than his fellows, but still shorter than Ballomel. He draped his beard around his shoulders like a shawl. As they walked they passed many chambers similar to the one Ballomel had first come across, the air filled with laughter and strange music. The ground covered by many little men dancing. In addition he saw other chambers filled with individuals who possessed similar stature and beards but who dressed in a decidedly more feminine manner.
“Why are those fellows wearing dresses?”
“You don’t know anything do you?” Derithi laughed. “Those are ladies. Perhaps it is because you have not seen us side to side that you make that mistake. The beard of the male is much coarser than that of the female. If it were not the Feast of the Great Treasure you could compare us side to side. But we are forbidden from commingling on this date.”
“What strange men you are.”
“Ha ha! Oh no boy, we aren’t men,” Derithi shuddered. “Ugh, what a thought. No, we’re the people of the stone. We were not made from muckish clay like your folk. We live longer and love stronger. We are constant and our people will last until the breaking of the age.”
“Oh,” Ballomel replied sleepily. His eyelids had grown heavy, he was tired for he had traveled far already this night. Suddenly he realized he had yawned and quickly shut his mouth. He did not want to appear rude before his polite little host. He shook himself a little as they walked; he truly did not want to be asleep when he came to meet a king. “How much farther?”
“We’re almost there.”
“My feet hurt.”
Soon they rounded a corner in the corridor and entered a great hall. Ballomel had never seen such a large space. Two long tables ran parallel down the center of the hall with a pair of great thrones at the far end. Seated at the left table were more male people of the stone, their coarse beards tucked behind their ears or tied up like turbans to keep out of their food. And on the right Ballomel had a chance to view the ladies up close. In truth he could not see much difference in the fineness of the beards, but he accepted Derithi’s explanation, for surely Derithi had more experience in that area than Ballomel. But what dominated the room and held Ballomel’s attention most of all was the grand mound of gold and jewels piled high behind the two thrones. Ballomel had never imagined such a great amount of wealth existed in the entire world. Despite his desire to appear presentable before the king, Ballomel had no choice but to gape, mouth slack and eyes bulging.
They walked between the two tables and the room grew silent. Derithi bent to one knee and then arose to introduce Ballomel to the king, but as he did the Orb which Ballomel still carried began to throb and rose from his hands, spinning up to levitate in the air before them.
The king raised himself from the great throne.
“What is the meaning of this?”
A thousand voices were raised in alarm and confusion as the ball began to grow larger. Ballomel sat down with surprise, too tired to run away from the fearsome sight as the ball began to split down the middle and a beautiful fair-haired lady stepped out from the center.
“I told you, you could not hide it from me forever, Ezerablenacsogoreth. What is mine is mine and I will claim it once more. You thought you were safe here under the earth, yet all I required was a child of pure innocent heart to lead me here.” She turned to Ballomel. “Sleep, you have served me well.”
At her command, Ballomel’s eyes closed and he knew no more.
He awoke in his father’s house.
“You had me so worried!” Ardul hugged him tightly. “Ankar the fishmonger brought you to me with that bump on your head. You were chasing a bladderball down the street and ran FLAM!” he brought his hands together in a loud clap. “Straight into an archway.”
“It must have been a dream…” Ballomel muttered. He sat up in bed. “How long was I asleep?”
“A few hours.” Ardul removed the wet cloth from Ballomel’s head. “Ballomel, what is that lump in your tunic?”
Ballomel reached down and from beneath his shirt he brought out a golden chain set with precious stones; diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. It was the finest thing he or his father had ever seen, and worth more money than they had ever imagined.
Why do gods use the innocent as pawns in their intrigue? Can a pawn ever strike back against the player that uses it? Or are mortal lives forever condemned to be no more than game pieces on a board they cannot see in a contest they cannot imagine?
Ballomel and his father Ardul were enriched by their encounter with the forces that control the destiny of men, but for all his days Ballomel would retain a vague sense of guilt, a shadow had fallen across his heart. He felt confused about what had happened. What part had he played in the events of that summer’s day, the day of the Great Feast of the Treasure? For the rest of his life, every time he saw a short man he had to check an impulse to apologize.
The descendants of Ballomel held onto the chain, selling jewels from the setting in times of want and investing the money wisely to increase their holdings. The story behind the chain was passed on from father to eldest son in an unbroken line until the time of the great king Midas. It was seen as a blessing from the gods and took a prominent place in the family shrines.