By Maradas Graham

I will begin this tale in a fashion that is familiar to you, my faithful reader, because this is a tale that your humble author would wish you to commit to memory. The old ways are, most often, then best waysor at least as far as story-telling is concerned.

Jennys skill at story telling had never been paralleled, a fact that she was mildly prideful about, and it was assumed by the people in Innesmoor that they had been blessed with the best teller of tales in the whole of Arinth. For nearly twenty years, up until Jennys twenty-fifth birthday, this belief lay untested. Then, one day, a stranger came to the village.

He was a handsome rake of a man, who flirted madly with the girls, and spent money at cards in a way that would make one think that coins grew up from the ground like cabbages. Jenny, who was already being viewed as the village spinster, seemed to be the only women excluded from this brash fellows attentions. Mother and grandmother alike were granted gifts and flattery, but he never spoke a word to Jenny. This not only infuriated Jenny, who felt this ill-tempered lout had some nerve to treat her in such a manner, but it confused the other citizens of Innesmoor terribly. Jenny was an old maid, but was not ugly or foul, and was in fact more pleasant to behold than some of the women he lavished with praise. Still, this puzzling behaviour continued for some time.

The final straw (which apparently broke the back of some odd, mythical beast called a "Camel") came when the man announced that he, too, was a teller of tales. The peculiar actions of this stranger began to reveal themselves, then, as he informed some of the townswomen in mock confidence that he had heard Innesmoor had some two-bit story teller that they liked to call the best. He claimed to have traveled all the way to Innesmoor just to show her up. The battle began. First the stranger would tell his story, then Jenny would jump in with gusto, only to have him cut her off with yet another yarn, perhaps of the miraculous feats of somebody-or-another Forrest or Forst or some such nonsense like that. The dueling stories went back and forth for days, until finally even the Innesmoor townspeople began to lose interest, but still the two fought. Long into the night, and early in the morning, and during a late lunch, their voices rang out through the streets. The townsfolk began to wonder if this madness would ever cease.

At daybreak of the fourth day of this battle the miracle happened. In the midst of one of Jennys tales, told in a hoarse and diminishing voice, the stranger suddenly turned and walked away. Though several people attempted to question his sudden leave from the contest, he waved them aside, quite intent on a purpose. Jenny could only stand there, stunned, not knowing whether she had won or lost. For hours she stood in the street, her mouth open in stunned silence, but there was no sign of the stranger. When the sun began to set, a shadow fell across Jennys vision. From behind her came a hand, and then an entire arm. In the hand was held the most perfect red rose that Jenny had ever beheld. The hand belonged to none other than our mysterious stranger! It seemed, my dearest reader, that Jenny had indeed won the contest, with an added bonus. Her wonderful stories, coupled with her stubborn refusal to back down from confrontation, had won the strangers heartfelt admiration as well (and, some would wager, his heart as well).

Jenny, of course, was stunned beyond all belief. She accepted the gift of the rose, and made her way slowly to her own cottage, shaking her head in confusion. She crawled into bed, and promptly went to sleep. She slept for almost two whole days. When she awoke, the stranger was waiting for her outside. Reluctantly she spoke, only to find that she really didnt mind him all that much. The two fell into conversation, and became fast friends. Though they obviously cared for each other, they never appeared to move beyond friendship. Still, it was good to see Jenny happy, so the villagers never concerned themselves with matchmaking.

Jenny and the stranger began to write stories together, wonderful stories that could stir the blood or warm the heart, and sometimes bring a tear to your eye. They began to grow older together, though age never dulled their wits. Then, one day, they simply disappeared altogether. No one knew where they had gone, though there is a tale that is still told about the most likely guess. Perhaps other, strangely pointed ears heard their stories, and other eyes beheld their friendship. Perhaps strange noses sniffed at the dead, dry rose that Jenny still kept by her bedside, and felt pity that her youth had faded like the rose. It might even have been the Fair folk, some say, that whisked the two away in the night with no trace, and that they still reside in the lands of the King, smiling at each other in the sunshine, and still writing, or course still writing, those wonderful stories that would one day become legend among the island people, and would even be view by those from a far, far distant land. And could it be, that after all these years, Jenny and her dearest friend are still alive and well, and scribing their tales as swiftly as ever? No one but Jenny or the stranger could tell you.

Your humble author has a guess, though.just a guess. When concerned friends searched Jennys house for some sign that would explain her disappearance, they found a strange sight. There on Jennys bedside table lay a perfect rose, fashioned out of glass. A rose that would never fadewhich may tell you something about what happened to Jenny and her mysterious friend.