Cory's Compass and the Juggler

[carlo aggaruzzi]

High above in the night sky you can see the grouping of stars that some people know as Cory’s Compass. A gift from the Creator to those lost souls in need of direction. Of course, none are so lost or so wayward as sailors, which is why they thank him often for it.

In the broader canvas of the night can be discerned the Juggler, whose hands turn each night, the four stars they toss rotating over the course of the moon’s cycle; one silvery, one bluish, one greenish, and one red. Few note how one hand passes near Cory’s Compass, and fewer still know the story that accounts for it.

You see, the Juggler once walked the land a mortal. Or rather, he wandered the land: aimless, free of care, earning his bread by the dexterity of his hands, by his creativity with moving geometrical patterns, and - when audiences proved stingy - by sleight of hand.

On a night when the Juggler’s wandering had placed him at a crossroads, the Creator, Primus Cory, graced the land in the guise of a mortal traveler. He took his direction and pointed his mount along a road till it crossed another, and he entered the inn where the Juggler performed.

The Juggler’s routine earned applause and a free mug, but the patrons were few and not free with their coin. No young girls smiled his way, no kindly farmer offered lodging, so the Juggler turned an appraising eye on the stranger who came late. Traveling clothes can hide wealth, but fine leather, a flash of metal, clean fingernails, and a trinket or two will point a shrewd man toward opportunity. The stranger propped on a chair a boot of brown leather with bronze buttons; a neat hand lifted a mug of cider to his lips; and his other hand set on the table a palm-sized silver disk that looked of no practical use.

But it looked just the right size to pick up and toss.

The Juggler began his act anew to entertain the new arrival. He held aloft in his fingers a silver ball. Then he rolled it onto the back of his right hand, up his arm, popped it up with his elbow into the air and across to land on the back of his left hand at the same time as a blue ball appeared in his right. He repeated the trick ending with the blue ball alongside the silver on his left hand and a green ball in his right. The green ball rolled, popped up, arced toward the back of his left hand, but before it landed, his left hand flicked to send silver and blue flying up on either side of falling green which was caught and tossed toward the right hand which caught and tossed the blue as the left caught silver, and the Juggler had begun.

He crisscrossed the three, he spun them in a cascade, caught them behind his back, behind his head, under a leg, with his chin. He bounced off a knee, a foot, a shoulder, a table, a serving-boy’s head. He switched out the silver for red, then green for silver, blue for green, green for blue, silver for an empty mug off a table, the mug for green, green for a silver disk off a table, silver ball for silver disk with the silver disk going into his pouch, silver for green, green ball for a patron’s green hat. And finally, into the hat fell in order red, blue, green, and silver balls. He looked to the traveler who brought the disk. The Juggler smiled at the stranger’s appreciative laughter, and took a bow while the smattering of applause was loudest.

Then the Juggler announced that he needed cool night air to refresh him after his exertion. He stepped out from the inn and into the crossroads. He pulled out his prize to inspect, and by the light of the inn’s lanterns, he saw it had a pointing arrow. As he turned his back on the inn to block the view of any follower, the arrow turned too so that it continued to point along the same road. He did not know what to call the object, but he took its pointing for a good omen and he set his course. And thereafter in his lifetime, the Juggler managed always to find safe lodging and appreciative company.

Cory recognized all, and he smiled to himself. The whole of the world was his, and he strode it as he would. The Juggler could no more escape him than trick him, but his boldness and talent had amused the god.

When the mortal Juggler aged, his eyes grew dim, his hands slowed, and the paint faded on the wooden balls he had tossed so many years. So Cory made those hands shine bright for him to see, and he switched out the balls for stars; silver, blue, green, and red. But he let the Juggler’s body rest for it was weary, and it needed cool night air after its exertions, so he laid it in the darkness. The compass whose direction the Juggler had followed faithfully, Cory placed in plain view for all to use, even by those without the Juggler’s cleverness. But each night it shines within reach of the Juggler’s hand.



[This was inspired by what I remember of an early tale that Llyewell improvised but which was not captured by a copy and paste. As I recall, in her version Cory presented the Juggler with the compass rather than the Juggler stealing it, but since I can neither recollect nor match the enchanting details and style that made her story worthy, I invented.]

[carlo aggaruzzi]

It's taken me a year, but I managed to find a groove so that I could re-invent the following story of Mylor Clearspring that I always meant to post in the forums. Because I improvised almost all the stories and accounts that the character Mylor produced, and since only a couple of them were ever copied and pasted to a document, the only way they can be posted in the forums is if I bear down and write them out. And that's a difficult process for me.

In this instance, I had trouble rediscovering Mylor's voice until I abandoned the approach of writing it. I had to role-play it again, i.e. I played Mylor in my head. I poured it out in monologue with stage directions in parentheses, which was the style of my posts while playing Mylor. I even did it in chunks that I think would fit DG's chat buffer, though I didn't worry too much about that.

