By Scott Robinson
Eager footsteps and loud giggles pushed against the cold, gray stillness that hovered like fog in front of him, and it made the day less solemn.
“How much farther, Grandpa?”
Turning a bit, the old man realized his long strides were challenging his two young companions. He slowed a bit and rubbed the blond head of the little boy on his left, with affection and gratitude.
“It’s not much farther. Now you mind your manners, or you won’t get to go again!”
“We have tokens,” said the boy’s older sister, who struggled to match her grandfather’s stride with preadolescent dignity.
“Yes, we have tokens, and we’re lucky to have them. I’ve been to The Reading lots of times, and I’m glad you two have the chance, but they have rules here. And if you don’t behave yourselves, no tokens will get you in the next time.”
“Have you ever met the Storyteller, Grandfather?”
He turned to his granddaughter, interested by her question.
“I have,” he answered. A trace of a smile teased at his lips.
She noticed it, and pressed the matter. “You know her, don’t you?”
“I do,” he confessed. A memory filled his eyes. “She’s really something.”
“I’ve heard about her,” Jessie said. “They say she knows things about Before. Like you do.”
After a moment, he nodded.
“What are the rules?” Joshua asked. “Why do there have to be rules?”
“The Reading is a pretty special thing,” his grandfather replied. “It’s just about the most important thing we do now. There aren’t that many of us left, you know. We need The Reading, to remember. It’s important.”
“There used to be hundreds of thousands of people,” Jessie told her brother. “Millions.”
“Billions,” Grandfather said quietly. Joshua stared up at him.
“Where did all the people go?”
The old man looked into the cold, sunless sky.
“Well, you’re here and I’m here, and the rules are that you must not speak during The Reading. Give your attention to the Storyteller and behave yourself.”
“That means sit still,” Jessie added with authority.
“I’ll behave!”
“I know you will,” Grandfather said. “And you are in for a treat. The stories are important, and there’s a certain formality to the occasion, but they are also very interesting. And lots of fun!”
“If they’re so important, why don’t we do this all the time?”
“Well, we do, actually. There are Readings as often as we can manage them. And not just here, but in all the settlements. But so many people want to hear, we have to take turns. And there are so few books left, we have to protect each of the ones we still have.”
“There used to be lots and lots of books,” Jessie pontificated. “There were entire buildings filled with nothing but books!”
“Libraries,” Grandfather nodded.
“I’m thirsty,” Joshua suddenly complained. The old man reached into his jacket and pulled out a water pouch and a stick of jerky, and handed them over.
“Grandfather used to have books, didn’t you?”
“Billions,” he grinned.
“Oh, you did not!”
“Where did all the books go?” the boy asked. “Or are you gonna ignore that question, too?”
The old man smiled grimly.
“Mostly they burned them, when things got bad,” he answered. “A book is basically a piece of wood. For years, people struggled just to stay warm.” And we still do, he thought. The ice is coming...
Others had joined them on the side of the road, making their way toward the auditorium. There would be a big crowd today.
“You know, this place used to be a school,” Grandfather said as they walked onto the campus.
“Schools had lots of books,” Jessie said.
“They did, indeed,” he nodded. “This school alone would have had several hundred thousand. And a library.”
Joshua was straggling. Grandfather extended his arms, and the boy jumped up into them.
“What are the stories about, Grandpa?”
“Oh, the stories are wonderful!” he answered. “They are about the world as it used to be, when the sun shined and the sky was blue. They’re about our struggles and our courage and our spirit. Great stories – adventure and danger and all you can imagine and more.”
“You’ve heard them over and over, haven’t you?”
“I know them by heart,” he smiled. “The stories are our history, from Before. They remind us who we are.
“Did you know that long ago, many thousands of years ago, it wasn’t just us? Not just human beings, but also many almost-humans? Some with heads shaped a little differently? Some stronger than we are, some smaller?”
Joshua looked at his grandfather as if to see whether or not he was teasing.
“The things I’ve told you about Before sound magical to you,” Grandfather mused, “but the truth is, we’ve been magical all along.”
