The Pots of Solion (Unrevised)

Here is a fantastical short story I wrote over five years ago, and which I stumbled across earlier today. I remember being rather proud of it when I had finished it, as it was the first completed folklore story belonging to the Dimrian Universe, a fictional landscape I had first surmised over ten years ago. Due to its antiquity, I have made only minor grammatical adjustments and revisions. I will likely post an updated edition later. I hope you enjoy it. 

 I

There was a country, beyond the Northern Wilds and the Edigar Mountains, by the name of Athez. This country was well-to-do, abided only trivial pugnacity, and was for the most part ordinary. However, one unifying factor entranced every person who lived there—an innate and inextinguishable desire for pots. Not cauldrons, mind, but pots. Cooking pots, smelting pots, musical pots, it did not matter. Every home revered the pot-maker, and it is not hard to imagine that pot merchantry, as a trade, was held in the highest esteem. It was the best occupation one could involve oneself with, thought every man. Alas if not for the trials of daily life! Farming, or shepherding, or guarding often took precedent over such dreams as pot-forging. Besides, where could one dream of finding the time or ability? Furthermore, there was a secret that only a gifted few knew of to make these wonders in the first place. Nevertheless, pot merchants were rare and few, even if the occupation did amount to a high fortune. There was a secret, you see. There was a secret to constructing pots that only the most enlightened knew. 

This may all sound dull and unappealing to one of the likenesses of you or me, but I assure you that what Athezians thought of pots, and what you think of pots, are quite different. You see, it was not just the pot that was the fashion, but what came in it. There were some pots, of a different branch entirely than cooking or melting, that were deeply entwined with mysticism and mystery. These were magic pots, and were held in the highest honor. Whether yours contains a ghost, or a ship, or a fat man in a bath (these are all recorded anomalies), it would be doubtless a thing to hold most dear. These magic pots were beautifully carved, and always had some prize inside. They would be quite valuable anywhere in the world, but in Athez, ‘quite valuable’ is an understatement. Wars have been waged, executions have been carried out, and crime after crime committed on the basis of these magic pots. But that was all a very long time ago, and (according to some), the excitement over these artifacts had greatly diminished. 

Pot merchants, and especially the mystical, lordly, magic pot merchants, made fortunes. Of course, the economy would collapse if one could share the secret of these magical pots with others, so every merchant, and those fortunate customers who benefited from them, were instructed by the king to conceal their knowledge about the nature of the magic pots, since everybody knows that the secret to a successful economy is ignorance. But as the years progressed, pot buying had become such a trend that no one could resist, even the impoverished and those stricken with plague, who would not have had the strength to properly cherish their pots in the first place. 

As such, in the town of Salomez—furthest to the East—where dwelt the simple and the poor, the farmers and the sheep-breeders, pots were hard to come by. Moreover, those pot merchants of whom the legends utter never took it upon themselves to venture this far from the cities and the rich. Likewise, it was up to the villagers to make their own journeys to Urdin, the nearest city with a name that might be recognized by foreigners, and to buy from the stationary sellers. There was one young woman, Elana, who had done the same a long time ago with her father. It was quite the experience, both the pot store and the big city stereotypes, and she would have gladly gone again, yet she had not the money, nor time, nor effort. She worked long hours as a barmaid, scrubbing the glasses, wiping the floors, and ignoring the jeers and whoots of drunken men. Yet it was the only job she could get, and it provided her sufficient lodging besides. 

But, albeit nearly a decade ago, her father had paid a great price to acquire for her her very own pot. It was a simple thing; by no means a magic pot. It was clay all around, emblazoned with designs and ancient figures. It told the story of Rathel, the prince of Eads, and his victory over the Byl Raiders. Elana could not read it, and nor could anyone, but that is what he who’d sold it to them claimed, and she had not the heart to admit he’d probably been lying, and they were just old scratches and the work of local vandalists. Nevertheless, even if she couldn’t read it, she had treasured it ever since. It was delicate and small, and she never used it—but she with pride was the only one of her friends who owned such a pretty pot. Sadly, her father had been taken with the plague and died soon after this venture to Urdin, leaving Elana only the pot as the paramount object to remember him by.