What's important, I think, is to imagine this as a live spoken telling of a story, which is different from reading something from the page and different from seeing a play acted out on stage. It's like a standup comedian or an entertaining teacher or a glib friend telling a story. Because the character Mylor learned to tell stories not on a stage and not from writing them on paper, but from dealing with sailors offduty and ashore in taverns.


This was based firmly on the first story I told in character as Mylor. I hope it's a bit better than what I improvised. In any case, the major elements of the story are just as I recall, and the ending is almost an exact quote because that is the only part of the story I wrote down at the time of the original telling. I post it here because this was Mylor's direct, immediate response to Llyewell's mythic tale that I re-invented above.

This is Mylor's "The Juggler and Cory's Compass".

[carlo aggaruzzi]

[Only a small percentage of players will recall that in game (in mid-2004 at least), Cory appeared regularly riding on a flaming donkey.]

[And to provide a proper basis for a mental picture of Mylor to those who were not around to be familiar with the character, here is the pertinent excerpt from his profile that was:

"Almost 6' tall, dark hair with enough length in the back to tie it into a short, thin braid, his tanned skin and wiry build indicate an active life. Blue eyes and good teeth smile often, and he laughs in good company or bad."

And also, I recommend that you read "Cory's Compass and the Juggler" in this thread's first post. It sets the stage for Mylor's story.]




(Mylor speaking standing in an inn with a mug of ale in hand.)

Llyewell told the story about how the Juggler stole Cory’s Compass, and became favored enough to be immortalized in the night sky. It’s a fine tale, and having been treated to a couple of ales by the god, I’m not about to dismiss the possibility. (takes a sip of ale)

(smacks his lips and looks at the mug) After all, if I could get set low in the sky with a mug dipping into a sea of ale far out on the horizon every night, I’d be grateful. (puts the mug to his mouth and pulls it back) As long as it’s good ale.

(lifts the mug partway to his mouth again and pauses) Okay. As long as it’s not bad ale. Or if it’s bad ale, just make it cold to dull the taste. (rolls his eyes upward and around, looking, grins, takes a drink)

I can believe all the main parts of the story. But that part about the compass pointing the juggler to safe lodging and good company is the most fanciful part of the story, and I’m afraid I can’t go along with it.

Especially since I’ve heard what really did happen right after he left that inn at the crossroads. (licks his lips and grins)

The Juggler didn’t just walk out, set a course, and stroll away. If someone saw him leave, that’s what he wanted them to think.

What he really did was stroll away in one direction (walks one way), then he circled back around (spins around) in the dark in case someone had seen him. He checked the stable and saw a donkey the hostler was tending to.

He hurried along to make his getaway in a different direction. And maybe it was the direction the compass’ arrow pointed. I can believe that much.

The way the juggler figured it, the rich traveler would have just a one-in-four chance to guess the right way to find him. And even then, he would need to overtake him. The juggler liked his own odds, and if that donkey belonged to the rich traveler, he liked his odds even better.

Of course, he didn’t know he had just stolen from a god.

(sips ale) When he felt certain he was away, the juggler relaxed and slowed his pace. But his ease did not last. Down in a hollow, the echo of his footsteps seemed more than just an echo. The juggler halted. But the echo of footsteps continued.

Slow, heavy clopping steps. (clops his heel and toe and toe again on the floor in a 1-2, 3)

So he ran! Up the next hill and threw his self down at its crest to look back down behind him. In the dark night, he could see the flicker of firelight, like torches. And it looked like more than one.

The juggler cursed himself for bad luck and laziness. He turned and looked the direction he was going but the night was too dark for him to see if the road ahead had any forks or intersections.

So he took heel and built speed on the downhill then labored uphill as the road climbed what he took to be a ridge.

In his mind, he complained that such a long incline favored a donkey. If he was really the jackass he called himself right then, he could have discounted the advantage. (chuckles)

That thought amused him more than was good for him. He snorted laughter between heavy breaths, and it started a fit of coughing. He stopped running and tried to suppress his cough which rang loud in the hollow darkness.

And a snort rang back clearer and nearer than the juggler expected.

Clopping steps picked up again. (heel-toe,toe 1-2,3 on the floor)

And firelight flickered on the road below.

The juggler ran with renewed energy. He topped the ridge and left the road. Let them try to track me in the dark, he thought.

But he was worried. If he was caught out in the country, he’d be at the mercy of his captors who might not be so kind. He needed a story.

He had run, so he couldn’t feign ignorance. He’d left a comfortable inn in the middle of night. He’d hurried along the road. He had stolen the silver thing. He could throw it away, but that would not spare him and it might make things worse.

Besides, what if he got away? He wasn’t about to part with what he now considered proper payment for his growing troubles.

