In the dusky lavender of twilight, the village young filed into the cabin built at the edge of the forest.
As the children were settling down, the Bard came home from the woods with his grandson.
His hands boasted the marks of time.
One of his hands made a cradle for the small hand of the boy, which the old man held with great tenderness.
In the other, he carried a basket filled with gifts found in the trees. The woods had been generous with its abundance of mushrooms, berries, nuts, and herbs.
The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his audience before they went home to bed.
Nobody knew better than he how to forage in the woods, and he was already passing his knowledge to his grandson.
A thrill of excitement crackled through the cabin when they came inside.
Tonight was the night for stories.
The Bard would talk late into the night, and the children would make their way home in the light of moon and stars.
But even if night were black as pitch, they wouldn’t mind.
They piled the leaves, sticks, and logs in the massive hearth the way the Bard taught them.
The older boys blew the sparks in the logs, their cheeks bellowing to hurry the blaze.
The Bard never began until there was an inferno burning.
His love of heat was legendary.
He had built this cabin as a young man.
The villagers who had been alive during that time said his home started with the fireplace.
They said the Bard needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth.
He allowed himself this one indulgence in life and he wanted it to be special.
The only stones the Bard laid for his fireplace were favorites he found on his walks.
He explored for years, his black eyes searching for rocks with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth: deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink.
The stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin. The deep pit stretched wide and tall with iron mesh so it would contain the spits of flaming wood.
His hearth was a masterpiece.
During this time, the Bard had fallen in love, gotten married, and had a child. His wife was a hearty soul and their daughter had an independent spirit even as an infant.
Until the log cabin was built, they were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees.
The young husband and father told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning behind him.
He drew the notice of villagers who were fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air.
The villagers would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances.
One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them.
And that was how it began.
After that first night, all the villagers came to hear the Bard.
Once the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside.
As the years passed, only the children came.
They gathered every week no matter the weather or the event.
The children came the night after the Bard’s daughter married and left home.
They came after he was widowed.
The Bard assured the villagers that the the children were more than welcome.
Many in the village shook their heads at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to his neighbors.
The more difficult their project, the more he preferred it.
He especially loved to build, for hard work that required concentration gave him relief from his mourning.
A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish.
He was grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer through the murder of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves.
Whenever the Bard thought of their last moments, he couldn’t escape the anguish coursing through his veins.
However, he kept his demons to himself.
The cutthroats had spared the life of his grandson, but his innocence was under assault from night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing.
The child was only four when he came to live with his grandfather.
The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for this child who needed him desperately.
Through it all, on the same night every week, the children always arrived at the Bard’s cabin to listen to his stories.
The Bard was forever thankful to them because their presence brought innocence, normalcy, and harmony that was lacking.
His grandson sat amongst them, but his large black eyes were vacant, staring into nothing, his face unresponsive.
The Bard prayed every night that the little boy would find his way back from the abyss of frozen terror, and return to childhood.
And every week, the children came.
It was a year before the nightmares stopped.
Light returned to the boy’s eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love.
As fire climbed the mountain of logs, the youngest child moved to sit with the little boy who had the same eyes as his grandfather.
It was time.
The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound.
The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing.
Before he spoke, the Bard always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning.
Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly and rolling in subtle cadence as the Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
