Once upon a time someone once said to me that only those who meet their death in glory are remembered. That was a time when men still believed in honor, chivalry and courage to fight for what they loved. Now it seems all that has vanished from this land and the only thing that is left, are stories. Stories that become legends in the wastes of time, legends that then are forgotten. This is one of those stories that should never be forgotten.
The story starts with me, in 1754, when I was young scientist by the name of Alfred Yeats, living in London, when I received a rather unusual letter. It was from an elderly gentleman in small village somewhere in the middle of the country. He enquired whether I believed in magic and if so if I believed that there could be portals to other worlds. I replied to the letter, even though I half believed it to be a hoax, and politely explained that it was simply impossible for there to be any existence of magic.
I thought that was the end of the matter and continued with my firmly non magical life, explaining the mysteries of the universe through solid science. Some weeks later I received another letter from the same elderly gentleman in the same small village somewhere in the middle of the country. It explained how I was entirely wrong and the fact that because I was so against such thought made me perfect for him. He continued to ridicule my understanding in the basic laws of the universe, so much so that I gave up reading and went to bed.
The next day I read on with less tired mind and found that he had learnt that I was somewhat respected scientist, which made me even perfect for him. Apparently he had enclosed a wishbone that would explain everything, if I was just to break it. Unfortunately my inquisitorial mind got the better of me and I did indeed find myself breaking the wishbone, which turned out to either the best decision of my life or the very worst – it tends how you look at it you see.
On one hand I found out the truth, that I was indeed wrong and the old man was right, and on the other hand I found myself wishing to go back to my life before, where it was simple and explained. What happened on that cold winter morning in my bedroom just before breakfast was very strange, so much so that I find myself confused even thinking about it.
First I had a vision of a very large city covered in a thick blanket of fog from the river that snaked through it, uncannily like London. Then of a steam locomotive moving through the country side, which turned into an image of two very large armies, by the looks of it medieval, facing off against each other. Suddenly, it all vanished and all that remained was a hugely bewildering story. It was first confusing, like having a jumbled up jigsaw in my head, then it slowly began to unraveled itself.
I examined myself for any chances, no matter how small and eventually concluded that I was exactly the same as I was before, except from this story that bounced through my thoughts every once in a while. It was a strange feeling, like someone had stuck a wooden spoon in my head and mixed my memories with it. It seemed almost real, well as real as my memories were, and I found myself remembering it as if I was there.
I eventually decided that this story or whatever it was was just a figment of my imagination and I was better carrying on with my normal life and forgetting about this strange ordeal. My life went on and as it did these visions, which I had experienced first when I broke the wishbone, became even more intense and I found myself pondering over them well into the night. Finally, after about three weeks of this strange behavior I decided, enough was enough and resolved to find the old man who had sent the letter and demand that he removed the effects of his wishbone imminently.
I travelled to the return address, which was scribbled at the bottom of the letter, in a frankly long and rather unpleasant journey, as I had used the public trains. When I had finally reached the small cottage at the end of what must have been the smallest village in the world. I found, nailed to the bright red door, a small letter which read as follows:
‘Dear Mr. Yeats
If you are reading this letter you must have broken the wishbone and therefore, although being obviously against the existence of magic, you must have been at the very least curious. This leads me onto my next point; the effects of the wishbone are IRREVERSIBLE, as you willing broke it. You are now the carrier of a story which, by no doubt, you are fully aware of. The knowledge of this story and of its world is completely true and you would do yourself harm if you tried to pretend otherwise.
If you are still under the misleading thought that all this is a hoax, you are most certainly wrong. This will be proven later as you are, in fact, due to travel through a portal from this world to the other in a matter of minutes. Nothing you can do can change that, so please do not try to run away as this makes the transporters job even more arduous. Also, I may remind you that it is polite to greet your transporter nicely and to keep any urges to swear or scream under control.
Your task, which you under took when you broke the wishbone, is to write the story that is in your possession down onto paper in as much detail as you can, not sparing on any detail no matter how tiny or gruesome. Let me remind you that you are just a writer and that is all, if you fail to write this story down you will be trapped in the other world for eternity. Failing to write also includes the distortion or creation of details in the story.
On completion of the story you will be justly rewarded in your current world. Do not worry yourself about the writing as we have examined you and have concluded that you are a talented writer. My advice to you is to write from your heart and try not to think about what you are writing. The story that you currently possess will come out naturally, so do not force it out. I am sure you will have a pleasant time writing this story as it is, as a matter of fact, one of the most famous legends in the Other World.
