Toren the Apprentice's Tale, Book 1

By Shevi Arnold

Have you ever been swept away by a story? If you have, you know the magic of the storyteller--and you know that magic is real. That is seventeen-year-old Toren's magic . . . but is she brave enough to accept the power that lies within her?

When Toren returns home, her little sister, Noa, is full of questions. Noa demands to know why Toren wakes only at night; what causes her almost constant pain; and above all, why, after completing her apprenticeship, she has decided not to become a wizard.

To answer, Toren weaves a tale about a journey that leads her to discover the greatest source of magic in her world--herself.

TOREN THE APPRENTICE’S TALE is the first book of TOREN THE TELLER’S TALE. The adventure continues in book two, Toren the Teller’s Flight.

TOREN: THE TELLER’S TALE is more than an inspirational fantasy. It is a philosophical tale about the enchantment of literature, because in Toren's parallel world there is no greater power than the magic of storytelling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shevi Arnold
• Release date: Dec 15, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936242122

Shevi Arnold

Until her return to the United States in 2001, Shevi Arnold was the consumer columnist for Israel’s oldest and largest English language daily, The Jerusalem Post. She also worked for that paper as an arts-and-entertainment writer specializing in comedy and children’s entertainment. For four years she edited a comics magazine, and for seven years she was the cartoonist and illustrator of a religious newsweekly. Her educational background includes degrees in English Literature and Theater Studies, as well as a teacher’s certificate. Like Dan and Sandy, she loves to read, but she loves to write, and share her stories with readers, even more. Shevi Arnold now lives in a beautiful little town in New Jersey with her husband and two children. You can find her website at http://www.shevistories.com.

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TOREN THE APPRENTICE’S TALE

By Shevi Arnold

Published by Play Along Media LLC

Copyright Shevi Arnold 2011

ISBN 978-1-936242-12-2

Smashwords Edition 2011

Discover other titles by Shevi Arnold

Look for Part 2 where you purchased this book.

All rights reserved. The copying and distribution of this book or parts thereof (excluding short quotes for the purpose of review) via the Internet or any other means without written permission from the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized copies of copyrighted books, and do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Book 1

INTODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE--THE WIZARD’S SECRET

CHAPTER TWO--TEN GOLD COINS

CHAPTER THREE--THE AMULET

CHAPTER FOUR--THE FIRST LESSON

CHAPTER FIVE--THE BARON

CHAPTER SIX--THE LADY AND THE WITCH

CHAPTER SEVEN--TWO BRIDES

CHAPTER EIGHT--THE TELLER’S GATHERING

CHAPTER NINE--THE DRAGON SLAYER

CHAPTER TEN--MIDROSH

CHAPTER ELEVEN--THE RED DRAGON

CHAPTER TWELVE--A MOUSE NAMED MEEK

CHAPTER THIRTEEN--THE CIRCLE OF FIRE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN--MORDEK

CHAPTER FIFTEEN--GRAY

CHAPTER SIXTEEN--THE ORACLE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN--THE SOLDIER

