[Askoga]: 89.Short Stories.The Irishman's Adventures

A dear friend of mine had me listen to a song he'd composed, to help him work out the kinks. The song was inspiring enough that I made a story out of it. Here is the embellished version. The song that inspired it can be found here: http://www.musmakers.com/79.Whistler%20of%20the%20Valley?n=1133732194 I hope it's as inspiring to others as it was to me.

There once was an Irishman who, in his younger years, got the itch to travel. He saddled up his horse and rode off, never once looking back. As he traveled, he worked for his lodging, sang for his supper, and sometimes was even paid in coin for his labors and his songs.

And so it was that one day, fair as could be, this rider was riding along, not sure where he was headed, but knowing it was someplace new, when he came upon a forest. Locals, the people of the last village he’d passed through, had warned him to stay away from this forest. So, naturally, he had come. Without even batting an eye, he passed into the misty, dense, dark forest, whistling cheerfully to himself. His poor horse jumped at the smallest noises, but the Irishman paid them no heed, only urging his horse forward.

This forest was, indeed, a dangerous place. Especially for a lone traveler, such as this Irishman riding so merrily through. The wolves were the least of his problems, as there were bandits ranging free here, as well. Bandits desperate enough to kill him for the few coins he had, and his tired old horse.

Just such a bandit was hiding a little way along the path, waiting patiently for the unwary traveler. He heard the Irishman’s merry whistle, and he smiled, settling down to wait for the right moment. The Irishman, however, had seen a trail of wildflowers, where a stream ran through the forest, and where some light broke through the dense branches overhead. Our friend rider dismounted and gathered some flowers, then decided to walk along the stream. He led his horse along, and, by chance, the cheerful Irishman returned to the path a while after he’d have been accosted by the bandit.

Once on the road again, the Irishman mounted his horse once more, and tied the little bouquet of flowers he’d gathered to his saddle. He rode on through the forest, smiling as it thinned out and the mists cleared. The sun shone through the branches of the trees. But he had a ways to go, yet, before the next town, and the sun was nearing the horizon. Ahead of them there was a hill, and he urged his tired horse up it. When they reached the crest, the Irishman could nary believe his eyes. There, before him, was the grandest city he’d every laid eyes on. His horse picked up his feet as they neared the city, sensing that this big place meant rest. As they neared the outer-most houses, some children spied him and ran out to greet him, dancing about.

The city itself was full of people, some from faraway places, and many native to the land. There was noise, and bustle, and a great many things to do and see. The Irishman found an inn and settled in there. While he was eating supper, he spied the innkeeper’s daughter, and decided immediately that the wildflowers he’d picked would look lovely in her hair. He gave her them, and at the dance that night, she was quickly deemed the prettiest girl present.

The Irishman stayed for a while, and spent a lot of time with the innkeeper’s daughter. But one day, soon after he’d arrived, he felt the itch to travel again, and he had to leave her. He never returned to that city, and it’s said that the girl married another young man, from the city, and happily took up her father’s business when he passed away. As for the Irishman, he never married, but he carried a part of the city, and the innkeeper’s daughter, with him as long as he lived.