Edwin

  Edwin

  "Edwin!" Jephro hissed. I jumped. It wasn't that my master was a cruel man, he just seemed to have a particular knack for scaring the crap out of me.

  "What?" I whispered back.

  "You weren't paying attention." We were in the audience at our local inn, called the Rook and Castle. It was the favorite location for performers who came through town, as it had a large stage at the front of the common room. At the moment, the stage was occupied by a storyteller who wove tales like a basket weaver: slow, predictable, and boring to watch.

  I passed these sentiments on to Jephro.

  "Doesn't matter," he replied. "You're not here to critique his performance. You're here to learn the stories that every storyteller is expected to know. So you're going to listen, and later you'll repeat it to me word for word. Or else." He left the threat hanging.

  I grinned. "Or else what?" I said.

  He scowled back. "Just do it," he said. Dutifully, I turned my attention back to the stage. I knew my master didn't have it in him to really punish me, but at the same time, I knew if I didn't learn these stories, my career as a storyteller would be short-lived.

  When the man on stage finished his tale, he made an exaggerated bow to scattered applause and swept off the stage. I went through the main parts of the story in my head. It was a standard tale of princesses, dragons and heroes. Nothing particularly exciting, but one I had to know nonetheless. As I recited in my head, Jephro took the stage.

  He didn't look much like an entertainer. His clothes were drab and colorless, he walked with a slight limp, and his white hair didn't exactly make him look young. But he wasn't just my master; he was a Master Storyteller, and you could tell which people in the audience knew it. They were the ones who sat up a little straighter, eager as children at Sowain.

  Some people say that a Master Storyteller uses magic to tell his tales. I don't believe that, not for a moment. It was all skill, from the way he held himself on stage to the way his voice could vary from a booming shout to a whisper in the space of a second. Or the way he could emulate with crystal precision the voices of a hundred different people. His stories had life where others just had words. And I was lucky enough to be apprenticed to him.

  I know what you're asking, because I asked it too: why wasn't I learning my stories from the Master?Those of you who are asking don't seem to understand the power of his performance. When Jephro tells his stories, nobody hears the words. Instead, they see what he wants them to see. He is an artist, and the words are no more than the medium in which he paints. It's impossible to memorize his words when you're caught up in the story.

  So what was he teaching me then? How to perform.

  As Jephro began his tale, I had a moment to glance around. It truly seemed like magic, the way the people latched on to his voice, entranced. A moment later, I was caught in the spell as well.

  When the story ended, Jephro's bow was met with applause that shook the room. He grinned, stepped off the stage, and took his seat beside me. "Edwin," he said. "If you stick with me, that's where you're headed."

  I nodded. A band took the stage next, and the tables were moved aside to make room for dancing. I sat and watched for a time, while Jephro chatted with the owner of the inn. The two men were good friends, Jephro having performed in the inn for more than fifteen years. The pay was good, and we got a free room and meals as well.

  "Excuse me?" a voice came from off to my right. I turned to see a pretty girl with short red hair standing by my table. "Would you care to dance?" she asked.

  I smiled, a little surprised. I've never been the most attractive man, being a little heavyset and starting to bald. "Not right now, thanks," I said. "I'm not a fan of dancing."

  "Aw," she pouted. After a moment, she brightened up again. "Well," she said, "maybe you can just go rent us a room then." She winked.

  I held my smile. "Maybe next time."

  She shrugged, and within moments had latched on to a man from another table. My eyes followed them as she led him to the dance floor. I felt a small pang of jealousy, but that didn't make any sense. I meant what I said. I didn't want to dance, nor was I really interested in taking her upstairs. Then maybe it wasn't the guy I was jealous of.

  I pushed the thought out of my head. What would my father say if he knew I was even thinking such things? Besides, I wasn't gay. I looked back at the couple dancing on the floor. My gaze lingered maybe a bit longer on the man than it should have. I shook my head, drained the rest of my drink and headed for the door. I needed some fresh air.

