The Teller of Tales
Once there was a teller of tales who travelled far and wide. She brought her tales to children who were not always used to listening, and to adults whose ears had long grown tired from tales of darker worlds.
Under the spell of the tale-teller the children grew still. They listened to her tales of quests and adventure, of romance sought and softly won, and of mysteries waiting long years to be solved. Adults heard of familiar sorrows; of loved ones hurt and lost, of relationships strained and suffering; of hopes battered and dreams fading. But in the teller's world, healing and hope were not gone; journeys not without a homecoming. The teller wove her magic. The more tales she told, the more she had to tell, and the more who came to listen and to rest their hearts in the worlds she created.
But for all her travel, to mountains and deserts, gentle valleys and wind swept islands, to lands whose stories were as old as time itself, the teller had yet to find her resting place.
The teller did not travel alone. With her was a man; a man whose eyes saw not as the world saw, for his inner sight saw not what was, but rather, what could be. His hands were skilled with tools. His soul was schooled in patience. His gift was to restore beauty and strength where it seemed to have long been lost.
Quietly, on the gentle slopes of a hill, waited a house; its secrets long overgrown, buried and neglected, waiting for someone with eyes to see them. Its once noisy corridors had grown still and its walls longed to whisper its tales to someone with ears to hear them. The house waited patiently through generations and silent years until Time drew the teller of tales, and the man, to her walls. Together they glimpsed her truth and heard her whispers.
And so they began together, the house, the man and the teller of tales. There was much to do; the work, perhaps, of a lifetime. There were times when the house grew dark and the walls were silent. The man and the teller doubted what they had first believed when they came. But nothing worth the having is without labour and no vision realised without pain. Slowly walls were rebuilt, floors re-laid, and gardens re-planted. And the house revealed her secrets. Her rooms came to life. Fragments of the past long buried were rediscovered and treasured. Her gardens bloomed.
And so the man and tale-teller continued patiently and in joy. They had found their place: a place of rest, of love, of inspiration. The house, the man and the teller of tales.
With Love, Janet Fletcher.