No. If he was caught, he’d need to act the clown. A fool who deserved pity more than punishment. He might get away with just a kick in his posterior. If they threatened to break his hands, he’d beg them to just break fingers, and just on the one hand that had been naughty.

He cursed the stingy crowd that had driven him to steal the disk. Why, oh why was he so hated by the gods. He was a mere juggler, a merry entertainer who lived on the appreciation of onlookers. He drew people together who might not otherwise get so close. He gave them pleasure they could share. He was an artist.

But here he was, alone in the dark, running from cruel punishment at the hands of a man who surely could afford the loss of a bauble. It was not even gold or platinum or jewels. It was just silver!

So turned the juggler’s thoughts as his course wound between stands of trees and scrub brush. Briars clutched at his coat. Uneven ground twisted his ankles. High grass tripped him. He struggled along, hoping to put distance between himself and the pursuit.

He heard a trickle of water and headed that way for what he hoped would be an easy path along a creek bed. If he could - WHACK!

(awed tone) Stars burst into his vision and his jaw dropped in admiration at the simple pattern they wove, dazzling colors against a dark …

A dark outline hovering over him. Big. Magnificent.

And really, really –
Foul Smelling!

The juggler shook his head and terrific pain rattled around between his temples. He heard a grunt and saw the next blow of the hammer swinging his way.

He lurched forward and crawled on all fours through the legs of the troll, wondering in his daze if anyone had tried juggling troll hammers.

Another grunt behind him, a tripping step, a heavy thud and OOF. The troll fell down, tripped by his own feet, the juggler guessed. But right then, he was just thinking of how he’d like to keep his head in one reasonably round piece atop his neck.

He scrambled over loose stones and up to his feet, wishing the pain in his head would wait until later for the attention it demanded. He ran without seeing. He couldn’t tell if his eyes were even open. Flashes of light and shadow played around him.

He heard an anguished bellow somewhere back behind him.

He thought, No supper tonight, big guy. I’d be chewy meat anyway once you got past my soft head.

The juggler urged his feet to go faster. He pumped his arms and legs till he wheezed. He staggered. He splashed through shallow water, listed to one side, stumbled, righted himself, limped, tripped, stumbled. And finally, he fell to his knees in mud.

(bent over, gasping) He gasped breath. Three breaths. (holds his breath and cocks his head) He held one and listened.

No heavy footsteps. He gasped another three breaths, held one and listened. No heavy footsteps, but -

He gasped three more breaths. What was that sound? He held his breath. And heard a slow clopping.

His heart pounded. His head throbbed. He doubted he could see straight even with some light. The damp on his head was probably blood, not water. He had to be imagining that clopping sound.

He breathed again, trying to force calm. Tried to clear his mind of the fears that spun in patterns.

He listened.

(Mylor clops on the floor: heel-toe,toe 1-2,3.)

You’ve got to be kidding, he muttered.

Something inside the juggler rebelled at the unfairness of it all. He got bashed in the head by a troll in the dark, and these people carrying torches and walking a donkey didn’t seem to run into any trouble at all. They just kept walking along.

If they kept up with him all this way, it must be because they were following a straighter course, cutting off the angles. In that case, he could try the same. So the juggler got up and trotted straight up the bank of the stream and on again

The ground was soft for a while and it felt easy, which helped his head a little. Even when it turned hard again, it was smooth and level. He began to wonder if he’d struck a road.

He became sure he was on a path at least because brush grew on either side of him. And soon the brush turned to trees, and they stood close on either side so that his path was narrow. He slowed to a jog. No sense in braining himself against a tree trunk that was NOT swung by a troll.

He silently wished for a guiding light

The echo of his footfalls, his breathing, his heart, and his throbbing head filled his ears. He could see nothing in the dark. It was just him, running, trying to stay ahead of that steady, stubborn guilt that he somehow knew would not cease until –

(hand cupped to mouth, changed voice) Stop where you are, stranger!

(normal voice) The juggler jerked to a halt, bewildered. (blinks) He felt like he’d just been woke from a dream.

But he was still in the dark, and now he heard the voice again.

(hand cupped to mouth, changed voice) Okay. Take him.

Pairs of hands on either side grabbed the juggler’s arms and he was held fast. Light spread as a lantern was uncovered. Besides the two rough men holding his arms, two others stood armed with swords. Brigands.

The juggler thought fast.

I’m so glad I found you!

He saw the confused look between the lantern holder and the other sword wielder.

It’s so dark, I never thought I’d find my way. And then I got walloped by a troll somewhere back along the stream, and I had to run.

He shook his arms and said to the men holding them, Let go, would you. I’ve had enough trouble tonight. I don’t need more of it from you guys. Give me some water and a bandage. And I wouldn’t turn down a drink if you offered.

The man on his right loosened his grip and the juggler tore his arm free and pushed the other man off from his left side.

