Chapter One

Barnalby woke to the feel of warm water dripping on his face. He muttered dark threats as he reluctantly left his dream. It was his favorite dream, one where he found himself lord of a fabulous domain and living in a gold and jeweled castle that floated high in the clouds. Is the roof leaking? he wondered as he yawned and stretched. Then he opened his eyes and discovered that he was not in the confines of his straw bed, but outside, under a tree near the cooking pot. And as the bird on the branch above tweeted and flew away, he also realized it wasn’t raining.

I’ve burned the gruel again! He cursed as he ran to the iron kettle and began stirring frantically. His master, Tithonus, was very persnickety when it came to breakfast. The gruel had to be hot enough to cause the skin on one’s finger to turn red but not so hot the finger would blister. Too cold or too hot and the gruel would be thrown away …usually striking Barnalby in the chest. Of course it was Barnalby’s finger that was used for testing. He scooped out a ladle of gruel and poured it into a wooden bowl. Holding his breath, he dipped his finger in it ...and yelped as he pulled it away. Still, he managed a smile when he studied his injury--red but not singed. Perhaps his master would be satisfied and not complain that his breakfast was late again -- though Barnalby had little confidence that would happen. Taking a deep breath, he started toward his master’s hut.

He found Tithonus sitting impatiently at the small table that was the only one in the room. "You are late again, Barby," he said with a voice that creaked like his bones. The man was ancient, his skin like parchment, his head totally hairless except for one strand that curled from the back of his head down his spine nearly to his waist. Barnalby had long since given up trying to guess the man’s age, and Tithonus wouldn’t volunteer it.

"Barnalby," he corrected absently and set the bowl before him. "It took longer than I expected to light the fire."

"Fell asleep again more likely," he said and grunted. "Give me your hand."

He complied reluctantly and stifled a cry of pain as Tithonus dunked his little finger in the gruel. Tithonus pulled it out and studied it briefly, then nodded. "Good, you cooked it properly. For a change."

Barnalby stood patiently by while Tithonus slurped down his meal. Barnalby always ate after his master. Today the villagers had been kind and left a full bucket of gruel. That was not always the case, and often he was forced to forage for fruit and nuts in the forest around them or not eat at all. One contented belch later, Tithonus sat back and pushed the bowl to Barnalby. "Clean these thoroughly, then return. Today you will be my scribe."

Barnalby grimaced as he made his way to the nearby well. He hated to act the secretary. Tithonus had the tendency to wander far and wide in endless ramblings about his life and the gods he claimed he knew. After a few hours, Barnalby’s hand inevitably cramped, and he would only pretend to scribble on the parchment. His master never seemed to notice or care that his profoundest observations were being carried away by the uninterested wind. Which, as far as Barnalby was concerned, was the perfect place for them.

And since Tithonus wanted him back immediately, he wouldn’t have time to eat breakfast, he realized as he wiped clean the simple bowl and wooden spoon. He glanced longingly at the kettle, still boiling away over the cooking fire. If only he hadn’t fallen asleep! He could have eaten before he fed Tithonus, and his master would never have known. Barnalby set the utensils on a log to dry and returned reluctantly, where he found Tithonus, the parchment, quill and ink already waiting for him.

"One must understand that the gods, despite their great powers, suffer from the same weaknesses of the flesh and spirit as do mortals," his master began as soon as Barnalby assumed his position of trusted scribe. "The trials and tribulations I have suffered are absolute proof of that."

Barnalby only half listened as he took the quill and began to scribble across the parchment, often running out of ink before returning the instrument to the inkwell. But his master never seemed to notice. Most of the stories and adventures Tithonus recounted were familiar from previous dictations. Occasionally the newer versions contradicted previous ones, but Barnalby cared not a whit. Instead, as Tithonus rambled on about his life, Barnalby thought about his own. His parents had died during a spring flood, forcing him to become a ward of his village, Wadsbatt. He essentially became an indentured servant, being passed from one household to the next depending on whether the fields needed tilling, the trees felling or the grain milling. The last family had been the most pleasant, a merchant who used him to tend his store. But as had always been the case his labor became increasingly unnecessary, so he was finally shipped to another village and, eventually, to tend to Tithonus. For two years now he had been the old man’s servant. Sometimes he woke up nights and thought of running away. But he had no funds and no real idea where he could run. Going back to Wadsbatt was unthinkable; they would merely bring him back or, worse, transfer him to a patron even more unappealing. All he owned was a recurring dream that alone gave him hope. Or at least amusement.

A grunt from Tithonus brought him back to the here and now. "I asked if you had heard all that?" Barnalby nodded. "Good. Then I am finished for the day. See if the villagers have brought my supper."

Barnalby let out a low whistle when he walked outside. He had been listening and occasionally scribbling for half the day, and his stomach now began demanding attention. He found the basket provided by the villagers and frowned: only enough for Tithonus. A quick glance told him the cooking fire had long gone out. But there was gruel left, even if cold. It would have to do.

Tithonus was none too pleased at the offering. "This is what they provide?" He held up an apple. "Some fruit and dried up meat? I cannot eat this! A pox upon them." Barnalby began to salivate at the thought that Tithonus would refuse the repast. Instead, the ancient man took a hearty bite from the meat and began chewing. After a moment he nodded. "At least someone in that foul backwater of a town knows how to cook."

Then he noticed Barnalby watching him. "What are you looking at, fool? Be gone with you. I’ll call if I need you. As if I can’t chew for myself," he muttered as Barnalby walked outside.

And discovered it had started to rain.

***