  This is the point of the story where I get lost. I don't remember any of it, and I've had to reconstruct it from the accounts of witnesses. To this day, there's a hole in my memory from when I left the inn to waking up the next morning. But I'll do my best to tell the story as I imagine it happened.

  I left the inn and walked for a bit in the cool night air. It wasn't long before I realized that something was wrong. My clothes didn't seem to fit properly. They were too wide in the waist, too short for my legs and torso, and much too tight across my chest. I paused on the street for a moment. There was one tailor who would be open this late. I made my decision to head there and see if he had any clothes that would fit me better.

  What was I doing wandering the streets at night anyway?

  I shook my head, trying to clear it. It was the weirdest thing. I knew who I was, I knew my name, I knew my life, the places I'd been, my family... But when I tried to remember what I'd done yesterday, it was a blank.

  When I made it to the tailor, I still hadn't remembered. I decided it must have been the alcohol. I was clearly slightly tipsy, though I didn't recall drinking. I pushed on the door, and something behind it tinkled, alerting the shopkeeper to my presence. He appeared at the counter moments later.

  "Oh my," he said as he looked at me. "You could certainly use a new outfit. Well, come on in, let's get you measured up. I hope I have something in your size. Come over here." He pointed to a spot on the floor in front of a set of mirrors. I moved into position and admired myself while the tailor took his measurements. Despite the odd clothing, I was a stunning figure. Easily six feet tall, long blonde hair, small waist and full breasts straining against my shirt.

  "I'm Dain, by the way," the tailor said.

  "Clare," I answered.

  "Well, Clare, may I ask how you ended up wearing a man's clothes that don't even fit you?" His voice was kind, not mocking, just curious.

  "I'd rather not say," I said, embarrassed that I couldn't remember. He appeared to take the blush as evidence of some tryst, which just made me blush harder. For all I knew, his assumptions were correct. He finished the rest of his measurements in silence, then stood.

  "I think I have something in your size," he said. "I'll be right back." In moments, he was back with a light green dress in one hand, and something else in the other. He directed me to a small changing room and handed me the dress.

  "I thought you might want this, too," he said, handing me the bra he had in his other hand. "Since, you, ah, don't appear to be wearing one."

  Quickly, I entered the room and dressed. I must have been more drunk than I thought, because my body didn't quite seem to know what it was doing. With a little difficulty, I finally managed to squirm my way into the dress. Dain knew his job; it fit perfectly. It had come with a small green belt as well. Lacking any other method of carrying coins, I threaded my money pouch onto the belt and buckled it around my waist.

  I left the dressing room and admired myself in the mirror for a few moments.

  "What do I owe you?" I asked Dain.

  "Two dachals for the dress, and thirteen cuvers for the belt and bra," he replied.

  I counted out the steel and copper coins and paid the man, glad that I had enough. He smile
d and wished me a good evening, and then I was out the door and back on the street.

  I don't know what drew me back to the inn. I had no recollection of ever being there. Maybe it was some part of my Edwin personality that guided me to the door, but as I stepped in, I immediately knew why I had come.

  He was still dancing with the red-haired girl, but a wink and a gesture soon changed that. We danced a few dances, I whispered in his ear, and soon he had exchanged a few of his coins for a key to one of the upstairs rooms.

  I wish I could say that it was an evening I'll never forget, except I can't remember it.

  All I remember is waking up in the morning, once again the overweight and balding storyteller, confused about why I was naked in one of the rented rooms, with a woman's green dress lying on the floor and my own clothes nowhere in sight.

  For years I lived this double life. A couple of times a month I'd wake up with no recollection of the previous night's events. It was strange, but even stranger was the fact that nobody could tell me where I had been. But, as it never interfered with my apprenticeship, I learned to live with the occasional blank spots in my memory.

  Jephro died three years after my first adventure as Clare. Heart attack in his sleep. The inn graciously offered to pay for the funeral, and he was buried in the cemetery, encased in rock and stone.

  I hadn't yet learned a tenth of