This was written for the 31days livejournal. The theme for that day was 'the heart knows the world's disguise'. My computer wasn't working that day to post it, so I'll post it here instead.
I LOVED Jim Henson's Storyteller. I tried to mention each of the stories in it.
He had seen the world move on. They had turned from the old stories. They were afraid of new things now. Or at least they told themselves they were.
He still sat by the fire. His dog still lay by his feet, occasionally stirring to make a snide comment. They looked into the fire and he still told the old tales to anyone who would listen. The outward appearance of the world had changed. His hadn't. By daylight, he was mistaken for a homeless man and his shabby old dog, sitting in a stone alley as if it was a great hall.
Night was another story. It covered the modern filth in shadows. The fire in the halved barrel might as well have been on a huge hearth. The fire cast warm light over his lined face and gleamed off the intelligent eyes of the dog. He sat beside the fire. It was his place. He spoke aloud of children born different and promises kept or broken. Sometimes, other people would gather near the fire and listen. They never stayed long, but they never left before the story was over. Sometimes there would be children who would pet the dog, and hear of hearts what were hidden to keep them from being broken.
Sometime he would be there alone, with only the dog to roll its eyes at the story of the sons turned to ravens and their sister sworn to silence.
He was dragged away once, by people who meant well, and locked up. It was a night of bitter cold. He wasn't the only one forced inside for his own good. As they ate the offered food, he told his fellow prisoners about the soldier who couldn't die, because he had Death caught in a bag. His dog waited at the door and looked so miserable that one of the orderlies finally let him in.
He told the well-meaning psychologist about a ghost in pieces and a youngest son who never knew what fear was until he thought he had lost the one he loved. They asked him if he had any family, and he told them about soup made from stones, and the wife who left him for a begger. They let him and his dog go. What else could they do. He was harmless. Or so they thought.
Everyone who heard the stories was reminded of other stories. Of things long-gone Grandmothers had told, and older brothers had whispered of in the dark of shared rooms, of doomed men in power who fought against destiny, and princesses who wore rags, of monsters and murderers, and strange good luck, of things too much a part of them to be gone, only carefully buried.
Because the world hadn't really changed, anymore than a tree changed with the seasons. It was wearing a new face in new colors, but it still craved the same things. It still believed and feared and fed on the same things. It still needed a Storyteller.
