A Monk's Tale: The Story of Jonan Fears
Posted: Sun Dec 31, 2006 12:08 am
This story, while not well known to most travelers, is an oral tale passed down from the Monks of the Long Death.
Ah, the pastoral beauty of youth. Especially for those growing up in rural lands, childhood can seem an enchanting mix of watercolor and neon. All of it accented by the gentle breeze of a summer's day, carrying the sounds of the village and the surrounding forest across the sweat of one's brow.
The beauty of one's youth can be deceiving. For sometimes the brush cuts a wide swath, glossing over memories that would not mesh with the idyllic. Such was the case with Jonan.
When he was but a child, growing up in Featherdale, remnants of the Plague still swept through the hills and down the verdant valley of the Scar. His mother was one such victim. At the tender young age of six his mother slowly declined in spasms of violent coughing and uncontrollable spasms that wracked her body. Some say our conscience or perhaps a merciful god removes these memories from us to save us the anguish that would follow us like a wraith. But the wound is always there, waiting to be opened. And for someone who was to eventually lead the life of a contemplative, this was an auspiscious portent, and would eventually lead him on the Path of the Long Death, whether he knew it or not, he had no choice. ....continued...
Ah, the pastoral beauty of youth. Especially for those growing up in rural lands, childhood can seem an enchanting mix of watercolor and neon. All of it accented by the gentle breeze of a summer's day, carrying the sounds of the village and the surrounding forest across the sweat of one's brow.
The beauty of one's youth can be deceiving. For sometimes the brush cuts a wide swath, glossing over memories that would not mesh with the idyllic. Such was the case with Jonan.
When he was but a child, growing up in Featherdale, remnants of the Plague still swept through the hills and down the verdant valley of the Scar. His mother was one such victim. At the tender young age of six his mother slowly declined in spasms of violent coughing and uncontrollable spasms that wracked her body. Some say our conscience or perhaps a merciful god removes these memories from us to save us the anguish that would follow us like a wraith. But the wound is always there, waiting to be opened. And for someone who was to eventually lead the life of a contemplative, this was an auspiscious portent, and would eventually lead him on the Path of the Long Death, whether he knew it or not, he had no choice. ....continued...
