The raconteur was an elderly man who lived in a ramshackle cottage with a crooked fence and a giant elm towering overhead. A scruffy, limping mutt and three bony hens called the overgrown yard attached to the house home. That could also be said for the man, whose graying, silver hair and beard was hard to spot amidst the long forgotten hedges and roses. Only his piercing, kindly blue eyes- miraculously bright and eager for a man of his age- set him apart from the world of green surrounding him.
In a crumbling barn set off in the distance, a rusted bridle was hung on a metal hook, long grimy and dusted with mist, sorrow, and lore from the ages. Its well-worn leather blended into the ancient wood of the walls. All that set it apart was an infrequent glimmer of light and of hope, before the rising sun escaped into the shadows. The birds looked upon the barn with hope, wondering when its unsightly figure on the horizon would crumble into absolute nothingness.
The man would sit on a creaking bench, nearly as old as the man himself, amidst a tangle of rose petals and blueberry bushes. Stepping stones that spread across the garden were barely visible beneath the messy gnarled vines that snaked through the garden, then coiled onto the cottage, holding its weakened walls upright. To even the casual passersby, it seemed obvious that without the endless support of the weed, the slight building would have been lost to the elements long decades ago.
This raconteur would never have a care in the world. He would sit, solemn and lonely, in complete solitude, and tell stories to the earth, to the wind, the stars and the soaring birds. His wise words would carry through the rushing air, till they reached the spiral of ideas that falls upon each of us. Some would carry even farther, dreams in the night sky, and whisper themselves to the sun and the moon. And all the while the man would sit, quietly, and speak with the wisdom of the ages, of those who had gone before, of those who cannot bring themselves to tell the world, of those who never had a chance to explain their thought and their actions. He spoke of days gone by, and pondered the reasons for sorrow, for happiness, for guilt and destruction. His wise words would reach the ears of each of us. Whether or not we listen is up to us, yet the man still speaks. The entire world is for us and up to us, he tells us. The sun is our friend, and the moon our teacher, the provider of wisdom. War is the way of the demons, and a simple act of peace can change the earth. Respect the world, the seas, the forests. The sky and the water are one. We are one, and never doubt that you are beloved and sacred to the beings of the world.
His wise words endure for centuries, for millenia, for eons. They spread across oceans and skies, across planets and throughout the universe. The words of the raconteur are sacred truths. Even when he leaves this earth, his words will still echo throughout. And the barn will collapse with a resounding thud, scattering the birds and freeing the few phrases trapped inside.
