The StoryTeller: The Gathering

I am the StoryTeller. I travel the paths and rivers,
gathering the memories that go back and back and back.
I transform them into stories so that we all remember,
and in the remembering--can go forward.

I see your faces reflected in the fire's light.
I see the children sweetly dreaming in your laps
and see the hopelessness in your faces.
I am The StoryTeller. I wander place to place
gathering the bits and pieces of your pasts
and weave them into blankets to keep you warm.

Tonight I will tell of The Gathering. The Gathering happened a while ago. The When, no longer matters.It is the Why that Does. It is the Why that must be remembered.
It was when the cities were still alive;when there was still 'tricity, when people worshiped
t'visions and 'puters, giving them a place of honor in their homes.It was the time of the Great God Emal and the lesser gods of Fax and Tchat who reigned supreme.

It was a time when men and women lived in separate caves called houses instead of the Clans we have now. One day, there was a horrendous storm.The winds blew and the waters rose and washed against these houses. The people had been told to flee the storm.Many miles they traveled: more than we can walk in many months did they travel to run and hide from this storm called Charl.The storm made their 'tricity go away and there was great hunger and thirst
for these needs could not be supplied the peoples.

One of the families worked their lives for something called
a M'rina. They had big boats.Boats that could hold more than a whole clan of people. They used these boats to travel far upon the Great Waters. They were afraid of the storm, but they were more afraid that the rushing waters would destroy their boats.

So they stayed as if the staying could do ought against the storm.
They put boards--flattened pieces of wood, over their w'dows.
W'dows were clear...like water...but solid and could keep out most of the weather.
But not a storm like Charl.

They gathered candles and food and water in jugs. While the storm raged and the winds blew,
this family sat huddled in the room they used for cooking, but they couldn't cook because they had no 'tricity: it had been eaten by the storm.
The storm raged on for many days. The winds blew parts of their roof away. It rattled the house and moaned as it blew past the boards over their w'dows. The rains came down and beat like cicadas on the walls of the house.

The waters rose and spread beyond the banks of the Great Waters. It swirled around their house making it an island. Yet the family was strong. There were 'dults who protected
the younglings and they watched out for each other as you do today.
They all played games and they talked to each other in calm voices.
They sang songs of the younglings and the 'dults sang songs of their youth.
They laughed and grew to know each other again. The younglings were surprised at the wisdom of their 'dults and the 'dults were amazed at the wisdom of the younglings.
They enjoyed each other as they hadn't in a great length of time.

There came a great banging in the front of their house
and just barely above the sound of the storm,
they heard a the sound of someone yelling.
Fighting the wind, they opened their door to the storm.

On their porch were two strangers. The rains had soaked these two and their long hair
snaked down their faces and wrapped around their throats. The man had a bad cut on his forehead and the blood ran pink from jagged edges. The woman was great with child and stood, arms wrapped protectively around her heaving belly.

At any other time, indeed, merely days before even,
this family would have told these strangers to go upon their way--
if they had even opened their door to them. But for some reason, they invited them in and shared what little they had with these strangers. And the strangers told them of themselves and as the night grew darker and the candles burned down,
they all shared of themselves, their stories.

The younglings had been lulled to sleep by the ceaseless winds
and the strangers were tucked away in a corner. The man and the woman
curled up together sharing a blanket. His hand gently traced the side of her face, made golden,
in the candle light. She held him gently and had not had a single cruel word to say all day.
They shared words of love and then, moving with century old movements
that neither time nor circumstance have ever changed, grew closer and shared of themselves
as they hadn't in years.

Eventually the sun came out and the clouds blew away. The water receded. The family saw that their m'rina had survived and they were happy. The strangers went away and promised to keep in touch. More time passed and the small family had a new youngling conceived the night
of the terrible storm. He grew strong, forged from strong winds and stronger ties.
That youngling grew and in time, had younglings of his own, who, in turn, had younglings who brought forth younglings as well.

One of those younglings grew into a man and he be the man
on whose raft I traveled here down the great river. What we do, does matter.
What we do does go on and on and on just as what went before
back and back and back can effect the nows and the being.
That little gathering affected my life and now yours and if we remember, will then go on to circle outward--ever rippling, ever circling. . .forever.

With those words, the StoryTeller stood and wrapping her tattered blanket warmly around her, walked away from the warmth of the fire. Behind her she could hear the sounds of voices
as first one, then another began singing a song from the times back and back and back Voices stumbling over words long unsung, but gaining strength in the singing.
The StoryTeller softly sang alog as she made her way down the forest path.


'When you walk, thru the storm...hold your head up high....
and don't be afraid of the dark....
at the end of the storm is a golden sky
and the sweet silver song of a lark.....'