A long time ago, in between the five corners of the world, there lay a great forest. On the edge of this forest lived a man with no name. Now, in those days it was generally accepted and good to have a name, but this man was neither generally accepted nor very good. And so people called him the Storyteller (for they had to call him something) but that was not strictly true. You see, this man had dreams, and what he dreamt became reality. Many sorts of people sought him out for his services, but all he wanted was solitude. So he dreamt, and was alone, and was content.
One morning, the Storyteller awoke to a small boy making angels in the snow. He was (naturally) very displeased at this, and told him so.
“I did not come to beg, sir,” said the child, and the Storyteller saw that his eyes were full of pain. “My mother is sick. Please, won’t you help her?”
“I help no one.” And the Storyteller slammed his cottage door behind him.
But the boy was not so easily cowed. He came back day after day and the Storyteller (naturally) found it rather irksome. “I will dream for your mother,” he said, as the child stared at his week-old snow angels. “But you must go away, and never come back.”
The boy left. The Storyteller dreamed that night for the boy’s mother, whoever she was. The next morning there was a fresh snowfall, and the man watched the snow angels disappear. And because he was good at lying, he told himself that he was glad to be alone, and he was glad the boy was gone. And because he was good at lying, he almost believed it.
The Storyteller turned around, went inside, and closed the door.