Yours sincerely,
Quiltwil Pregin’
This strange letter did not help at all, in fact it seemed to confuse things even more and before I even had a chance to think on the matter, I heard a meow from behind me. Being the cat lover I am, I turned around almost instantly to stroke the small, matted grey haired cat that purred as I scratched its ears. I was not my usual self that day, mainly because of the letter which I was still digesting, but also because the fish I had the night before.
But anyway I was not my usual courteous self and did not even think for one second that the cat could have been the transporter the letter had talked about. There was a squeak and a pop, and then I felt as though I was in a compression cylinder, as my skin started to press firmly on me. Then another squeak and pop, and I felt the complete opposite, which was like being stretched out by several hands. And then another squeak and pop followed by the smell of ashes and a cloud of smoke that flared up my asthma.
“Welcome to the Other World!” A cheery voice almost yelled through the smoke and a rather podgy face was thrust forward so fast that it barely had time to stop before me. My hand was grabbed and shaking thoroughly while the smoke cleared. I was standing in a very plain room, facing and shaking hands with a small man, who was rather large around the midriff. His head was stuffed into a squished top hat and he wore a black suit and tie rather like the one I wore.
“My name is Qin, just Qin, don’t ask me what my surname is because I don’t know and frankly couldn’t care. I am your supervisor who will feed you, cloth you and generally look after you in the Other World. Now let me get the boring stuff out of the way,” He cleared his voice in an important manner. “The rules: you are not allowed out of this room, your supervisor will take care of any needs you have; there is a pen, ink and paper on the desk behind me for your writing; once you have completed your writing, you must hand it into your supervisor and he will take you back to your world. Any questions please consult your supervisor, that is to say; me.” He sighed for an almost inhuman time. “So what’s your story to be then? Goblins, Trolls, Elves? Well spit it out man, I haven’t got all day.”
“Um…Well,” I sputtered slightly still in shock of what had happened in the last few minutes. “The letter told me I was to write one of the most famous legends in the Other World.”
“What? You! Write a true story of this world? You must be joking; I can’t believe they trusted you with it! Look at you, you’re so skinny you can barely stand! Strange behavior they have, first of all they only send me no-life idiots, with no-life stories about trolls and men called Beowulf and now they send me what must be one of the most important stories of all time! Bizarre, I tell completely BIZARRE!”
“Wait I know that story. Beowulf. Isn’t that the warrior who slew a giant to become a king?”
“What? you heard of it? That teapot who wrote was good though, he wrote it as a poem you know, ever so long and tiresome, which I never finished reading it. But still was a fine thing. So tell me what legend have you got inside that rather small head of yours?”
“What story? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh come on, the one that lead you to all this madness. You know the one that was injected into you when you stupidly broke that wishbone. Which brings me to another point, why are humans all so noisy? If they just threw away that bone, they would never have to deal with this, but no they go and break it and I have to deal with yet again another loony. But anyway tell me which story have you got in store for us today? Search your mind, it’s in their somewhere.”
“Umm, well, I sort of remember a boy and a girl about, early teens I guess.”
“Aha!” Yelled Qin in great triumph.”I know; it’s the legend of King Arthur and Guinevere!”
“What? The story of King Arthur and his round table?” I said, rather disappointed in fact.
“No no no. There’s no round table in it from what I can remember. That must be some stupid legend from your world. The one that’s inside your head is much more interesting.”
“What so you know about it then?”
“Of course! it’s only the most famous legend of all time, plus it’s true. It made London what it is today, as great as it is, that is to say.”
“What we’re in London?”
“Opps. I wasn’t meant to say that, just pretend I didn’t. Oh gosh look at the time, well I better be off, um call for me when you’re done, I’ll be back in time for tea. Don’t forget to write as much as you can, I can’t wait for this story. Oh and I just remembered please don’t try to break the window, it’s awfully expensive and the street outside may look fun, but trust me, it really isn’t. Just write and you’ll be out of here in no time!” With that last word there was a squeak and a pop and a load of more smoke and Qin was gone.
I may have thought of trying to escaping, but I was rather tried and frankly I was rather interested on what this story that was inside of me was. And so I sat down in the strangely comfy chair and pick up the pen, dipped it in ink and began to write the story which poured from me like water from a fountain. And this is where the story truly begins.
