Short Story: Storyteller

         “Let me tell you a story,” the old man began in somewhat a whisper.

         My eyes flickered at his face and tried to concentrate on the pale figure. He was old, that was for certain, worn out by the many years traveling and wandering. Had he been searching for something and had he found it, I couldn’t tell by his emotionless expression. As if he were no human but just shadow fading away, withering in the thin night’s air. His eyes were colorless grey, the same as his hair. His face, scratched with wrinkles, shone gloomily lightened by the burning fire. His eyes were fixed on the flames. As if he was bored by the nothingness that Present offered and was now gazing into the miracles of the Future. I looked at the fire too, almost sure I could see the same picture, but it was just red and hot and lifeless for me.

         “It’s a story about a boy that lived many, many years ago,” he continued, his voice distant.

         Suddenly a row of images flashed before my eyes. There was the boy, small and thin, almost flesh and bones. He was bare-feet and wore only a torn dirty T-shirt. He was looking at me, his eyes wide and pitch-black. I could see he was scared. He reached for my hand, not peeking away from my eyes, as if he was begging for help, and just when he was about to touch me, it all fainted away.

         The man was still talking with his quiet calm voice. I blinked quickly a few times and fixed my eyes on his, still lifeless and emotionless.

         “What happened to him? What happened to the boy?” I cried, the words coming out intermitted. My heart was bumping into my chest, rapidly and anxious now.

         “What boy?” somebody asked, “The story was about a dog!”

         “No! It was about a girl who had lost her mother when she was too young and spent her life trying to fill the hole left in her heart by the loss.”

         I carefully examined the expressions on the other people’s faces. They were all sure about the stories they had heard. But so was I! I’d seen that boy’s eyes and could practically touch him and feel his pain. How could they tell me it was no true?

         And then I saw it on the old man’s face - an inscrutable, almost invisible smile that wrinkled his lips for a moment and then disappeared. That story was his art. He’d told it over and over again to many people and had let them all hear what they needed, wanted, desired. That story was all the same and yet very different for every listener.

         I raised my voice to ask him how he did it, but froze before saying anything. For the old man was no longer there, sitting by the withering fire. He’d vanished into thin air leaving us with numerous questions unanswered.

         What had happened to that boy I still do not know. What happened to that man is a mystery too. Ever since that night I spent all my time and money on an ineffective search for him but never managed found him. He had told me his story once and that was well enough, for he never met me again.