The Golden One

Seeker of truth
With hair of spun gold,
Have patience, be steady,
And to you all will be told.

Hold close your band
And keep conviction near--
For when the time is right,
The truth you will hear.

They were called the Dark Days. It seemed to all that the gods had abandoned them, for death and destruction reigned. The village was ruined, and the people were now slaves. But still he refused to give up.

He had no name--he was known only as The Golden One. He had arrived shortly before the warlord and his troops, asking all in the village about the simple wedding band he carried. He could not wear it, he said. There was some force preventing him. But he knew that he had to find the one who could. Everyone in the village attempted to wear the ring, but, as with The Golden One, some force kept them from placing it around their fingers.

The day after the last villager tried to wear the ring, the warlord arrived. He came blazing through the village, ordering his troops to burn the houses and do what they wanted with the women. The men were rounded up and branded, the warlord's seal burned into their forearms. The warlord and his troops set up their tents and debated if they really needed this village. It was off the main roads, but there was no doubt that Demeter had blessed their land, for the crops flourished.

It was decided that they would stay, and the troops herded the men to the marble quarries half a day's journey away to begin the process of building the warlord's new palace. The work was harsh, and the village men were beaten for any little mishap...or simply because the overseers wanted to. The Golden One was no exception. But he refused to have his spirit beaten. He would sing and chant throughout the days that never seemed to end, words in a strange tongue that no one, not even the overseers of the quarry, could understand. They would beat The Golden One at every opportunity, hoping to make him falter. Though his body was soon covered in welts and bruises and cuts, he stood tall and carried as much weight as a healthy man. For he knew he had to survive.

Every night he dreamt the same thing. As his body at last gave in to the aches from the labor, a vision of the warlord with a woman would come to him. But it was a changed warlord from the one sleeping on the other side of the village. The warlord of the dreams was young, handsome, with softened, almost caring features. After the first dream, The Golden One had to convince himself that the man of his dream and the cold, hard man causing such suffering were really one and the same.

He had kept the ring with him since the warlord's arrival, and as the dreams continued, he knew what he must do. Every night, when all was still and the sky was at its blackest, The Golden One would silently crawl to the edge of the tent where the village men were kept. And every night, upon seeing the guard standing before the entrance, his sword unsheathed, The Golden One would silently crawl back to his mat. But he refused to give up.

At last, after many months, the warlord's palace was completed. That night, there was much celebration amongst his troops, and the ale and wine flowed freely. As the warlord celebrated in his palace, many of his troops stumbled about the village in drunken stupors, including those who were to guard the village men. The Golden One knew his time was now.

Again, when night was at her blackest, he crawled silently to the edge of the tent. This time, however, he saw no guard at the flap. Jumping quickly to his feet, he stole silently across the village, as if Hermes himself were guiding him. Still undetected, The Golden One slipped into the warlord's palace and up to the sleeping chambers.

He stepped silently amongst the bodies of the guards and village women laying on the floor of the chambers and up to the warlord's bed. The Golden One retreived the band from around his neck where he had kept it and placed it onto the warlord's first finger. It was a perfect fit.

The Golden One was never seen again in that village. The same day of his disappearance, the warlord died. No one knew the cause, but there was much speculation about the band found around his finger. With the death of the warlord, anarchy broke out amongst his troops, and as they fought, the villagers took the opportunity to free themselves from the bondage. Soon after, a vein of gold was found in one of the palace's marble walls.

Seeker of truth
With hair of spun gold,
Have patience, be steady,
And to you all will be told.

Hold close your band
And keep conviction near--
For when the time is right,
The truth you will hear.


The Golden One This story, beginning and ending with a short song, was written for Ingonish.
Seeker of truth With hair of spun gold, Have patience, be steady, And to you all will be told. Hold close your band And keep conviction near-- For when the time is right, The truth you will hear. They were called the Dark Days. It seemed to all that the gods had abandoned them, for death and destruction reigned. The village was ruined, and the people were now slaves. But still he refused to give up. He had no name--he was known only as The Golden One. He had arrived shortly before the warlord and his troops, asking all in the village about the simple wedding band he carried. He could not wear it, he said. There was some force preventing him. But he knew that he had to find the one who could. Everyone in the village attempted to wear the ring, but, as with The Golden One, some force kept them from placing it around their fingers. The day after the last villager tried to wear the ring, the warlord arrived. He came blazing through the village, ordering his troops to burn the houses and do what they wanted with the women. The men were rounded up and branded, the warlord's seal burned into their forearms. The warlord and his troops set up their tents and debated if they really needed this village. It was off the main roads, but there was no doubt that Demeter had blessed their land, for the crops flourished. It was decided that they would stay, and the troops herded the men to the marble quarries half a day's journey away to begin the process of building the warlord's new palace. The work was harsh, and the village men were beaten for any little mishap...or simply because the overseers wanted to. The Golden One was no exception. But he refused to have his spirit beaten. He would sing and chant throughout the days that never seemed to end, words in a strange tongue that no one, not even the overseers of the quarry, could understand. They would beat The Golden One at every opportunity, hoping to make him falter. Though his body was soon covered in welts and bruises and cuts, he stood tall and carried as much weight as a healthy man. For he knew he had to survive. Every night he dreamt the same thing. As his body at last gave in to the aches from the labor, a vision of the warlord with a woman would come to him. But it was a changed warlord from the one sleeping on the other side of the village. The warlord of the dreams was young, handsome, with softened, almost caring features. After the first dream, The Golden One had to convince himself that the man of his dream and the cold, hard man causing such suffering were really one and the same. He had kept the ring with him since the warlord's arrival, and as the dreams continued, he knew what he must do. Every night, when all was still and the sky was at its blackest, The Golden One would silently crawl to the edge of the tent where the village men were kept. And every night, upon seeing the guard standing before the entrance, his sword unsheathed, The Golden One would silently crawl back to his mat. But he refused to give up. At last, after many months, the warlord's palace was completed. That night, there was much celebration amongst his troops, and the ale and wine flowed freely. As the warlord celebrated in his palace, many of his troops stumbled about the village in drunken stupors, including those who were to guard the village men. The Golden One knew his time was now. Again, when night was at her blackest, he crawled silently to the edge of the tent. This time, however, he saw no guard at the flap. Jumping quickly to his feet, he stole silently across the village, as if Hermes himself were guiding him. Still undetected, The Golden One slipped into the warlord's palace and up to the sleeping chambers. He stepped silently amongst the bodies of the guards and village women laying on the floor of the chambers and up to the warlord's bed. The Golden One retreived the band from around his neck where he had kept it and placed it onto the warlord's first finger. It was a perfect fit. The Golden One was never seen again in that village. The same day of his disappearance, the warlord died. No one knew the cause, but there was much speculation about the band found around his finger. With the death of the warlord, anarchy broke out amongst his troops, and as they fought, the villagers took the opportunity to free themselves from the bondage. Soon after, a vein of gold was found in one of the palace's marble walls. Seeker of truth With hair of spun gold, Have patience, be steady, And to you all will be told. Hold close your band And keep conviction near-- For when the time is right, The truth you will hear.

Anika's Storybook