“Is it true?” the storyteller asked, repeating the question that he had just been asked. “Hmmm…” his voice trailed off. Slowly he closed his eyes and bowed his head, thinking of an answer that would be adequate.
He was an old man and it showed on his hunched and frail-looking frame. He sat leaning slightly forward. With his eyes closed he almost looked dead. Only his breathing showed that he was alive. His shoulders moved up and down ever so slightly.
His skin was sun browned and wrinkle worn. His hair was white and fine, like wispy clouds that drifted in the afternoon sky. It hung over his temples and ears but was swept away from his brow, showing the furrows that were the result of his focused thinking. He wore simple clothes. A linen shirt and leather vest, a green and brown coarse canvas cloak with the hood thrown back, trousers with patches on the knees, and a pair of leather boots that looked comfortable though worn and durable yet old. His sleeves were rolled half way up his hairy forearms. His hands were large and sat atop his gnarled walking stick, fingers intertwined. The stick was no decoration. He was obviously a traveler. He looked frail, but in reality there was strength hidden under the façade of frailty. He could out-walk most of the youngsters that sat around him on the grass in the little clearing.
The crowd of children and adolescents were a common ornament to the man. Wherever he went he attracted them. They came for the excitement, to see something new and for the stories he told. He was a master of storytelling. He opened his mouth and out came the stories. The audience was always drawn in. It didn’t matter what kind of story he told, it was captivating. He told of adventures, love, mystery, magic, and struggle.
His eyes were closed. He was not using them to see what was around him. Instead he was creating an image in his mind. He saw a man strolling through a green wood. He recognized the figure as himself. He watched as he stooped and picked something up from the ground. It caught the sun and flashed for a moment before being deposited into a leather pouch hanging from his waist. The man continued walking, picking up objects from the ground; stones, pieces of glass and metal, twigs, a lost coin, and other odds and ends. Then the scene shifted and the man was sitting at a work bench. Before him were scattered a thousand small bits and things. He was arranging them. He was putting them in what looked like a randomness, and yet he took such care. There was order though. The man leaned back and took in the whole of his work. He had been making a mosaic. There was order to the arrangement after all, there was an image formed out of chaos. It was the image of a small smiling child with outstretched arms.
No, thought the story teller, it’s not right. With a mental swoosh of the hand he cleared the image from his mind. The idea of myriad pieces was right but the assembly was wrong. He created a new mental image.
He was looking at himself again, still sitting but no longer at a work bench. Instead he was on a low stool sitting before a large wooden frame. On the frame was a work of fabric. On his lap, on the floor around him and next to him in a large overflowing sack were pieces of cloth. They were of every color, pattern, size, material and shape imaginable. His figure was taking loose pieces and adding them to the tapestry-like material. With nimble fingers he was sewing it all together weaving and intertwining it into one whole.
Even though he was looking at fragments of cloth he knew that they were really representing snippets of stories. Some were true, having happened to himself, others were stories of those he had known or had heard about. Some of the pieces were his own thoughts and ideas, others were invented anecdotes and the such. It was an artistic act to fit and blend so many different pieces together.
The scene changed and he saw himself standing in front of the finished work. It was beautiful. A single large work. Looking closely he could discern the small parts, but they were only visible under scrutiny for their working was in concert.
Yes, he thought, that is right. A story was the creation of many pieces. Some literally true, others true for the principle they taught even though the details were fabricated. Some pieces mimicked the truth though weren’t it in reality. Other parts were plain fabrication for the sake of beauty or to help hold the story together.
How to answer a question that has so rigid? The story had true parts and parts that were not strictly true. It was not wholly true nor wholly false. It was somewhere between the two. But the boy who asked the question would not understand it that way. The boy liked the story but didn’t really understand the scope of it. He was the type who thought a story was simply the telling of events chronologically. Those who think that way find that others aren’t captivated when they tell stories of their own. There were others like the boy with the question wherever the storyteller went. It gave him a tinge of sadness.
It was only a moment that he had his eyes closed. It only took that long to see what he imagined. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The frame that had looked nearly dead only a moment sooner came to life. The eyes were the energy of his whole body. They were eyes that saw deeply and clearly, they sparkled a brilliant blue as they met those of the boy.
“Is it true?” he repeated again. “Yes, it’s a true story.”
No comments:
Post a Comment