What is the purpose of a story if not to entice and enchant our thoughts? My name is Skyclad Niall, and I have come a great distance to talk with you.
There are mysteries that are revealed when you take a moment to consider what you have been presented with. Take the dancing of light splayed across a wall filtered through the wet leaves after a rain. At times this appears as rainbows. I have always marveled and enjoyed the rainbows that the various prisms create. It is easy and ever so pleasant to get lost in those strange enticing lights. Patterns emerge and then submerge as you ever so slightly move the prism. One of the mysteries of rainbows is that they are always a rainbow, but never seem quite the same twice.
I have also found myself marveling at stories. It is easy and quite pleasing to get lost in those strange enticing tales. One might consider stories through a prism as well, bending and dancing our thoughts and ideas into new shapes and patterns. One of the mysteries of stories is that they are always a story, but never quite the same twice.
As a guest I am delighted to greet you, and very pleased to be invited to share a moment of thought with you. It is of the mysteries of thought that I speak, and the infectious nature of storytelling. I would put it to you that all writers are storytellers. Fact or fiction, future or history, romance and fantasy; all stories are held up to the prism of the storyteller who by choice of word, inflection of tone illuminate or shadow the aspects of the story.
Then there is the prism of the person hearing the story. Now I say hearing because I love to sit with my feet stretched out before me and be told a story, though reading works as well. With but a few words a story is told. We hear (read) the story, and by so doing we change our views. We find ourselves placed into a different world. Our thoughts create impressions; impressions lightly alter the meanings of words and phrases. Through the prism of our thoughts more emerges than may appear to be there. We may find joy in revealing a mystery within a story, a hidden gem of an idea, or simply confirmation of ideas we believe, and these we may expand by reading between he lines, or hearing the shapes and shades of words unsaid.
When we are done with the story, our world is not quite the same upon our return
I would like to invite you to look through my prism. I would like to enchant you with strange marvelous lights. I would like to offer you shades and shadows dancing about a fire. I would like to tell you a story.
The Dusty Feet
An elderly man sat at the gateway to a public walled garden just off to the side of the Village Square. He sat upon a low, aged three-legged stool that was well worn. With his bent back leaning against the wall, for he wished to be in comfort, he sat with his legs stretched out long before him. It was his custom to remove his shoes when he rested, and so it was that his naked feet warmed in the sunlight. So it was that he sat and enjoyed his ease.
A pretty girl broke from the crowd of people in the square. With a glance over at the old man she went to the well. She dropped the bucket and gathered cool water from the well to fill a battered cup. This she carried to the man seated by the gate. She placed the cup gently in his hand with a smile and returned to her chores for though the day was one of rest, there are always chores to be performed.
One of the townswomen approached her. “Why did you do that? He is a lazy old man. Why would you serve a lazy man?”
The pretty girl replied. “I feared he might thirst in his waiting, and it cost me nothing to oblige a drink of water to one who may thirst.”
The townswoman sneered. “He is lazy and should receive no comforts from such laziness. Look at his feet, so dirty. If my feet were ever so I should wish them cut off and thrown from me. And you” the townswoman’s voice was filled with indignation, “If you were my child I would forbid you from ever doing so again.” With that the townswoman pointedly turned her back to the girl and trundled away.
The pretty girl pouted, and ignored the chiding. She resumed her chores so that she might be free later when her beau was to return. Her beau was a traveler and went from town to town. This was the day when he was to come back to the village.
The day passed, and her chores were completed. She waited anxiously by the well, for from the well she could see out along the road that her beau must walk to return to the village. She felt patient and inpatient as she waited. Then, in the late afternoon she laid eyes upon her beau. He walked leaning heavily upon his staff. He appeared tired and worn yet as he drew near his posture changed. He straightened and by his gait she knew that he was pleased to be home. His steps appeared to quicken the closer he came.
As he arrived into the square she filled a cup with cool water and nearly ran for such was her desire to greet him. “Cool water for the traveling man.” She cried and her smile beamed as a gently setting sun upon him. He, in turn smiled at her briefly, and looked to the old man sitting stretched out by the garden door.
“Come,” he said, and he took her hand gently. “Let us sit by father”. Together they went to sit by the old man.
The beau sat upon the ground, stretched his legs out and removed his shoes. She looked and he laughed at his dirty feet. He followed her gaze and laughed as well. “As my father will tell you, the foot without dust has traveled no distance.”
Her laughter rang as clear as a bell. She hiked her skirt and sat upon the ground. She too thrust her legs out before her and removed her battered shoes. Her eyes sparkled and glistened with delight, “As you can see, I have not left the village square all this day, and yet I too have traveled a great distance.”
Skyclad Niall is a mythological creation from the ashes of a previous life. I was blessed with the opportunity to grow when I least expected it to happen, and the course of my life changed. Naturally I changed my name. I learned to write what I could not say. Thus, I come as a free-spirited Canadian poet and lover of words with stories to tell. I am not currently well published due to a desire to write books and that takes time and discipline which I am currently learning. I am an active participant at panhistoria.com where one may play freely with words and ideas. There I hone my craft and learn from others. I want to thank you for the opportunity to share with you.
Words Matter 