BONUS CHAPTER --LEARNING TO FLY

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

~~~~~~~~~~

Toren changed my life.

I don’t know how old I was when I first became a storyteller, but I do know I was quite young. I remember telling my youngest cousins and my older cousins’ children stories when I was about ten. I loved the excited look on their faces, how my stories drew them in and captured their imaginations and their hearts. I also remember telling stories to the younger children on the van ride to school. I particularly remember one little girl who would ask over and over, What happened next? It was such a delightful question to answer.

As I was growing up, I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I read encyclopedias and science magazines, because I was very curious, and couldn’t read enough about this world. I also read a ton of comic books, particular collections of Peanuts strips. My favorite books were funny, fantasy or science fiction. I loved the works of Peter S. Beagle, Ursula Le Guin, Anne McCaffrey, J.R.R. Tolkien, Gene Wolfe, Harlan Ellison, Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, Orson Scott Card, John Barth, Thomas Pynchon, and so many others.

But while I enjoyed these books, I kept looking for one about a girl like me, a girl who loved stories and loved telling them. I knew stories were magical, perhaps even the most magical thing we can experience. I couldn’t possibly be the only one who felt like this, could I? And who better to write about this particular magic than a storyteller? But the more I looked, the more I realized the book I so desperately wanted to read did not exist. No one had written it yet.

When I was seventeen, my family had moved to Jerusalem, and I had just started college. That first year I studied Hebrew and a variety of other subjects, like Advanced Algebra, Political Science, and Computer Programming. My plan was to eventually study filmmaking, because I wanted to be a director.

You see, I didn’t just love storytelling on paper: I loved it in all its forms, and I thought that movies were the best way to tell a story, because they brought so many of those forms together: with and without words, visually, and through music. I studied the movies I enjoyed, and I tried to figure out how they worked. I still read books, but I read them mostly for entertainment. These were books of my choosing, books that made me laugh and cry, think and feel.

This one night, a book had kept me up late. It was sometime after midnight that my head felt heavy, and I laid it down on the open pages. I looked out of the window of my room. The moon was big and full, far above the horizon. I stood up and walked to the window. I leaned on the windowsill and thought again about that book that didn’t exist, the one about a storytelling girl like me. I closed my eyes and made a wish.

When I turned around, a young woman was standing behind me in my room.

Although she was short, there was something about her that seemed larger than life. She was amazingly beautiful, with her long, dark, curly hair, and her olive-colored, almond-shaped eyes. She was wearing a garment the likes of which I had never seen before.

I asked her for her name.

She said something, but it wasn’t in English. I didn’t understand.

I shook my head.

She slowly reached up and touched my forehead with the tips of her fingers. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she gave off a golden glow. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

Thank you, she said, with a voice that reminded me of honey. You have taught me your language. Both of them, in fact.

I felt like I should apologize. I’m still learning Hebrew.

And now so am I. She smiled. I understand you wanted to meet me.

I did?

A girl like you who understands the magic of stories?

I was so stunned and happy and excited I couldn’t speak.

You have taught me your language and about your world, she said. How should I repay you?

Of course, there could only be one answer to that question. Tell me your story.

I can do better than that.

Again she touched my forehead. She closed her eyes, and I closed mine. Her name was Toren, and her story flashed inside my mind. I saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt all of it. When she pulled her hand away, I was laughing and crying.

I was in awe.

She smiled at me and bowed her head. She looked out the window, and I followed her gaze. A part of me expected to see something magical on the other side. When I turned around again, however, she was gone.

Her story remained with me, and I treasured it. I re-experienced it whenever I was lonely or bored and wanted to be reminded of the magic of stories.

But, like everyone else, I had my life to live. I couldn’t study film, because the university only offered that as an M.A., so I studied English Literature and Theater instead. By the time I had graduated, I realized I didn’t really want to direct movies. I earned a teacher’s certificate, but I didn’t enjoy teaching. Instead I first became an editorial cartoonist, and a comic-strip magazine editor; and then I became an arts-and-entertainment writer, and a consumer columnist. I got married and had two children. I was very happy.

Unfortunately, I had to leave my job and my old life behind when my family moved to New Jersey in search of a better education for my autistic son. I didn’t know what to do. If I couldn’t write, edit, or illustrate for a newspaper or magazine, who was I? What was I?

A few months passed before I realized the answers to those questions. I was still the little girl who loved telling stories to the other children in the van on the way to school. Toren’s story had given me so much joy over the years. And I had been selfish. Somewhere in the world there had to be someone just like the girl I had been, someone who desperately needed a story about the greatest magic of all. It wasn’t just Toren’s story. It was my story, too, and the story of every storyteller who’s ever lived.

Perhaps it’s your story too.

So here it is, and I apologize for any mistakes I might have made. Alas, I don’t have Toren’s memory, so I’m not sure I’ve remembered every detail exactly right.

I also apologize for any errors I’ve made in translation. The language of Toren’s world is an amazing thing, both very simple and infinitely complex at the same time. A single word with slight variations in the way it’s pronounced can mean a variety of things. This made it particularly difficult to translate the rhymes, as well as many of the jokes. I have done my best with the skills I have.

There are some people I want to thank. First, I want to thank my husband, who has always supported my writing.

I also want to thank my former critique group, the FantasyWeavers, particularly Melinda Cordell, who read a complete early draft of this story and who is probably Toren’s biggest fan.

Last, I want to thank all my Twitter, Facebook, and SCBWI friends. Your friendship and support has meant the world to me.

This book is for all the storytellers: past, present, and future.

May you always let your magic shine!

Shevi

~~~~~~~~~~

ho are you?" Every frozen breath clawed at Noa’s lungs. Every word ached. A hand reached out in the darkness and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, but no answer came. Although it pained her to do so, Noa asked again.

Who… are you?

I helped bring you into this world, a gentle voice replied. And I want to make sure you stay in it. Promise to let me?

