The Discovery of the Great History

Zandria was founded as a university by intent and a city by accident. The founders were teachers who had set out to build a few cottages, a spartan student dormitory, and a library. Sylvan aristocrats donated small fortunes to keep their children away from the temptations and gossip of court. Their reputations and wealth attracted more students. Merchants, taverns, and stables followed. The founders saw their tiny school become one of the greatest cities in Myrnia.

This city was the place of my birth. As I grew older, I knew the prospects of a young Zandrians were not particularly improved by feats of war or politics. Fortifications and laws were necessary and raised some interesting academic questions, but a well-designed sewer might earn more praise than a great battle or speech.

I grew to manhood in this culture, and I knew my success would be built from publishing discoveries both novel and sound. I had been armed by the best education in Myrnia. I knew I possessed a sharp faculty of reason that had been honed by the writings and debates of the greatest minds in the world, living and dead.

A common sight in Zandria, due to a climate prone to storm, was a professor marching down the street with robes in the color of her school flapping behind her like a flag. In my imagination I saw my destiny as one of these confident women, but I could not see the color of her robes. I was sure to succeed at whatever I put my mind to, but to what purpose would I set my greatness?

I’m sure there were students as insufferably vain as I, but just as magnets with the same polarity repel each other so an invisible social pressure must have pushed us safely apart. These days I lie awake at night thinking back to those times, centuries later and miles from the libraries and classrooms. The darkness is not silent here. The soft sounds of sleeping livestock and the breeze rattling through invisible fields of ripe rye suggest I forgive my youthful pride and return to sleep. Still I shudder at the cruel boasts and haughty complaints I forced my friends to endure.

Shame is indefatigable.

That self-awareness came later. As a youth I had such energy that only the most difficult, uncommon, or tangled topics would suit my aspiration. I discarded well-worn paths of academic success in favor of leaden rumors and innuendo, hoping to alchemically transform them into golden truths.

It was during this period that I sat in a bar, alone with some books and my thoughts, and my attention was drawn to a young Halfling who was a fresh arrival in Zandria. He had been enduring taunts all evening from his new friends, who asked him to present for them the great academic accomplishments of his race. His color rose over the evening, and not just from his drinking—he was clearly furious and embarrassed.

Finally, he burst out, “My people say there is a secret history of Myrnia. One of the clans has been adding to it, keeping it out of sight of the storks.”

(“Stork” is a Halfling insult for other races.)

“It’s the work of generations and it’s got better information than any book in Zandria. But they’ll never share it with outsiders!”

His compatriots laughed, making him only more sullen. For my part, something about his outburst prodded my memory.

It did not take me long to find the references. Others had told this story before, not just recently but for centuries. Yet no one could agree exactly which clan it was who held the Great History of Myrnia.

There was one professor with whom I had established trust and friendship, so I came to her with my proposal to find this Great History. She tried to convince me against it. Usually when these stories pass down over generations, they grow to make them more worthy of retelling. If there is truth here, it is likely a simple log of crops and expenses. There are so many Halfling clans, just visiting them all would take a lifetime—and then who is to say it was really Halflings, and not a human village? Or perhaps the community that kept this record, if it ever existed, is today lost entirely?

All these challenges just set my heart more firmly on this goal. I was now certain the Great History existed, and I would be the one to find it. I thanked her for her time and the tea, but hurried out to prepare for my expedition.

I travelled for decades. It has occurred to me that a retelling of those adventures might be of some interest but this is not that time. About that pilgrimage let me say only that I learned humility and self-sufficiency in that order.

Eventually I came to a small farming village named Heebur for the Halfling clan that owned it. On finding some inhabitants, I delivered my well-rehearsed script. I asked the name of the clan and to speak to the clan head. Once introduced, I explained I was a traveler whose purpose was to find a Great History said to be held in secret by a Halfling clan. If they had ever heard of such a valuable treasure as this it would be of great value to me. Their part should have been to politely deny having heard of it, offer me a meal and a bed for the night, and then kindly but firmly insist I move on.

The head of Clan Heebur was named Maisli, and it seemed she had forgotten her lines. She looked me up and down—which was some effort, as each of my elven legs were equal to her entire length—and said she would not answer me.

