The Crown of Ereth

The sky was beginning to darken as another day moved closer to its conclusion. The cricket was chirping the very same melody heard decades earlier. Only the old storyteller man sat outside his lonesome old tent while the rest of the country fair folk sat around grilling rabbits and drinking, chatting merrily. The old man could distinctly hear the faint tune produced by a flute in the distance. The man wondered which story he ought to tell his customers on the morrow.

He sighed and looked at the sky. The stars seemed to be shifting, as if they were telling a story from long, long ago. Well, he would have time to think in bed before he succumbed to sleep.

The old man got up from his shaky chair and headed off to bed. Many used to remark on his uncanny grace that made one want to bow and grovel at his feet. He was not handsome; he was graceful.

He reached his little tent and boiled some hot water to make some tea. After making sure that the communal fire was fully extinguished after some time, he retired for the night and let slumber take him. He certainly had a story idea. He just wondered whether it would be too long and boring for his listeners. It was only by living with them that he was able to know all these stories. Yes, he decided. It would be good enough for his audience.

The next day dawned, bright and rosy and warm. The camp was being set up again, ready for its new customers. After a few hours, the first ones were seen milling around. The fair lasted an entire day, so people from the nearby city could easily come at any time. The old man was smoking a cigarette as he observed the game stalls and food stalls attracting most customers around lunchtime. He scoffed. These fancy folks had no idea how valuable storytelling was; it was one way people could prove they once existed, that they were here- not factually, but emotionally.

At some time after noon, the man sat down to eat his lunch. He'd barely finished his sausage and eggs when a head peeked into his stall curiously.

He spluttered, 'What are you doing, young lad?'

'Why is your stall open when you're eating?' The dark-haired young man seemed completely indifferent to the old man's alarm.

The elder man frowned at him with withered brows. 'You're very rude. Haven't your parents taught you better?'

The young man seemed offended at that and was about to respond when a woman placed her arm on his shoulder, making him close his mouth abruptly.

The stallholder had not noticed her. 'What do you both want?' He asked wearily.

'Isn't it obvious?' The young man retorted. 'We want to listen to a story!'

The man in the stall clicked his tongue as he cleaned up his lunch remains and washed. He returned to the waiting couple. 'What type of story do you want to hear? Song of Heart? Path of Blood? Blanket of Thorns? Wake of Tears? Or something more ... lighthearted?'

The young couple stared at him in wonder. 'We have no fucking idea what you said, old man.'

The man scoffed at the pair. 'Of course you don't know ... Romance? Adventure? Betrayal? Tragedy?'

This time, the woman piped up eagerly. 'We'd like a romance, please- but not too much. It'd be fun with some fantasy and lots and lots of betrayal!'

Her partner looked at her with confusion. 'When did you plan all that out? We just found this stall!'

'It doesn't matter.' Turning to the old man, she asked him, 'Do you have a story like that?'

This time, the sour man's face split open in a wide smile, making his wrinkles disappear and giving him a roguish face that made him handsome. He looked thousands of years younger. 'What a question, child! In fact, I have the perfect one for you ... if you can stay for a fair few hours.'

The young lad swore loudly, 'We don't have ti-'

'Yes, we do.' His girlfriend interrupted him, 'We have 'til nightfall.'

'All right. Come inside.'

They both paid and entered the shabby stall. Though it looked scruffy and hot from outside, it was quite cool. They both settled in old, cushiony armchairs as the storyteller seated himself before them. He seemed to be a completely different person; one who lived apart from the world, someone who created many worlds still waiting to be seen from the heart.

As another well-dressed couple came in and paid, the young man whispered fiercely, 'I swear, Vivian, if he starts it with "once upon a time," I'm out of here.'

'Shut up, Felix!'

The ancient storyteller cleared his throat. With a deep breath, he started a long-forgotten tale that only he and the stars remembered.

'It all started with a boy who found a box.'