Chapter Text
The quiet of the wood was interrupted by a gentle rapping on the cottage door.
“Hello?” called out a tentative voice. “Is there anyone home?”
The young woman hovered in the open doorway and peered inside. She clutched a woven basket tightly and fidgeted as if to turn away when she heard someone from inside.
“Come in,” came a man’s voice, muffled with distance. “I’ll be there in one moment.”
Cautiously the girl entered, her eyes scanning the dark corners of the room. Compared to outside, everything was in shadow. However, it wasn’t unwelcoming. The small house looked more like a used bookstore than a home. Piles of old books were stacked on every available surface it seemed with parchment inserted haphazardly wherever there was room.
Just as the young woman had begun to scan the worn titles, the owner of the house appeared behind her wiping ink-stained hands on a rag.
“Are you the storyteller?” she asked wide-eyed.
“I am,” the man responded as he moved a large stack of papers from an overstuffed armchair. He gestured for her to sit.
“I had heard that there was a great storyteller who lived out in these woods... one who could perform miracles with his words.”
“Sometimes.”
“Then you can?” the girl asked incredulously. “But...” her brows furrowed, “you’re so young! To live out here all alone... I would have thought the man in the rumours to have been... well, you know...”
The young man sat across from her on a small wooden stool. “No, I’m not old.” He raised an eyebrow at her, watching her with his dark green eyes. “And I’m not alone.”
“Oh,” she responded, mouth open slightly in surprise. “You mean the duck from the stories, right?” She looked over to the open doorway. “I think I saw her on my way here. Such a little, yellow thing... swimming along in the shallows.” She turned back to the storyteller, smiling. “I guess it would be appropriate for a man with your abilities to be companions with the forest animals.”
“I’m not really friends with other animals,” he explained slowly. “Just her.” His gaze was far away from where the two of them sat. “She’s special.”
“I, ah...” the girl noticed how the storyteller’s mouth pulled back into the faintest hint of a smile. “I see.” She looked down at where her hands still gripped the basket handle. “I came because I would like you to write a story for me... for my mother...”
“Tell me.”