Noa nodded and relaxed. Before she lost consciousness again, she saw a strange, blue glow rise from her body. For a moment it hovered in the air. She felt there was something wrong with this light, something vile and sickening, something she would be glad to be rid of. The voice sang sweetly in an unfamiliar language. The blue light twisted and turned before it sped away, taking Noa’s pain with it. But the battle for her life had left her exhausted.

As the days passed, she drifted in and out of sleep. She had forgotten that she had been too weak to climb the stone stairs, and she was startled to find herself on the wood and leather couch in the sitting room. Across from her lay a stranger, a young woman in an old cedar trundle bed. Noa guessed this was her healer. Each time Noa opened her eyes, she saw the stranger sleeping, and it was only the changing lengths of the shadows on the pale stone floors and walls that marked the passing of days.

On the fourth evening Noa woke to the scent of squab, sweet onions, and dried fruits. The smell made her stomach growl and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in for what seems like an eternity. She struggled to rise, but once she stood she soon regained her balance. Carefully she crossed the shiny, almost white floor. With a quivering hand, she took a ceramic dish off the mantle and helped herself to a few spoonfuls from the iron caldron in the hearth. A jug of water waited for her on the pine table in the middle of the room. That was good. It meant she didn’t have to go into the yard to fetch water from the well behind the house. A silver plate with olive flatbread had been placed beside the jug. Noa sat, drank, ate, and felt a bit stronger. The cool of the evening air made her shiver. She folded her legs under her dress, her eyes glued to the stranger. Who was she? Noa tried once again to unravel the riddle that was her healer.

Noa guessed her to be about sixteen or seventeen. Long hair, as dark as Noa’s but not as curly, framed her pale face. The stranger rolled her slender body into a ball and pressed her eyes and mouth tightly shut. From time to time she whimpered, clutched her right leg under her blue dress, and trembled. A wooden staff, topped by something that sparkled like silver, leaned against the wall at her side.

The stranger’s leg seemed to hurt her a great deal, and she used a staff. She was probably lame. Noa always found the young woman asleep, but there must have been times when the stranger awoke, times she prepared food, probably at night. It had been night when the stranger had saved Noa’s life. Most likely, it had been night when the stranger climbed the steep, winding path up the mountainside alone. No one ever came to this house by chance. Noa’s healer must have known she was needed. But how?

A black cloak and a full sackcloth pack with leather straps rested at the stranger’s feet. Only wizards and witches wore black cloaks. Witches were expert healers, and the stranger had sung… was it a healing spell? Witches were also midwives, and what was it the stranger had said? I helped bring you into this world . . .

Noa was ten, so the young woman would have been six or seven on the day Noa was born, barely an apprentice. But no apprenticeship lasts more than eight or nine years. The healer would have to be a witch by now, and witches wore only black: black cloaks, black robes, black dresses. But the stranger’s dress was blue . . .

Noa’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. She shook her head. It can’t be . . .

I’m only seeing what I want to see, she thought. Yet the lines of the stranger’s face--the long nose, delicate chin and deep-set eyes with thick, dark lashes--seemed right. If only those eyes were open, then I could be certain. They’re olive green, I know they are! They have to be.

The following day Noa slept as much as she could to conserve her strength. In the late afternoon she sat down to the meal of fish and vegetables that waited for her in the caldron. And as darkness fell she lit candles. She sat on the cool stone floor on a small, wine-colored woolen carpet at the head of the trundle bed. She sat and waited and watched. The stranger cringed and whimpered, as she had before. A few hours passed before her body uncurled. Eventually the stranger stretched and sat up. She flinched when she opened her eyes and found Noa’s face almost touching hers.

Are you my Little Mother? Noa asked breathlessly. Are you my sister, Toren?

Slowly, the stranger nodded with a smile. Her eyes shined olive green in the candlelight, exactly as Noa remembered. The two held each other for a long time in silence, and tears fell down their cheeks.

You were only three when I left, Toren said softly, gently rocking Noa from side to side. I’m surprised you remember me.

How could I forget? Noa said. I cried for days when you didn’t come back. Amder told me a wizard took you away and I would never see you again.

You shouldn’t believe everything Amder says.

Noa pulled herself away from her sister’s embrace, and wiped her cheeks. But it’s true, isn’t it?You were a wizard’s apprentice, weren’t you?

Toren took a deep breath before replying. I’m not anymore. I’ve completed my seven years, and I’m glad of it.

