Quietly playing on the radio was, “Under the pressure,” by War on Drugs. As the final soft guitar throbs sent waves of calm around the room, the storyteller’s guests eased themselves into chairs provided.

The radio was switched off, all were thanked for returning to listen to the second part of the tale and after making the usual silent plea for words to be gifted, commensurate with the assemblies’ expectations, the storyteller began.

Do any of you know the modern-day name for the settlement our two travellers have arrived at?One man thought he knew, but didn’t dare say, for fear of looking silly. Those around him seemed so bright and confident, but having said that, not oneof them guessed right. The storyteller smiled. Perhaps it will become evident as more details are provided.

It was a bustling port and accommodation was not hard to find, but information the Teller had hoped to gain from his contacts, men of influence, with theoretically enough local knowledge to guide them to boats bound for far side of salt waters, had not been forthcoming. Assistance in fact amounted to no more than well-meaning phrases and suppositions, for although those notables organised the general running of the community, including toll gathering from those availing themselves of the port’s facilities, they had no knowledge of where the incoming goods they had taxed were then bound for, whether by cart, packhorse, river craft or aboard boats trading out on open water. They could give detailed accounts of what had arrived and where it had come from, but had only the haziest knowledge of departures and destinations.

The pair were forced to enquire dockside and the results didn’t exactly lift the spirits. Usually in such communities there exists at least one who understands all the comings and goings, but with numerous avowals of certainty from so many, how could they know who was right? It was exhausting and confusing, especially when crews searched for, were often not evident, but buried in the murky depths of hostelries dotted along the quayside. They were sent from one to the next, with each advisor seeming an expert, but the boats they were directed to, when finally locating the crew, either had no spare room or weren’t bound for anywhere near where they hoped to be heading.

The Teller did have the satisfaction of predicting the tides’ ebbs and flows, well sort of, but it was still baffling as to why he had been so completely wrong at the river crossing. He didn’t labour the point, however, as Megan had that, ‘how fascinating,’ look, worn by ladies when not the slightest bit interested.

What did rivet her attention mind you and she could hardly take her eyes off them, were the strange birds that roamed the streets, heads bobbing back and forth as they picked their way over the mud, crooning and stabbing at scraps of hidden nourishment. The general sound of contentment rang like muffled bells, until disturbed, then in a clatter and fuss they’d take refuge on nearby thatch. Megan had never in her life, seen such creatures and stood watching their movements, mesmerized.

“What comical birds. Are they dangerous?”

“Not really, but they can give a nasty peck.”

“What are they for. Are they kept for eating?”

The Teller knocked the sounding board of a nearby dwelling. A lady appeared and at his request went back inside to re-emerge holding a small basket containing a clutch of eggs.

“They lay these?” Megan asked the woman.

At the Teller’s translation the woman nodded in reply.

“They’re not as big as duck eggs, but even so they’re hu