They had arrived. Grandfather set the boy on the ground, and knelt next to him. He took his granddaughter’s hand.
“The stories remind us who we are,” he said, “how we lived… how we loved.”
He touched the boy’s face, then stood.
“Now… mind your manners!”
They showed their tokens to a man at the door, who nodded as they passed through.
Entering the auditorium, both children drew in a breath and held it.
Candlelight glowed throughout the magnificent room, which was filled with more people than either child had ever seen in one place. Rows and rows of padded seats cascaded from the ramp where they stood, a quiet murmur in the air as others made their way inward from the aisles to the seats that remained.
Beyond the hundreds of seats was a high platform bordered by a musty blue curtain. Two torches burned at the front of the platform, which was covered with small, spindly chairs. People were quietly filling those chairs, too.
Joshua tugged on his grandfather’s blue jeans.
“C’mon!” he whispered loudly. “Don’t we gotta find a seat?”
Grandfather patted his head.
“No need.”
They stood at the back of the auditorium for a few minutes as the remaining seats were filled. The procession continued through the door to their right: a young woman carrying two small children; a man with a cane; two shuffling crones; a lone boy with no parent.
Stillness fell.
At the front of the hall, a door opened to the left, and two young men entered the auditorium. One carried a small case; the other, a high, padded stool. They made their way to the center, not ascending the stage, but into the open space in front of it, down on the floor, just beyond the first row of padded seats. One young man placed the stool on the ground and waited next to it.
A third figure emerged from the door, and Jessie gasped. She knew who it must be.
The Storyteller.
Grandfather squeezed her shoulder as she drank in the sense of wonder that flooded over her. The Storyteller was a woman, older than her mother had been, yet more beautiful than any woman she’d ever seen before. She was tall, almost as tall as Grandfather, with long, sweeping auburn hair. She moved like a ghost, flowing instead of walking.
She was wearing a dress of green silk that flowed with her body through the stillness, and beautiful beads adorned her neck.
One of the young men attended her as she took her place on the stool. She waited as he withdrew a key from a pocket and unlocked the small case the other young man was holding.
Solemnly, he opened the case and withdrew the book, which was sealed in a plastic bag. He opened the bag carefully and removed the book, handling it tenderly, and presented it to the Storyteller.
She placed the book on her lap. She looked out at the quiet crowd.
A smile formed on her gentle face. She surveyed the room.
Then she opened her arms, in a welcoming gesture.
A sudden shuffling filled the room, as all the children scrambled off their parents’ laps and down the aisles to the front of the hall, tumbling into lotus position on the floor at the feet of the Storyteller.
Grandfather pushed Joshua forward, and the boy immediately rushed down the aisle to join the other children.
Jessie turned and looked at her grandfather. She was older than the children who had gone forward. It was a question in her eyes.
He smiled and nodded. She followed her little brother down the aisle, walking rather than running.
The other children had settled, and she suddenly felt conspicuous as the Storyteller waited for her to arrive at the front of the auditorium. She felt the eyes of everyone in the thundering silence, and regretted coming forward.
But as she passed the last of the seats and made her way toward the Storyteller’s chair, the woman’s eyes met hers. Jessie felt a surge of an emotion she couldn’t quite name. Then, in the woman’s green eyes and soft smile, she saw something familiar. Without ever having met her, this woman knew her.
It was the first trace of kinship she’s felt with a woman since her mother had died. She smiled back.
We’ve been magical all along…
Sitting primly on her knees next to her brother, Jessie settled to the floor attentively.
The Storyteller surveyed the children with glowing eyes, her smile unwavering. Captivated, Jessie looked into her face. She saw kindness there, and wisdom, and pain and hope. And sadness. Kind eyes. Magical eyes.
The stories are our history…
She opened the book.
They remind us who we are…
She turned to the first page.
…how we lived…how we loved…
And as the Storyteller began to read, her voice was even more magical than her eyes.
“In a hole in the ground,” she read, “there lived a hobbit…”
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