Troubadour was close to the end of his quest.

Tomorrow he would be thirty and as far as he could calculate, his quest had lasted twenty-five of those years.

A lonesome pursuit it had been.

Lacking companionship all this time.

But also lacking himself, that is lacking knowledge of himself.

Who was he, where was he from, who were his parents, does he have siblings? So many questions.

Only one clue.

One memory of his parents.

It was his fifth birthday, for some reason that was clear. They were in a little run down shack with dirt floors, a small village around them.

His mother was holding him in her arms, his father was holding out a present for him. A dog?

Then boots outside, loud banging on the door.

He leaped up and ran to open it.

His mother, or was it his father yelled.


Then the men entered wielding long flashing knives.

So much had passed since then, the memory was old but provided him with his name and his family. That was all he had.

But hopefully there was now an answer.

On the other side of the door he now stood outside of, was possibly his only living relative.

He believed it to be his aunt.

He knocked.

The old lady who opened it turned pale. Crossed herself, said nothing but sunk to the floor.

‘So you are my aunt. Troubador’s stomach bucked like an angry bull.

The old lady stared at him. ‘You look like your father’.

‘At last I have found you’, Troubador’s eyes started to water. ‘I have been searching all this time, since my fifth birthday party, you we’re there yes’?

The old lady stammered in her response ‘y..yes’, then cast her eyes down.

‘That is the last memory I have of my family, it is all I know of them, I know my name is Troubador but I don’t even know my parents names. I have searched for you as I think you are my only living relative’.

The old lady had taken on a confused expression as she watched Troubador speak. ‘W..why do you think your name is Troubador’?

‘I remember my mother called me that at the party’.

At this the old lady held out her hand to be helped to her feet then continued to hold Troubador’s hand in both of her own.

‘But…you are not called Troubador’.

‘But I remember it clearly, my mother called me that before the men came’.

The old lady’s hands trembled. ’My dear dear boy…your mother said don’t open the door’.


Michael Douglass

Alexandria, Australia

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