The Storteller

The Storyteller:

His eyes were captivating at best; at worst, they held the power to frighten the senses out of a man no matter how brave he might be. His head swayed from side to side like a snake as he surveyed the crowed that had gathered around him in their curiosity. He looked about as old as the patch of earth that he sat on. His limbs ( what few were not hidden underneath his ragged and dusty robes) were gnarled and bent with the passing of many a hard year. Despite his apparent old age, his voice was as smooth glass when he spoke to his small congregation.
"More wood," said the old man. "More wood for the fire. We don't want it to die down, it must burn bright." As he spoke, the ancient man stirred and looked around him, but his eyes seemed to pass over the crowd. He was searching for something.
The villagers did not move as quickly as desired for, standing and shrieking at the top of his voice, he demanded that the fire be built up. "It must burn bright," he said in the voice of one half-mad. "There mustn't be any shadows nearby. It is imperative that the light drive off the darkness!"
The sudden outburst startled everybody and sent men and boys scrambling to gather more fuel.
The man wrapped in robes, seeing that his orders were finally being followed, sat down again, and resumed his state of watchfulness. Soon, all were calmed down enough to suit the old one and raising his smooth and flowing voice he began to speak.
"My name is Gamour and I am come from the Southern country. It is a land of great contrasts: good and evil; great and poor; strong and weak; light...and darkness."
These last words, "light and darkness," seemed almost to hurt the lips they passed over. The silver flowing voice cracked what sounded like fright and Gamour's face seemed to grow even older than it had seemed a moment ago. Just as quickly as these changes had taken place, Gamour regained his composure and went on with his speech.
"The Southern country is a place of great power and beauty, magic and mystery. It can also be a place of confusion and terror. The Cebors (the name that the men of the South have taken for themselves) are warriors through and through. They care nothing for the civilizing of realms; they only desire the thrill of conquest. Their women are not much better. They stay in their mountains homes and raise the younger generations while guarding their territories.
"The Cebors also have pets; creatures of a most terrible form. They grow quickly and can reach sizes as large as a house. Most of the beasts tend to be of a darker and more sinister hue: usually black or a red the color of dark blood. Their necks are long and spiked, as are their backs, legs, and of course, their great tails. The South Beasts, as they have come to be called, are horribly intelligent, and as wicked hearted as the men that they live with.
"Together these to creatures, man and beast, make war upon the entire world about them, fighting with a ferocity straight from the pits of sin.
"But it was not always this way in the Southern country. Once it was a peaceful land with gentle inhabitants, much as it is in this place. I know because I was there when the land of good men and noble rulers was curropted and thrown into the hands of devils. I was there when the men became animals, and the animals became beasts of death and destruction. In a few short days, I witnessed all that was once good and right and prosperous become abhorrent and evil.
"But what caused all this wickedness and perversion to come to pass? What could have happened to turn something that was such a pure, bright light into a slithering crawling grasping nightmarish disease that infects and destroys the earth?
"It was the single wish of a child. A wish that was sent not to the gods above, but to nothing. What this little girl did not know, what she could not have known, is that the Nothingness that inhabits the void between worlds has great power over light... and darkness."
Here the storyteller stopped and began to wail and lament. He no longer seemed to be aware that he still had an audience. He did not see the people who now shrank back from the anguished cries which tore out of the old man's throat. His mind had crumbled with the stirring of those cursed memories. His world was black and empty of all save for the tale, which now brought him to his knees.
A clash of thunder broke suddenly and a streak of lightning clawing its way through the sky. A storm had arisen suddenly and without warning, pouring rain upon frightened townspeople. This was no mere outburst from the heavens. Something had been stirred that night which now, in its horrible furry, scattered the inhabitants of the village like stubble. Children were hurried from the now gasping fire as quickly as possible by their mothers. Men ran from their places clutching at their hearts as if to protect them from the attack of evil spirits.
Gamour was forgotten. He was alone and defenseless. What's more, the fire was almost dead. Something, some presence, seemed to be aiding in the death of the light. Shadows crept up from the edges of the buildings and from the outskirts of the town. Soon the town square would be completely dark. Gamour trembled and cried out again, but he was no longer in the small village.
"Child, you don't know what you ask. Stop now before it is too late. Please little one; do not ask that of him, of it! No my child, No!"
"Yes, old one, yes, yes, yes."
Suddenly, the old eyes snapped open, but in those eyes, there was no trace of sanity... only terror.
"No, you can't be here! You can't be!"
"Nevertheless, I are here. Moreover, this time you shall not escape me. No light shall come to your aid this time. This time, old one, you are mine!"
Gamour opened his mouth to scream, but no sound was heard. Then there came from the shadows an evil laugh of victory. Gamour tried to scream again and found to his horror that an evil was upon him. It was over and all around him: at his legs, his chest, and his throat. There was something at his mouth, touching and feeling its way to the opening. The storyteller clamped his mouth shut. He couldn't do it; he couldn't close his mouth, it was being forced to stay open. It had been forced to stay open for the creature, for the unholy presence.
It was in his mouth. He could taste it, and it tasted of death and misery. Gamour tried to struggle, but it was too late.
The world spun, turned, turned, and then went black.
He opened his eyes and saw what he never thought possible to see again. Gamour was back in his past.
Gamour was back in hell.