The Storyteller

The Storyteller

Though it was not at the point in time, his title, the extent of my knowledge on the man is so minuscule I could not not share with you even his name. Which is why I will refer to him in this story as the man, whom you will see, he came to be.

It must have been sometime in June, that a Storyteller found himself standing inadvertently at the gates of our town’s Temple. So it was that a woman who had lived a long time in this town, found herself feeble and wailing, at times pacing, and at times swaying on her knees at the doors of the Temple, some thirty yards from the gates where the Storyteller observed the disorderly scene.

She trembled as she spoke, but she did so loud enough to be heard by the many who came to pass, almost as if she were addressing each of them as they did.

“And in his final week he said it,” - that is what she said. “He said “nobody wants to die”. To die I'm telling you. He lay on his deathbed, he stood before the gates of Heaven, he stared into the eyes of his own fate after not having spoken for days, and with a pained breath he cursed his own demise. Nobody wants to die. Nobody wants to die. His youngest son, there were two of them, his sons, God help the poor boys. His youngest son stood beside me as he spoke and he felt the words as if they were his own. I took them too, I took the words with me myself and here I stand just as he stood, staring into the eyes of what is to be the fate of us all. A burden that I have felt too soon. And the boy, his son, I already told you he felt it, barely a chance to have pondered the joys of his life. Must he carry with him the burden of such fate?”

But the passers by had no answers, in fact they were only left questioning it themselves.

Having observed the moment, the Storyteller pulled from the pocket of his coat a little black book, as to offer all he might.

And he read:

***

The Sun and the Frost

On the leaves of a young tree, the Morning Frost lay sleeping. The Sun kissed her good morning, welcoming her to life.

"Who are you?" she asked.

And he told her, "I am the Sun. You have just awakened - this is life."

She looked upon the horizon, the morning vibrant with colour and life.

"I've not experienced life before,” she said. “What am I to do with it?"

The Sun laughed, "whatever you will."

And as the day set upon the Earth the Morning Frost began to melt. So she asked the Sun,

"What is happening to me?"

And the Sun said, "There are moments you will experience such feelings of warmth you will be unable to hold yourself together."

"I've not experienced warmth before,” she told him. “Where does it come from?"

And the Sun replied, "From moments of comfort, of joy, of love. It is given by those around you. Sometimes you may find it within yourself."

She felt herself flowing into a great rush of water, tumbling across the Earth. By the time she had settled into a gently flowing stream, though she remembered that she had been, she had forgotten what it was to be the Morning Frost.

Soon the Stream found herself as a shallow pool, hidden amongst a grove of trees.

And the Sun asked her, "Why do you shelter yourself from me?"

She answered, "I'm frightened to melt any further. I can feel myself fading."

"You are evaporating,” said the Sun. “It's inevitable. Once you dissipate into the air, you'll be more whole than ever - you will become the evening sky.

“And after dancing through my light for what seems an eternity, you will be reborn."

The Stream cried, "What if I don't come back? Will I remember you if I do?"

And the Sun said, "I couldn't tell you where or when, but I can tell you with certainty you will come back, for there is no other way for things to go. Perhaps you won't remember me as you do in this story, but you will know me, as I know you. My light shines unending, I have and will be with you through everything."

***

Amongst the crowd that had gathered was a widower and father to three young children, each no older than seven years. He spoke in a low, almost defeated tone.

“But of what value is eternal life if only to be at loss amidst it? What is to be made of the fish the stream leaves behind? Tell me how one might quench their thirst or wash themselves clean of their burdens through famine and drought? What is there to be done but to stand below the sky and pray for the rain’s return? Even the Sun leaves darkness to set in as each day comes to its end.”

To which the Storyteller, as though awaiting the question, raised again his little black book.

And he read:

***

The Frost and the Moon

By the time the Stream had come into being, the Sun was beginning to set.

She asked him, "What are you doing now?"

And the Sun said, "I am setting. I will share my light with the rest of the world. Do not worry, I will rise again in the Morning."

"But Sun, I do not know where to find the Morning."

"She rests just beyond the nighttime."

"Sun, I am scared to be alone."

"I will be with you. You will see."

