By the time we reached the first village, I was thoroughly homesick. I missed knowing where I'd lay my head every morning, I missed playing knucklebones with the other boys, I missed my family especially. My heart hurt when I thought of them. I hadn't thought of them much in the beginning, I was captivated with the life of a wayfarer. My days had a new routine, a better routine I thought. The storyteller and I would break camp at twilight and then we would walk. Sometimes he would point out landmarks for me, the unspoken truth was that eventually I'd have to make my way on my own. The thought thrilled me at first, causing me to quiver with excitement before the sun even set. Now however, my enthusiasm was dampened with days of walking on low rations.
The storyteller never taught me how to create a story, or anything at all. Some days, while we shared our morning meal, he would tersely explain an event that had happened in his life. Usually these revelations were unformed and informal in the telling; often they were accompanied with a grudging tone. He never asked that I comment on them or reciprocate with information of my own. He certainly never drilled me on lessons I'd learned, or asked me to recite like the teacher at home. Instead he ignored me whenever I spoke unnecessarily. He would briefly answer questions if he found them important, but usually he left them reverberate on the air and then drift away. Compared to the bustling nature of my camp, I found the silence unnerving and definitely uncomfortable.
Arriving at the new camp, we were greeted by the Lord. The storyteller flourished his cloak and initiated the conversation. "Lord Athar, I seek a place to pitch my tent and that of my apprentice. WE would ask for a few days leave at your camp and seats around your cook pot."
"Your presence here is accepted with great excitement." The lord responded. "I only ask that in return, you spin my camp a tale or two."
Their conversation sounded ritualized to me, so I tried to memorize it. Luckily it was a short talk. They sealed their deal with a handshake, then the Camp Lord led us to an area reserved for travelers. It was a custom as old as the goblin menace that elf camps all had sanctuary for travelers. "Lord Athar thank you for your hospitality. We would delight in sharing our skills with your people. In fact, it will be my apprentice who will offer the entertainment tomorrow night." I sincerely hoped that I imagined Lord Athar's previously open face suddenly turning icy.
He didn't barter words with us much longer, leaving swiftly to let us set up our tents. I waited for an explanation impatiently, but refused to ask for one knowing that it would be considered unnecessary and impertinent. Eventually, and only after he had meticulously arranged his possessions, the storyteller gave me one. "You have learned to listen, tomorrow evening we will see whether you have also learned to speak."
I was unable to restrain my complaints. "That isn't fair. What am I supposed to talk about? I have nothing prepared."
"Even better, I look forward to hearing your tale once you've decided on it."
I retired to my tent and wracked my brain for an idea, any idea. I kept settling on the feeling of betrayal, it was terribly unfair to only give me a night of preparation with no practice so to speak of. I had never actually spoken for a crowd before, only occasionally were students in my camp required to give recitations. Every time one of these occurred, I sweated and shook and was never called upon because I was so worked up. I would have fretted all day, but the sun interrupted me, causing my eyelids to shut against my will. Falling into an uneasy sleep, I resented the lost time but greeted the oblivion.
The evening meal was a rushed affair for me, I was too nervous to keep food down anyway. Whispers flooded the camp that a travelling man had arrived to tell stories, and the elves looked around with excitement. When the men left for the hunt, the women and children surrounded me. The Lord had stayed behind to watch, glaring from the back row, his height unobscured by the others. Equally frightening was the stony face of my master who was watching me impatiently. Not knowing where to begin, I introduced myself.
"My name is Zym, and I'm from the Shot Arrow Star Camp. I am excited to be here and share my very first story with you." I cringed at the awkward phrasing but had to continue. Fingering my cloak surreptitiously so the lining didn't show, I announced my story.
"The Ant that Entered the Camp Border." I don't know whether I expected applause, but the shifting looks the audience was exchanging were hardly encouraging. "Once upon a time, there was an ant. She was a worker ant, in charge of feeding her people. Only one of a multitude, she knew that her mundane tasks were necessary to sustain life, but she wanted more for herself than they offered.
"Every day she climbed to the top of the same hillside and scrounged for food. Her path usually was devoid of good things, but occasionally she could find a dead caterpillar or the like. One day, she saw an elf on the hilltop and watched as he dropped a piece of bread. Desiring greatness, she decided to bring it to her queen as a prize. She would do this alone.
"To reach the bread, she would have to travel further from the anthill than she'd ever gone before. She was prepared to do so. She marched up the hill single-mindedly, and ran into a wall. She looked around and saw nothing, and so she tried again. Again she was blocked. And every attempt after resulted in her slamming her body against the invisible barrier.
"Using her feelers to reach higher, she noticed that the blockade rose higher than her head. Trying to solve the conundrum, she flexed her feet, feeling the sticky pads move, and began to climb. Normally ants are expert climbers, but this ant was climbing through the air. She made the mistake of looking down and saw nothing preventing her from falling. There was no stem to support her, she was walking on magic. Fearfully she stopped walking and remained in midair.
"She attracted the attention of an elf child who was interested in the hovering ant. A seemingly huge finger was extended and the ant clung to it like a lifeline until the elf girl put her down near the bread. The aunt escaped unscathed after enduring a few pokes. A grounded ant is less interesting than a floating one.
"The ant wanted nothing more than to bring the bread piece home, yet it was too big to lift herself. She needed her people. Unable to move the entirety, she decided to bring home a sample as large as she could carry to entice her coworkers to aid her. However the invisible barrier kept her in the elf camp. She died fat and alone. The end."
The audience stared silently at me for a moment, stunned that the story was finished. Then they rose and left their seats. Only the Camp Lord and the storyteller remained. "I am afraid that your story was not worth the stew," said the Lord cordially. "You will have to leave by morning."
The storyteller said nothing. He led me back to my camp, and began packing his things in silence, I packed mine alongside him. "I will have words for you on the road."