The Ascent of the Scribe
A dying master, an impossible mission, and a fire that gives stories their voice
In the heart of the great monastery, where ivy clung to stone like ornament on a sacred page, a tower rose without ceiling or end. Staircases spiraled upward into the blue, and bookshelves clung to the sky. Doors opened where none should be. And angels, pale as moonlight, moved among them, wingbeats rustling parchment.
High up in the tower, where time and eternity nearly touched, an old scribe waited.
He had once changed fates with fables, healed hearts with homilies, and stilled swords with stories. But now his hands trembled too much to write, and his voice had grown too thin to carry.
Three young scribes, novice story mages, knelt beside him. Colmán, the steady one. Senán, bright-eyed and sharp of tongue. And Tomaltach, whose heart outran his words.
“You’ve brought us here for your final story,” said Senán.
The old man smiled. “Not a story. A mission.”
He placed his hand on each of their heads. “You have forty days,” he said. “Go to the harbor city. Speak the one story all can understand.”
Colmán frowned. “But the harbor speaks a hundred tongues.”
“All the better,” said the scribe. “Go where I no longer have strength to walk, and speak the story I no longer have breath to tell.”
The City of Many Tongues
The harbor city was chaos and music.
Fishermen shouted in broken dialects, smoke curled from spice carts, and ships creaked like old bones. Languages crashed into each other like waves, no one voice louder than the rest.
Colmán tried a fable in a tavern. Senán recited a parable in the market. Tomaltach sang half a ballad. Blank stares answered them all.
“We need help,” Tomaltach muttered, discouraged.
A hunched old fisherman overheard. “You want to be understood? Find the mermaid,” he said, voice low. “She sings, and every soul listens.”
“Where is she?” Senán asked.
“Far out, past the lighthouse. Don’t go unless your heart is anchored.”
The Siren’s Song
They borrowed a boat. The sea greeted them with open jaws.
At twilight, they found her floating between moonlight and foam. Her hair was long as kelp, her eyes as deep as the tide. And her song, ah, her song wove around their hearts like silk.
Colmán dropped his oar. Tomaltach leaned over the side, dazed. Senán’s lips moved unconsciously, echoing the melody.
They almost drowned chasing beauty.
When they awoke on the shore, bruised and coughing salt, they understood. Music spoke to all, but it could enchant without anchoring. A universal tongue, yes, but dangerous when sung without love.
“She was too strong for us,” Tomaltach whispered.
“No,” Senán said. “We weren’t ready to listen.”
Bread and Balm
Days passed. Hope faded like tide marks.
Then came the cook. He found them shivering behind the tavern.
“Hungry?” he asked. “Come peel potatoes.”
He didn’t talk much, but the food did. Bread that warmed the soul. Stew that softened silence. Faces lit up around his table, even when words failed.
“This,” said Colmán, “is a language too.”
But only a few could fit inside his kitchen.
Later, a druid wandered the alleys, treating wounds with balms and whispers. He never asked names. He didn’t need to. His touch said what tongues could not.
“These are parts of the answer,” Senán murmured. “But not the story we’re meant to tell.”
Then one night, misunderstanding turned to madness.
A merchant thought Tomaltach had insulted him. A sailor mistook Colmán’s silence for mockery. A crowd rose in confusion, and stones flew. They fled the city under shadow, wounded and defeated.
The Ascent
They climbed the staircases with blistered feet and heavy hearts.
The old scribe lay where they left him, his breathing shallow as candlelight.
“We failed,” Colmán whispered. “We didn’t find the story.”
The old man opened one eye, as if waking from a long dream. He smiled once, then breathed out.
No final words, no last advice.
Only closed eyes, folded hands. Silence.
And then they came.
Angels, soft as snowfall, brighter than dawn, descended through shafts of sunlight. They wrapped the scribe in light and lifted him through the open air.
The three young mages stared after him, eyes brimming with longing.
Two angels remained behind.
“Why do you stand looking at the sky?” they asked. “Go to the place where you failed. Wait there.”
Ten Days Waiting
They returned to the harbor and hid in a narrow cottage between bakery and bookbinder.
They waited, doors closed, speaking little. Each had seen kindness and confusion, beauty and brokenness. Each bore the scars of misunderstanding.
On the tenth day, the wind changed.
A spark leapt in the hearth, though no one had touched it. Fire kindled itself, soft and steady and golden. It filled the room with warmth. With courage.
The fire spoke not in words, but in remembrance. Of the longing woven into the mermaid’s song, the generosity in the cook’s steady hands, the mercy in the druid’s quiet touch, and the kindness they themselves had offered, even when they were afraid.
Senán wept.
Tomaltach smiled.
Colmán stood and said, “Let’s get out of here.”
The Language of the Heart
They stepped outside with empty hands and full hearts.
Senán sang, not in a language of men, but in pure melody shaped by their journey.
Colmán baked loaves and passed them freely to sailors and children.
Tomaltach offered healing—bandages, balm, and quiet stories that soothed.
Crowds gathered, not because they understood every word, but because they felt every act.
And when they spoke, their voices carried not in syllables, but in story. The kind you feel in your chest. The kind you understand without knowing why.
The final mission was never about words.
It was always about the heart.
🕊️ Coda
He rose on Easter morning.
He ascended on the fortieth day.
The fire fell on the fiftieth.
And they understood—
the story lives on when it’s told with love.
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This story was so beautiful. I love the message, and the way it was written. It reminded me of the Ascension of our Lord, and Pentecost. Made my morning.