• The bright afternoon sun shone down upon the world below that was just enjoying the first warm days of Spring with its gentle breezes, softly singing birds, and slight scattering of clouds that raced across the landscape, tossing round shadows upon the grassy hills and plains that skirted a quaint farming village; as the season was prone to have every year. And at this time, every year, the gentle villagers, hearts lightened by the end of last year’s winter, and filled with hope for a prosperous harvest before the next, would daily venture to the center of town and fill their water jugs and barrels with water- as bright as crystal and as cool as snow- from a communal fountain that sprayed its water to the skies like a whale breeching the surface of the ocean. And at this time, every year, he would arrive.


    The Storyteller, a man with no name and only rumors as to his history and origin, a man with apparently neither a destined path nor a profession. He spoke not of home nor kin, but kept his place every year in the Spring sitting in the town square, back braced against the stone wall of the fountain, and waited for a willing ear. Dressed almost entirely in scarlet, save for his brownish-colored armor and wide legged pants; red bandages adorned his entire face, save for his eyes and mouth. This peculiar individual, although welcomed and greeted as if he belonged, hid his skin from the world, letting not a single inch be visible. When one would ask as to why the gentleman in red hid himself, he would respond only with the same phrase and that crooked smile of a traveler.

    “That, my friend, is another story.”

    On this particular afternoon, as the carefully draped storyteller sat by the fountain, three small children- yearly regular “customers” to his compelling business- raced each other to be the first to reach the visitor; a small girl that carried a doll that looked like that of a dog, another fiery red-headed girl no older then 8, and a boy carrying a stick that looked like a sword that he swung at the air, pretending to be a grand warrior.

    “Tell us a story,” they cheered and commanded, their eyes bright and wild, eager for the nameless storyteller to kidnap them from their mundane world into one where each child could live their dreams.The man chuckled softly, and a smile crossed his lips and mirth filled his eyes that were the same golden shade of the sun.

    “Very well, children, very well.” At his acceptance to their request, the children dropped to the ground, sitting almost on top of each other, leaning in so they would be sure not to miss a single word. Closing his eyes, the storyteller began to weave a magical story of the legendary mute warrior Dees, born without a voice. As always, the story was interrupted by the children with the multitude of questions that would pop in their minds from places unknown and instantly fall off their mouths. It was the young red headed girl- always the most outspoken- who started the questioning first.

    “Did he have no tongue? And how can you be born without a voice?”

    “He had a tongue young lady, and there was nothing wrong with the man, he merely could not speak. No doctor could explain it.”

    The scarlet-clad man continued to explain how the great Dees trained from early in his youth to prove himself as a strong and able warrior- not a weak boy disabled by his lack of voice. Through the years his dedication prevailed and he soon became the best swordsman the nation had ever seen. Then the war came. Battle after battle the man survived and fought strong, a hero amongst the ranks of his comrades, and would walk away with nary a scratch on his body, but another knick on the worn sword belt which he would cut each time another enemy was vanquished by his own strong hands.

    Then at last, the final decisive battle was set and Dees, at the head, stood poised and ready, hungry for victory. He rushed into battle with his companions and as always fought bravely and with honor. But this time a woman crossed his path- a woman of profound beauty and a sword to match his own, but just as he, held no voice behind her soft full lips set into an angelic face that should not have belonged to one that held a blade. Perfect opponents they fought throughout the night and into the day, each exchanging blows with the other. Just as the blades were perfect equals so were they in skill and ferocity, neither giving ground to the other. It was as if this was no longer a fight, but a well choreographed dance that spoke more to one another than words could ever say. Days went by without food and rest. They continued to fight and the man admired the woman for her abilities, he almost – loved – her because of it.

    The woman was wise as she was strong and knew that this fight would only end if one of them fell. She had grown to admire this man for his abilities and learned to even love him for his strength. In her heart filled with love, she desired for him to see the glory of this day. As Dees thrust with his sword, she made a mistake that a simple novice would even know not to and did not block his attack. The merciless blade ran her through and a gentle smile crossed her quivering lips. Horrified, Dees watched as she crumpled to the bloody ground as he withdrew his sword. He fell to his knees at her side and cradled her head in his arms and cried realizing now that he was, in fact, in love. The woman looked up to him, tears pouring from her eyes, she gasped for breath.

    Although no words were exchanged, not a single syllable even mouthed, Dees and the woman exchanged their love for one another that night. A soft gaze of serene peace crossed her eyes and her body fell still. As he mourned her death, the man gently laid her down on the grass. He picked up her sword and cut another knick in his belt for her and then, after another look to his only love, cut another knick- for himself. He plunged her sword into his body, and fell to the ground at her side. With his eyes upon her gentle face, tears streaking his cheeks, and his fingers caressing her soft hair, the mighty warrior died.
    The storyteller closed his eyes and stayed quiet, feeling the strong emotions of the children as they sat in awe of the story he told. The sound of the red-head’s voice broke the silence.

    “How could he fall in love with a person who was trying to kill him?”

    “Love works in mysterious ways…” replied the storyteller.

    “Then if he loved her, why did he kill her?” the red head responded.

    “He was a warrior, and he let the warrior overcome the gentler spirit in his heart. Only after he had killed his “enemy” did he realize what his true feelings were.” The storyteller smiled at the boisterous red head, ruffling her hair with his hand.

    “But sir…” The red head pleaded.

    “No more questions, little one… this storyteller must be on his way. Many other children like you want to hear my stories… and I can’t let them down, now can I?”

    “Noooo…” the three children replied. They loved the man’s stories every time he came around, and now he was leaving again. They got up and began to pout, the littlest even at the brink of crying.

    “When will you be back, Storyteller?” The children pleaded.
    The scarlet clothed storyteller stopped and turned around to look at the children and smiled that crooked smile of a traveler.

    “That, my friends, is another story....”