Alas, misfortune favors the brave. One fine Sunday morning, just as the Spring season was making up its mind whether or not to be depressed, Elana found herself fleeing the whiles of a young man. It was early enough, and he was sober enough, but he reminded her too much of her father. Feigning sickness, she marched up the stairs to her room, but as she neared her door, behold, she tripped on a loose trim and plummeted through it! She was quite alright, save for a bruised elbow and toe (which she was hardly a stranger too), but when she stood up warily she stopped cold. There, in front of her, lay her pot, smashed in pieces!! What to do? What to do! She knelt down beside it helplessly, and began to weep softly. She could not fix it, for she knew not the pot builder’s secret. She could only curse her infantile foot for tripping. Thoroughly chastised, it dragged itself across the wooden floor to rest beneath her. She held up the piece (supposedly) depicting Rathel, all splendid and fortuous, and it snapped between her fingers. What could be done? As the crumbs lay there in front of her, the last token of her childhood, Elana knew that her life would never be the same. Surely only misery would follow her until her death. 

II

A few weeks before that accursed day, a pot merchant by the name of Solion took it upon himself to bring the gifts of pot wares to the simple people of the countryside. Starting at Linden’s Quarry, and zig-zagging from Faermyn to Irlene, this admirable tradesperson finally brought his prized bounty to Solomez in only seventeen days. Weary yet satisfied by the amount of land he’d covered, a journey no merchant wanted to take, he stopped warily before the inn, The Drunken Boar. It was not this inn in which the miserable girl worked; rather, it was on the opposite side of town. By the time Master Solion had purchased accommodations, the entirety of Solomez had heard the news, and were flooding through the streets like boiled water over a kettle. But the Master, proud as he may be of his accomplishments, was ill-tempered after his journey, and demanded peace and quiet for a night. But, lest the crowd effervesce to civil war during his repose—a phenomenon he’d been most unfortunate to experience in Brittel—he promised a fair viewing by all for the following week. He bade them still and good day, and only with extreme effort did the townsfolk return to their homes. Some went mad and were forced into the county prison, while poor old Mr. Divoan, keeper of The Drunken Boar, was bombarded with angry customers attempting to break down Master Solion’s door. But by then, the merchant was sound asleep and nothing could break his peace. 

The next day, at five in the morning, the sun found a line of eager villagers lined up all the way from The Drunken Boar to the Statuary’s house. That night had been restless for all except Master Solion and old Wildrew, the banker, who had had a rather exhausting evening counting figures, and had fallen asleep at his table. It was a night full of questions, as well. Did this merchant have magic pots? Was he only staying a week? Does he really let that Divoan care for him, the slouch? These and many more were argued amongst the townspeople, to the fact they could hardly stand waiting anymore. Pot merchants were something greater than the sellers and lenders in Urdin, considered by the masses to be even of a different species. Merchants could have anything—the stationary pot sellers in the city only had what they could get their hands on, and they were usually just cooking pots (the most common variety). Solomez had had enough cooking pots, and deserved something shiny and magical for once. But never was there to be expected a traveling pot merchant, not in these parts or anywhere within a thirty mile circumference. It was all too good to be true. 

But as said, the line in the morning was overbearing and massive. Master Solion solemnly ignored the desperate cries which bombarded him as he methodically set up his stand. It felt like an eternity to the expecting mob, but they had no effort to coerce him into haste lest he retreat once more into Divoan’s refuge. Then, only thirty minutes past five, the master took three noble steps up the stand to his chair, and sat down. As if the gong announcing the king’s decree had sounded, everyone went silent. The squirrels and rabbits who had come to watch the spectacle were so surprised that one even fell out of his tree (I assure you, he was alright). 

“I am ready to do business.” Master Solion said quietly, and everyone burst out again in questions and offers. He raised a hand. “Silence.” he said, as if bored, and it worked as if he’d muttered an incantation. “I know well that this town is impoverished when it comes to pots and the like. It is my desire that a handful of you will leave here with some rich asset to call their very own. Unfortunately, there is not enough for all of you, and if a war for the possession of said pots ensues, so be it. Just make sure I’ve left by then. I will, indeed, be away from this dismal country by next Tuesday, and I sincerely hope everyone has a chance to see my wares, and make a try of purchasing them, before my departure.”

He paused, and his audience stared up at him expectantly. “Very well; let me proceed. First, I see that you people work hard, and hold truly the principle one great poet has said concerning the idyllic tribesman: ‘Work conquers all.’ Second, I have gone out of my way to venture here, and let me briefly share with you some of the verities that your kind has presented to me . . .” and he went on in this manner for at least five minutes. You see, traveling merchants, and especially pot merchants, often fancied themselves as great orators and inspirers, knowing full well how most folk viewed them as the stuff of legend—at least in these parts. 

