The Storyteller

The people of Moropa had rarely known a colder winter. The streets were made inches thicker by layers of frost, that seemed to spread like the fever that ran through the town. It was deemed unsafe to venture outdoors after the first few weeks, and food was stocked for the winter. In such cold, it was hard to imagine it ever being summer again.

“I never seen such a cold winter.” Said the butcher to his wife.

“Aye.” She agreed. “It don’t do no good for the meat.”

Snow froze to ice almost instantly, and the fever passed through the town as quickly as a cloud appears on clear glass when it is blown on. Such was the winter, that year that the storyteller visited.

He came during a blizzard, his pack tightened to his back and his old, moth-eaten scarf covering all his face save his eyes. He carried an old staff that he used to beat away the frost, and an old oak harp in his hand. How it made the journey with him without its strings being made useless by the cold, it is hard to tell.
He knocked on the doors of the houses, all through the town, desperately seeking refuge from the harsh storm. Most doors were so strongly barricaded, that no sound could be heard through them. Those who did hear thought that it could only be a madman, to be outside in the blizzard, and feared to open their doors to the cold.

One family did grant him their hearth for a night.
They sat in the living-room, huddling together over a large black pot, slurping their stew. Their were seven. Three adults- one so old that he seemed immobile, he sat in a chair by the hearth- and four children, all younger than twenty.

“I never did know there to be such a cold winter.” Said a middle-aged man, the father of the children, through chattering teeth.

“Aye. Everythin’ outdoors seems frozen over with a dozen layers of frost.” Agreed a boy, maybe eighteen winters old.

The old man mumbled something from his chair. The mother of the family went to him, and wrapped him tighter in his blankets.

“Poor man. Your old bones are not fit for the cold.”

It was expected that this would be his last winter. He sighed inwardly to himself. He had actually been trying to point out that this was not such a cold winter, that he could remember one some sixty years passed that this did not even compare to.

As the woman resumed her place by the pot, a faint kock came at the door.

“Someone’s here!” Said a wide-eyed young girl.

“They canna be, not in this weather.” Said one of her brothers, sternly.

But the knock came again, and after a moment the man went to the door and pulled the many objects used to keep out the cold from his path. He opened the door and peered round. There stood an aged old man, his hair matted and iced-covered, his body shivering, and his harp and staff by his side.

“Dear God!” Exclaimed the man as he squinted out at this newcomer through the swirling snow.

The old man croaked something undecipherable.

He was quickly shepherded into the small room.

“What on earth!”

“The poor man! He’s half frozen!”

“What kind of man ventures out in this weather?” Exclcaimed the gathering.

He was quickly given clothes to change into, and a bowl of stew as he warmed himself by the fire.
After some moments, one of the older boys asked;

“Old man, who are you? What is it that has you out in the blizzard?”

The man didn’t answer immediately, and the family glanced at each other, wondering if he had been made deaf by the frost, or if he was mad, as was suspected.
Then he croaked, in a low, soft voice

“I am the Storyteller.”

There were looks of confusion throughout the cramped room.

“What do you mean, sir?” Asked the boy again.

“I mean I tell tales.” Said the man, after another short pause. “I collect stories, and I pass them on.”

After he had finished his soup, he turned to the room. He looked straight ahead, and they could see that his eyes were blank, devoid of sight. But no; his eyes may have had no sight, yet there was still a sparkle to them, as though he was confronted with wonderful beauty.

“Now,” He croaked, “As you have shown kindness to me, and granted me your hearth and your vittles, I shall follow up on my part of the bargain.”
“Dear sir!” Exclaimed the man who had admitted him to the house, “We intended not to bargain with you! We ask nothing in return for the small favour we grant you! Who would have turned you away? No, sir, we ask nothing of you.”

“And that is why I give it to you.” Said the old man simply.

He sat in his chair, with his back to the fire, and began to tell a tale so wondrous and full of beauty, that even the aged man, in his rocking chair, seemed to hear it’s beauty and stir to listen.
Late into the night, they huddled together, listening to the soft voice of the man. The cold seemed forgotten for a time, and all the beauty of summer restored.

When the man finished, late in the night, the group sat, astonished by the tale’s beauty.

“That is the end of my tale, and I have repayed my debt to you.” Said the man at the end of the tale.
The family were silent, still in awe of the man.
The old man, in his chair in the corner, seemed to smile to himself, a faint shine in his eye, and he fell back, into a deep sleep.

They slept there, that night, in the small room. Their dreams filled with beauty, their hearts warm, if not their bones.
When they woke the next morning, the sun had broken through the clouds, for the first time in weeks, and the frost had melted a little. The Storyteller was gone, as though he had never been.
But he had been, and now he had gone to share his tales again.