So you’re a wizard now? Noa asked, her voice full of delight and admiration.

No," Toren replied. The word echoed off the walls and left silence in its wake.

The hope on Noa’s face quickly gave way to a frown and then close-lipped anger.But you’ve completed your apprenticeship! she cried. That means you’re now--

Toren raised her hand to stop Noa in mid-sentence. That means I’m now free to make my own choices. I don’t want to be a wizard. I never have.

But why? Noa cried. I can’t imagine anything I would want more!

Toren shook her head and let out a long sigh. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re a girl, and girls are not meant to be wizards. Or wizards’ apprentices for that matter.

Then are you a witch now? Noa asked. A girl can be a witch.

Toren shook her head again. It’s a different kind of magic, and I don’t have the training. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t want to be a witch.

But why? Noa cried once again.

Noa, honestly . . . Toren sighed. I’ve been gone for seven years, and I’ve just brought you back from the . . . from death’s door. Do you really want to argue?

What I want, Noa said, is an explanation. What happened? Why did you decide not to become a wizard?

Toren shifted her body, reached for the staff behind her, and stood. Noa also stood and was surprised to discover her much older sister was only a little taller than her. Toren steadied her body and hobbled to the table. She kept her weight on her left side. The staff hit the stone floor with loud thuds. The sound echoed off the walls and overpowered Noa’s words. What happened to your leg?

Toren sat and ate, ignoring the question. Noa repeated it.

It’s a long story, Toren finally replied. You’ve been ill for days, and it’s late. You need your rest.

But Noa didn’t want to rest. She wanted answers, and she raised her voice in frustration. If I go to bed now, you’ll be asleep when I wake up!You always sleep during the day, don’t you? And you’re always in pain, aren’t you? I don’t care if it’s a long story; I want to know why. Tell me!

Toren mumbled something and ran her fingers through her long hair. Very well, if you must have it. I’ll tell part of my tale . . . Noa cheered and clapped. . . . but only if you agree that the moment you yawn or show any sign of tiring, we stop.

Noa nodded. She hugged and kissed her sister and then sat on the couch. Toren finished her meal, pulled a cedar and leather chair closer, and sat. She glanced through the parchment window. Her finger rose to make a little circle in the air, as if she were trying to trace the waxing moon in the starry sky. In another night or two, it would be full. She blinked twice. What was the look on her face? Was it sadness? Pain? Fear? Noa could not tell.

Toren closed her eyes. So, you want to know who I am, she said. "It seems a simple question: ‘Who are you?’And we always give it such simple answers. ‘Who am I?I’m Toren. I’m Noa. I’m the eldest daughter of Omri the vintner. I’m the youngest…’Of course, these answers aren’t true. They are simple, quick and easy, while the truth is none of those things. Even a mouse has a story as grand as the sky.

You want to know why I’m not a wizard. The simple answer is I do not wish to be. But you want the truth: you want to hear my tale. Where should I begin?On top of a pile of empty crates in Pardessia’s central square is as good a place as any…

-*-

Fantastic riches! I shouted down from my wobbly perch, my hands cupped around my mouth. Eternal life! The love of the most beautiful maid in the world! Come taste what I have to sell! I guarantee you’ll like what you see!

The people stopped what they were doing and gathered around, but there was one whose attention I desired above the rest. The storyteller stood off to the side in his traditional uniform, a cloak of patches with each patch representing one of his tales. He pretended to look at some leather goods on a stand. Yet I could tell I had the foreigner’s sunburnt ear, and that was enough.

See here, girl, one merchant shouted back. What are you going on about?

I’m talking about the most tantalizing offer ever made in this market! I replied. Not ‘onions, two for a copper!’Not ‘best baked bread in all the land!’A man stood on this very spot not so long ago and shouted, ‘Wealth beyond compare! Love! Life!What would you be willing to pay to make your dreams come true?’

A farmer standing below me turned his head and licked his lips.

And this was not any man, I sat down on the top crate and continued. This was a wizard. He was dressed all in darkness like the night. He opened his coat, and on his tunic was a mirror, sparkling with the promises of wishes that had never been fulfilled. One man saw a woman he had loved who had married another. An old hag saw herself young and beautiful. A peasant saw himself rich and powerful beyond belief.And all this was offered by one who seemed to have the power to breathe life into their grandest fantasies!

A donkey ceased its braying and cocked its ears. The voices of nearby sellers and workers slowly quieted. Eager faces of every size and shade, from creamy pink to cinnamon brown, gathered around.