The audience suffered through the monologue, but were too entranced by the master to interrupt. Perhaps he really had made them silent with a spell. “Now . . . the selling of the pots.” Master Solion said, concluding his speech with a flourish. “The way to always ensure that somebody can buy what you are selling is through auction. Let me present to you a cooking pot of a few years, with a simple inclusion of spices and herbs.” He rummaged through his case until he pulled out the aforesaid pot. It was small, but could be greatly beneficial to the average housewife. Several presented their bids, and the winning total was five gold coins. Master Solion, with a spreading grin, pocketed the money, which was in nearly every other place extremely high for such a pot. He proceeded to auction off many such pots, each one of them gaining instant popularity. He did this for a couple of days, but everyone was wondering: “where are the magic pots? Does he even have them?” Master Solion had alluded to them in his stories, and the townsfolk were dying to see them. Verily, they must be revealed eventually, mustn’t they?

III

Where was Elana during all of this kerfuffle, you may be wondering? Well, she had been busy during the night of Master Solion’s arrival (being one of the few whose occupation took precedence over fancy and adoration). Moreover, she’d had no desire (before Sunday) to buy a pot of any derivation, one of the few who didn’t (the other being old Wildrew, the banker, who was preoccupied with settling accounts). But, after her life had been turned upside down with the breaking of her father’s present, she thought to herself after her bemusing and moaning had subsided: “Perhaps the merchant will have a replacement!!” It was an encouraging hypothesis, and enough to relieve some of her anguish.

That next day, the fourth since Master Solion had arrived, the crowd had by no means desisted. At the dawn of the sales, just before six o’clock (for the merchant liked to inconvenience his customers by making them rise extremely early for the whole affair, which only lasted until nine), everyone took up their usual role—that is, scrambling for a vantage around The Drunken Boar. Elana, with her newfound revelation, joined the throng, albeit expecting nothing that was within her price. She stood near the rear of the line, having arrived a few minutes late. But she, who had always considered herself more mature than her peers, was soon sucked into the action and tension, and joined the crowd in their eager cries and offers. 

“ . . . This one was claimed all the way from South Dunnings, and the troll who was set to guard it was not at all pleased with me . . . '' Master Solion was saying, pulling out an exquisite display piece—quite nearly a jar—the crowd shouting for more of these artifacts all the while. Abruptly, he trailed off into silence On cue, the crowd went mute. 

“Did somebody mention magic pots?” he asked with a somewhat puerile gleam in his eye. 

This may sound strange to you, but no one had as of yet muttered of these coveted pots, afraid that perhaps their utmost desires would scare the merchant away, or otherwise offend him for some reason. The victim was pushed forward—a little boy, perhaps eight years old, looked around expectantly. Hadn’t farmer Tannen been talking about those pots only yesterday in the tavern? He did not understand why everyone was looking at him so coldly, as if he had broken some rule. Master Solion, however, smiled down his nose at him. “What is your name, bold young man?” he asked grandfatherly. 

“Tob.” the boy said, hesitating only a little. 

“Okay, Tobert.” said the master, and the child interrupted him to say that it was just Tob, sir (for he knew his manners when it came to addressing) important strangers. “Well, Tob,” he went on, “I say that you deserve a magic pot of your own for being the first to mention them.”

The crowd erupted into protests, of course, but this time the merchant silenced them with a glare so vehement that one would think he’d been a general in a war. For all they knew, he was a stranger, and very well could have been. “Tob, do not listen to these people—I have a pot that is just for you.”

“A . . . a magic pot? For me, sir?” omitted little Tob disbelievingly. 

“Yes. Lo and behold!” said Master Solion. With a signature flourish, he plunged his hands into the magical depths of his case and after trifling around for a spell, picked one such object and brought it up for everyone to see. It was glorious! Not only was the pot large and made entirely of sapphire, with ruby jewels marking the rim, but inside it sat a small dragon, none too pleased with so many faces gaping down at him. “His name’s Club.” he said fondly, and daftly slid the pot into the boy’s hands, the owner of which was frozen in place. “Make sure to feed him a variety of vegetables, nuts, and rat tails— that last one is his favorite, so I included it within the regular diet. However, he only appreciates them roasted: ten minutes or so over your mother’s stove would do fine. Guard him, as he will guard you. May he be as faithful a friend to you as you will be to him!”