He didn't leave all at once; instead slowly, in a spectacle of colour and light.

The Stream travelled on. Eventually she rested as a still pool of water, staring into the sky, only to discover there was another of familiar essence watching over her.

She asked him, "Who are you?"

"I am the Moon," came his reply.

The night was quiet.

"You are like my friend the Sun," she spoke.

"The Sun is who gives me my light, so I may give it back to you. Even when he is away, the Sun does not forget you."

"If you too are a friend of the Sun, then perhaps he has told you where I can find the Morning?"

The Moon smiled softly,

"I’ve watched you searching. I thought perhaps you would never notice I was shining. Search all you like, the Morning will only come with time. For now, there is you."

In realising this, she was almost unaware when Morning began to dawn.

***

Then a timid man, after several moments hesitation, shuffled on the spot before finding within him the courage to ask,

“And when the clouds sweep in?”

“Then you light yourself a fire,” the Storyteller said, as he turned to another page in his book.

And he read:

***

The Commoner

A Commoner stood at the ocean’s shore and cast his line to sea. But when the tides turned their backs on the land without having given the chance for a single fish to nibble at the end of his line, he waved his hands to the Moon and cursed.

It was then that a Fisherman dragged his net across the shallows and began to walk the schools of fish that were yet to find the deep water into his net.

In observing this, the Commoner hung his head in shame.

But the Moon told him, “Never mind. Go now and find yourself a net.”

So the Commoner returned the next day with a net. But when the waves grew to be so rough that the net tangled around his legs, he turned to the Sea and cursed.

It was then that the Fisherman passed him in a small boat, breaking easily through each wave as he went.

In observing this, the Commoner hung his head in shame.

But the Sea told him, “Never mind. Go now and find yourself a boat.”

So the Commoner set to sea the next day in a small boat. But when the soft breeze became strong gusts and it seemed his rowing was useless, he yelled into the Wind and cursed.

It was then that the Fisherman pulled in his paddles and set his sail, letting the elements work for him instead.

In observing this, the Commoner hung his head in shame.

But the Wind said nothing.

***

So it went on that as each story came to its end, another question was to be asked, and each time another uncertainty arose, the Storyteller would read another story. It seemed that there was no doubt that couldn’t be lessened by the turning of another page in his book.

As the day neared dusk, the questioners and the listeners could think of no appropriate thanks. Instead, they offered up the coins from their pockets and urged that he return the following day so he might share with their loved ones stories to soften their worries. And as each day came to pass, he was urged to return yet again the following day, with generous offerings of gratitude.

The Storyteller remained for some time in our town, spending each day at the gates of the Temple speaking to those who came to listen. It was on his final day that a man of little faith stepped forward from the crowd to ask,

“Forgive me that I might listen intently as you speak and still stand here only to question, but you have spent days upon days sharing with us your stories and I can’t shake away the unpersuadable question of why? Won’t you tell us what this is all for?”

Which seemed almost that it might, for the first time, have brought the Storyteller to a halt, but he opened again the pages of his book,

And he read:

***

The Infant

An Infant still in the womb once asked his mother to show him the beauties of her world, so she told him of the way the sun lights the sky at the break of dawn, but he could not perceive such a thing, for his eyes were sealed shut.

And so the Infant asked his mother to share with him a gift from her world, but when she gifted him a rose of the sweetest fragrance, he could not smell it, for his nostrils were yet to open.

And when the Infant asked his mother what brought her the most pleasure, she gathered him together a basket full of fruit, but he could not taste a thing, for his taste buds were yet to form.

And when the Infant asked his mother what made her feel the most, she described to him how the cool ocean felt on her skin on a hot summer's day, but he could not begin to imagine such a feeling, for he had felt only her warmth.

And when the Infant asked his mother to speak to him on the meaning of life, she told him everything she knew, but he did not understand, for he could not yet speak her language.

***

It must have been nearing a month’s time, though I cannot be certain, when he showed at the Temple’s gates for what was to be his final visit. He didn’t foreshow his departure, in fact he left much in the same way as he came, even still without a name. On the day that he left, a donation was made to the Temple of near twenty thousand dollars, to be used in the interest of the town's people.