“The Spring Ceilidh might give you some answers, and it’s only three days away,” she said. “Please enjoy our town until then.”

I wasn’t sure what to make of the offer. No doubt this was a bluff, but why would she ask me to stay? It didn’t occur to me to be frightened, though that was foolish. They may have been small, but they were tough people and in numbers could have restrained me. Regardless, I agreed to stay for the festival.

Heebur was a comfortable place, though not in luxury or ease. Quite the opposite: there was still work left to get the fields ready for planting. Guilty at my leisure, I helped the clan as best I could. My reach was an advantage to some tasks, but even limbs wiry from years on the road could not compete with the earthy knots of muscle the Halflings used to scoop, pry, and wrench the earth with their tools.

I had been an outsider for many years, and I was used to the lidded eyes of the suspicious and the thin eyes of the manipulative. The eyes of Heebur were wide open. They accepted my help with appreciation and fed me with no expectations.

When the planting was complete, Maisli said the work was well done and we had beat the rains by a few days. It was time for the Ceilidh.

This was a traditional seasonal celebration among the Halflings, and I had attended a few others over the years. There was food, music, dancing, and homemade gooseberry liqueur. A great bonfire was roaring by the time the stars came out, and as the music died down it was time for storytelling.

With all the drinking, I had expected some giggles or story requests, but the crowd stayed silent for an unusually long time. A team of people came out of the darkness carrying a bulky roll, like a carpet or a bedroll. They stood it up, and I realized it was fabric wound around two long, polished poles of dark wood. They slowly unrolled it until a section of the fabric was revealed.

It was a sort of quilted tapestry. Pieces of wool, cotton, and silk were pieced together, and embroidery in gold and silver thread caught the light. I saw amber and mica, and other stones and glass beads sewn into the scene.

This section depicted the arrival of the elves on Myrnia. I recognized a scene of Yang-hui raising the Crystal Tower, and from there I could understand the ships. Gabe stepped forward, in the light of the fire next to the tapestry. He was one of the older men in the village, a hard worker and a fierce taskmaster. Tonight, his eyes glittered and he smiled for the crowd.

He told the story of Yang-hui as I had never heard it in the temples. He had details about the people who had come here, what they made of this new land they had found, and how they met those they found here.

At the end of his story, they rolled up the tapestry and carried it away. I searched for Maisli, but I didn’t find her until the next morning.

“I want to see more of that tapestry,” I said. “I want to hear more of the stories.”

Maisli smiled. “Of course you can,” she said. “The Fall Ceilidh is only six months away.”

So I stayed. I learned the crops and how to care for the animals. I learned the seasons, and how the clan celebrated birth and death. I learned they called the tapestry the Cantwilt, and the first panels were said to have been sewn in Gree Grega’s time by Heebur himself, the Returned of the clan. It was the responsibility each generation to sew new events into the Cantwilt. I learned that most people only heard each story three or four times over the course of their lives, but the people of the clan learned them by heart and passed them on faithfully at each Ceilidh.

Due to my long lifespan relative to the Halflings, I was able to hear the stories many times and eventually they asked me to tell those related to the elves. I realized then that the Halfling in the bar was correct that the Great History wasn’t available to outsiders. It was a simple kind of security: the full scope of the document wasn’t in the Cantwilt, but in the people of Clan Heebur. To learn the history they had gathered, you had to become part of the clan.

One of the core values of Halfling culture is honoring your forebears, and I realized that while I had little desire to return to Zandria, I had left promising them research that I had not yet produced. So I’m starting work on this book, which I expect to finish and send back to my home city well before my death.

This timeline will not give you everything I have learned. You will not understand the faith it takes to celebrate the Spring Ceilidh by feasting on all your remaining stores. I cannot teach you the difference between disappointment and regret which I learned during some lean, hungry weeks after a late spring frost. I cannot show you the pride I felt when my goddaughter overcame a stutter to tell the story of the coming of Gree Grega at the Fall Ceilidh.

I cannot tell you how I learned that hospitality to strangers is an expression of profound gratitude, but I came to understand and share that inclination in this peaceful, beautiful place. So, if you want to find Clan Heebur and share some gooseberry liqueur this spring, you’re quite welcome. If not, I hope you find this timeline useful in your studies.