Tob was perhaps the happiest a boy of his age and disposition that ever has been or could be. Club the dragon pretended to go back to sleep as the boy stared at him in wonder. Finally, with many Bless me’s and Thank you, sir’s, the boy bounded back to his perch beside the rain barrels. All the other children honored and respected him ever since, and believe it or not he grew up to become one of the king’s personal guard, all thanks to the inspiration of tiny Club and his previous owner, and what he said about guarding. “Now remember the rules of the magic pot!” the master yelled after them—more to the dragon than to the boy—as Tob lept gleefully away. “The pot is your home; do not leave it or you know what happens!” The dragon snapped to look back at him in defiance over the boy’s shoulder, but lowered its head in submission at Solion’s glare. 

Solion’s previous stare had thwarted any attempt of the onlookers to argue for it or attempt to buy it from the child, and most definitely not to steal it. It was if he’d told the others that something horrendous would happen to them if they ever tried anything. There was a simple spell for this captivating fear, and most merchants knew it, all of them dabbling in a bit of magic to promote the welfare of their industry. But that’s all I know about it, for none of them ever told me anything about the details. Suffice to say, Master Solion had used the spell on these people just then. 

“Now, wasn’t that exciting?” Solion said, to general amusement, and shifted everyone back to supply and demand once more. He had replaced his intent smile for the child with his usual, mocking frown. “I’m afraid I am not rich enough yet to freely give up all of my valuables, so these next pots will be auctioned off, just like the other wares.” He stuck his arm back into the cage of mysteries and pulled up another, saying all the while: “I procured this rare gem of a pot from a friend of mine, the King of Kasiland. He had several of this kind, and didn’t mind my taking one. So, without further adieu, whoever gets this should thank him if you ever meet the man.” The townsfolk stared at one another—Kasiland was half a world away, past the ocean. This merchant had apparently traveled a lot, they all thought, and their respect for him, already at a height scarcely imaginable, was raised yet more. Anyway, Master Solion exhibited this pot, made entirely of glass, and which inside was only sparkling, blue liquid. “The water of the Iron Foot is said to make any part of your body fresh and vivid again. I have used it for all of my appendages—and I do mean all of them—so if you get past the discomfort, you will find this enchantment a great deal of help in completing difficult, strenuous tasks. Now, bid away!” 

While the women indeed admired the glass, they did not often partake in difficult, strenuous tasks, so the men soon came to outbid the women. The winner offered up a sum of thirty-seven golden coins, and soon went broke afterward. However, the magical water made his task of begging and laboring away at the mill quite manageable, and he soon worked long enough to earn a cottage near Urdin (his previous house having been confiscated). He now resides there with his wife and children, and would happily challenge you with a game of dice if you ever dropped by. 

As the day went on, more pots were sold, and more people’s futures were thus determined. Instead of their quality slowly decreasing, they only got better, bigger, and more expensive. One was made entirely of diamond, with a shaven porcupine to call it home. Another was hard stone but was as light as a hair, and within dwelt a forever-sleeping girl wrapped only in her abundant hair which filled the entire bowl. And yet other, more curious anomalies were presented, and likely purchased with incredible amounts of money. By twelve, the merchant had enough money to buy that cobblestone burial house he’d always wanted, just for the look of it (not because he planned on burying a bunch of people). By three, he had enough money to open up a new inn and pay all of its fees and afford staffing all in a day. But he also had only two pots left. 

Elana had yet to bid, letting the grabbiness of her neighbors get the better of them. She was wiser than they, and knew not to spend all of her money on something as vain as a pot. Yet, she dearly wanted one, and did not know how to live if the merchant, seemingly the only extension of her happiness, left without selling her one. Thus, when Master Solion announced that he had only two pots left to sell before making his departure (a statement that caused considerable uproar), the poor girl could not contain herself any longer. She knew that it was only a pot of considerable value that could make her happy again, or admittedly perhaps a charming suitor would do, but owning a pot . . . that set you apart, made you unique. No, she could not pass up such a chance. 

