The Storyteller

It was hard to walk against the wind. The sands of the desert flew against my face and hurt my eyes.

The sun glazed down with a vengeance. I walked on - determined and motivated by what I did not know. I had to fight against the forces of nature which teamed up against me.

Suddenly he was standing there. He was an unimpressive sight. In another time and place he would have merely been a face among the crowd.

"Why have you come?" he said as he looked me in the eyes. As he did so, his eyes bore into my soul.

All the forces of nature that I had been fighting against suddenly stopped. They too were listening intently to know the answer to the man's question.

I spoke of my quest for knowledge. There is so much to know and learn. I had come in search of the storyteller, and I had found him. I wondered if I deserved to hear what he had to say.

"Tell me of the worlds that died away"

"No world has every died"

"But no one knows of them but you now"

"That is why I'm the storyteller. I'm the keeper of tales. The worlds live inside of me."

"Will you speak to me of them then?"

"The question is not whether I would speak of them. The question is whether you would hear of them."

And he spoke. It was a one-man audience, but there were millions of listeners. The wind dropped to a breeze that surrounded us. The sands rose to hear the words of the storyteller. The clouds drew closer, keen to learn. And he spoke. And his words became magic.

He spoke of kings and castles, of wars and love. He spoke of dragons with wings that covered the lands when they spread. He spoke of angels and demons, of death and rebirth, of magic and fairies. His words created worlds of sea pirates and space travelers.

And as he spoke, the magic began to materialize. I was not hearing anymore. Slowly my world was stripped away and I was taken to a million worlds with the storyteller. I was a king and peddler. I was a god amongst the pagan gods. And he kept talking, and his words stripped my reality and built his stories. I was the hero of every story and I was the least important character of each story. I was a sea pirate and a space traveler.

And slowly the worlds started to disappear and I was in the desert again. In front of me stood an old man. On any other day he would have merely been a face among the crowd. But he was not.

He was the storyteller. He was the creator of worlds.

As he looked at me, he smiled. Not another word was uttered. They were not needed. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. Everything that needed to be learned had been taught.

Words were the weakest mode of communication.

The winds sighed in satisfaction. The sands settled in peace. All nature has shared in the experience of the storyteller.

I understood the storyteller's smile. He was happy. His worlds now lived inside of me. He has been immortalized. Yet he was also satisfied. My worlds now lived inside of him as well. I have been immortalized.

I had never grown up. I refused to let go. I had chosen to remain a little boy inside forever.

So has the storyteller.