Don’t you guys listen? I told you, I was looking for you. Never would have found you without this though.

The juggler fished in his pocket and pulled out the silver disk with its arrow. He held it out for the brigands to see. The arrow pointed at the juggler.

See? Right now it’s pointing to me, probably because I’m not looking for anything right now, unless you count the water, the bandage, and especially the drink.

But before night set in, I told it I was looking for men of imagination, and it pointed me this way.

Once I realized where it was leading me, I knew you were the men I was looking for. You have quite the reputation, I can tell you.

The juggler smiled around at them and saw that the two brigands at his sides were looking to the swordsman with the lantern for some leadership.

(changed voice) Who Are You?

I’m the juggler.

(changed voice) The juggler?

Is this some kind of test? Yes, the juggler. You should have heard of me by now. No?

The juggler cursed and spat and stomped his feet.

That donkey-loving son of a dried-up bos took my money – good money! – and never came ahead to pay you to get in on the deal! Three people I know said he was trustw– No, four. FOUR people I know all said he was trustworthy. Well now I know they aren’t to be trusted.

When it comes to money, you can’t trust anybody. I should have learned that by now, but I thought that just once –

(changed voice) Hey. What’s that?

What’s what?

Shhh! (changed voice) Is that somebody coming?

Oh. Hey. It does sound like somebody’s – Hey. It sounds like it might be a donkey. Doesn’t it? Oh-ho-ho, he must have got lost. Well, let’s just give him a proper welcome then and take him off that donkey of his when he comes up close. Scare him plenty.

The juggler stepped into the trees and ordered them to cover the lantern. To his relief, the brigand leader did.

From back along the hard path came a sound the juggler could not mistake.

(Mylor clops on the floor: heel-toe 1-2,3.)

And like before, the juggler could see firelight. Onward it came.

(Mylor clops on the floor: heel-toe,toe 1-2,3. 1-2, 3. 1-2, 3.)

He could see the donkey in the glow, but he could not make out a rider in the flickering light.

(Mylor clops on the floor: heel-toe,toe 1-2,3.)

And as it drew nearer, he saw there was no rider at all. And no torches. It was the donkey itself that glowed with fire, its hooves striking sparks, its hind quarters aglow like embers.

The juggler was as amazed as the men who had waylaid him as the donkey stopped on the path between them.

(brigand voice) It’s a trick! Get him!

The juggler realized he had played that trick for all it was worth, and it was time to make a hasty exit. He leapt from his hiding spot onto the donkey’s back and grabbed onto its neck and hollered YAH! YAH!

The donkey bucked ahead but did not run. Instead it kicked up its hind legs and kicked out. The sound of air knocked out of a man. A dull thud and a cry of pain. The donkey bucked and kicked again. A snap of bone and a scream. And the sound of someone running away back along the path. And then the donkey walked forward with the juggler holding on.

It ambled along the path, which broadened into a road. The sun broke the horizon ahead. And the juggler could see a village not far off. The juggler urged the donkey to a trot, but the donkey held to its steady walk.

The juggler watched farmers come out into the fields around the village that morning. The donkey took him past the fields right into the town and stopped in front of a farmhouse where a pretty girl greeted him.

The juggler slid off the donkey, slapped it on its rump and told it to get along. The donkey gave him a look but it did not kick. The juggler smiled and winked at the donkey and they parted ways.

The girl saw the juggler’s bruised and bloodied head and fetched water and took care of him while he told her the strange things that had happened to him through the night.

(Mylor tries to drink from his mug, but it is empty.)

Oh. And she got him a mug of ale to drink, which the juggler welcomed, like any hard-working entertainer would.(grins)

He showed her the compass and it pointed at her, which he said was proof that he had not lied to the brigands who had long vexed travelers to and from the village, though now they could be run off without much trouble.

Especially if they saw the juggler chasing after them again.

(smiles) He might have stretched the truth a little in how he told the story. But I don’t fault him for that.

Because adding a bit of color to the world and finding different ways to spin and weave the tools of his trade was what the juggler did best.

By the way, he did try juggling troll hammers.

Once.

For a very brief time. But they were heavy. He found that even one hammer with two balls was not a good idea, because it made it hard not to drop his balls while heaving the hammer up in the air.

But that’s beside the point. For the moral of the story is:

No matter how twisted the path, or straight and narrow, bumpy or smooth; no matter how dark the night; no matter how rattle-brained or beset on all sides, no matter the odds …

A flaming jackass will always find his way into trouble –

And out of it again.

(grins) And that’s the salvation of every ship’s navigator I’ve sailed with!
The end


Edit: Removed an extra "he" left in a sentence by accident. It made no sense, was just an oversight in proofreading.

[Topaz]

*applauds both stories but liked the first one better.*


Topaz

[carlo aggaruzzi]

We agree on that.