Under a violet dusk, the village young filed into the cabin that sat at the edge of the forest, deep green leaves of summer fluttering in the breeze.
The Bard came home from the woods with his grandson as the children were settling down.
His hands boasted the marks of time.
One of these 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; mushrooms, berries, nuts, herbs.
The Bard would fry up a savory hash that night while he talked, sharing a tiny feast with his tiny 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 the Bard and his grandson walked in.
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.
The last day of the week had come to an end and now was the night for stories.
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 it was an inferno.
His love of heat was legendary.
He had built this cabin as a young man, and the villagers who had been alive during that time said his home had started with the fireplace.
They said he needed almost ten years to finish his cabin because of that massive hearth.
He allowed himself 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 ones with the unique patterns and subtle hues of earth - deep gray, pale green, earthy red, and soft pink. These stones were layered to make the back wall of the cabin, the deep pit stretching wide and tall with iron mesh to contain the spits of flaming wood.
His hearth was his 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. They were content to live in a canvas tent held from ropes tied amongst the trees until the log cabin was built around his fireplace.
He told stories to his family every night, talking in front of the blaze burning at his back.
He drew the notice of other villagers, fascinated by the spectacle of a family gathered around a fireplace in the open air, and they would stroll by the unfinished cabin with lingering glances.
One relaxed evening in early winter, the small family invited their neighbors to join them.
That would become the night the villagers came to hear the Bard. After the cabin was built, the parents listened from the outside while their young gathered inside.
As the years passed, only the children came.
They seemed to come every week no matter the weather or the event.
They came the night after his daughter married and left home.
They came after he was widowed, the Bard assuring the children they were more than welcome.
Many in the village shook their heads and marveled at the strength of his will. The old man kept to his routine, lending a hand to the projects of his neighbors, using hard labor to relieve himself from mourning.
A year later, the Bard thought his heart would perish, grateful his wife didn’t live to suffer the killing of their daughter and her husband by a band of thieves.
He could not escape the anguish which coursed through his veins whenever he thought of their last moments, but he kept his demons to himself.
The cutthroats had at least spared the life of his grandson.
But his innocence was assaulted by night terrors that pulled him screaming from his sleep, his dark eyes vacant and staring into nothing.
The boy was four years old 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 a child who needed him desperately.
It was a year before the boy’s nightmares stopped.
Light slowly returned to his eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, a world made of nothing but love.
Through it all, the children always arrived at his cabin every week on the night for stories.
The Bard was forever thankful, their presence bringing a harmony that was lacking until his grandson was healed.
Fire climbed the mountain of logs and the youngest moved to sit with the little boy with large black eyes, the same as his grandfather.