“ . . . And this, the penultimate ware, was acquired on the fields of Shar Daggen, shortly after King Jorash II conquered the revolting survivors from the Rustuvil succession feud. This pot was allegedly owned by a certain noble who commanded one of the enemy sects, though the accuracy of such a claim is debatable. Some observers have inferred that . . .” And he went on for another five minutes or so. Few in the crowd cared much for history, and people like ‘King Jorash II’, or places like ‘the field of Shar Daggen’, were mere second-hand legends. But, that the simple people of Salomez—farmers, fishermen, and men of almost any humble occupation—somehow had something to do with such greats of the past, was remarkable to think of. These pots were special indeed. 

The Master finished his monologue by stating the special powers of this pot, which were that it kept whoever held it warm and comfortably despite any climate or temperature. Thus the bidding began again. Elana thought to herself, this time, that she would get a pot no matter what, and would pay anything for it. Starting with five gold coins, the amount soon escalated to an outrageous sum, offensive even to the most bourgeois observer. The last person to voice his bid was a scrawny mender who owned a little shop at the end of the street, and was notorious for gambling. “44 pieces of gold.” the Master said slowly, even him seeming impressed. “I don’t mean to patronize, but you do not strike me as a man who can pay such a vast price.” The mender recoiled slowly, and turned toward those nearest him pleadingly, but they only glared and shook their heads. He was also notorious for taking loans. After a few panicky moments, though, he turned back to the merchant. 

“I stand by my amount, sir. I’ll even proffer my grandfather’s shop as collateral, if I must.” he declared resolutely.

“Fair.” replied the merchant, shrugging like it was no big deal either way. “Will any of you outbid this young man?” 

Silence. Oppressive silence. And then: “I’ll take it for 45 gold pieces!” 

The crowd turned in astonishment to the young woman who had voiced this proclamation. It was none other than Elana. She faced the merchant courageously, almost daring him to say that she did not have enough money, and by no means with any thought of relenting. He stared back, and this time the shock could be seen on his face. “And Mr. 44 pieces, will you outbid this here young maiden?” he finally said. 

Elana turned her piercing gaze to the tailor, who hesitated only briefly, then relented. “Then it is yours.” Master Solion concluded. “How will you be paying for this prize, young lady?” 

She then realized the amount she had ejaculated, and paled. She did not have 45 gold coins, and nor did anybody she knew in the village, save maybe the mayor. But she must have this pot—she must! She searched through her moneybag, and counted out fifteen gold coins. That was all the money she had, and there was no way to get more. “I’m afraid it isn’t for you, then.” Solion admitted, feigning regret. 

“No!” she protested. “I’ll . . . I’ll do anything! I’ll be your servant! I’ll travel with you, feed your donkeys, guard your wares! Anything!” 

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Why do you want this pot, young lady, so much that you’d give your life to service for it?” he questioned. His eyes seemed to tear through her skull.

“It . . . well, I need it. Who cares why!” she said. “I’ll sell my house, quit my job, whatever you ask!” The barkeeper who had hired her made a noise, but her pleading drowned out whatever he had to say. 

“I’m afraid it’s Mr. 44 pieces’ then. I’m sorry.” Master Solion said, but he had a mysterious twinkle in his eye that could mean anything. And thus it was the mender’s, and he sure was sorry years afterward for paying so high a price for such a thing as a pot that kept people warm, when a simple fire did the trick. In fact, most of the people who purchased the pots felt the same way, and few of them would say that it was worth it, even in such a land as Athez that admired pots so much. 

In a similar fashion, the last pot was auctioned off to a surgeon, and the next day the Master departed. Elana left that night deprived of all happiness. She was numb, quite unable to formulate any thought beyond her own self-deprecation. She had failed. She had failed her father, her friends, and herself, and she could not go back to living the same, repetitive life. And thus that night she did not come home, and no one in Salomez ever saw her again, but it was no wonder to the townsfolk who knew her as to what had happened. Unsatisfied greed, they said, drove people crazy, but they only said it guiltily— knowing that they, too, would have given anything for a pot if they were in her shoes. 

Master Solion, as said, left the following morning, and he departed in high spirits. He felt some pride at blessing this small village, and awaited the next one—and the good business that came along— eagerly. He thought of the woman, Elana, and of her story. He had seen in her, and knew the cause of her discontent. But he had blessed her too.

No one ever found her father’s old pot, restored by the merchant’s magic in its proper place, as it sat in her closet. The late Elana’s valuables were confiscated by the bartender, but he didn’t check the closet, and there it would sit for years, collecting dust. We must not blame him for passing over the pot, though, for it was quite a simple thing after all.