The Story Collector

02

The Leader stood up and forced a smile. "Please continue with your lives."

And the boy was ushered away. 

The Leader looked him straight in the eye. "I do not know what is wrong, but it appears you do not have a Story."

The boy's head spun. Not have a Story? How could he not have a Story? He was alive...wasn't he? That meant he had to have a Story.

The Leader spoke in quick, hushed tones. "Now, what you need to do, is go to the Story Collector. He will know what to do."

The Story Collector? "But I have no story," he whispered. "What does he need to collect from me?"

"I do not know," she said sadly, "but he will know better than I."

A choking sensation rose from the boy's chest. His eyes began to feel wet, and water dripped down his cheek.

"Are you...crying?" the Leader asked, alarmed.

"I do not know," the boy gasped. "What does it mean?"

"It means you feel," she replied. "Go to the Story Collector. Now. Before it is too late."

And the boy was ushered off yet again.

The Story Collector was not far from the village. But yet the walk through the village, across the field, and up the hill seemed very long indeed to the boy. Whenever he walked past a house, the villagers would peek out of their windows with fearful eyes, watching as the strange boy, the mutant boy, the one who didn't have a Story, passed.

As the boy finally trudged up the hill, his heart began to beat almost as quickly as it had just a few minutes earlier. At least then, he thought he knew what to expect. Now, as he stood outside the small cottage, he wondered if he should just go back to the village.

But he couldn't. There was no decision to be made. He just didn't want to do it.

He took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.

"Eh? Who is it?" The voice was throaty and deep.

A man came shuffling to the door. The boy recoiled, for the man looked very strange. His skin had WRINKLES, his hair was WHITE, and he moved very slowly. But the strangest thing was his Text. It didn't fill him like how water fills a basin, but was in random lines across his body. Some were straight. Some were squiggly. Some were the normal dark blue, but some were gray.

The boy stared.

"Well?" the man demanded, "Who are you?"

"I-I...I don't know," the boy replied.

The Story Collector's eyes traveled up and down the boy's body, and at last, understanding seemed to dawn. "Ah. One of those cases. Well, you might as well come in and sit down."

He walked slowly back into the house. The boy, with some hesitation, though faced with the harsh reality that he had no other real choice, followed. And what he saw made him gasp.

Books. Books everywhere. Books lining the walls and stacked up on the floor until they brushed the ceiling. Books filling every nook and cranny he could see. He couldn't imagine that there was that much information to be learned.

"They aren't for learning," the Story Collector said, as if he could read minds. "They're for enjoyment. You're supposed to enjoy reading them."

Books for enjoyment? The boy had never heard of such a thing.

"And I have a basement where there are more," he added. The boy's eyes positively bulged.

In the center of the room, on the table, was the dead man.

The boy had known him. He felt a twinge somewhere inside of him, and wondered what it was. Perhaps he was sick.

The Story Collector took a large book out of the corner; it was the largest book the boy had ever seen. It was almost as tall as he was, and twice as thick. The Story Collector placed the book beside the man on the table. The boy opened his mouth to ask what he was doing, and to remind the man that he had a question, but the man hushed him. "Just watch, boy. This is important."

He opened the colossal book to the middle, and, having done this, picked up the dead man's blue hand. He moved the hand to the crease where the pages of the book met.

The moment the hand touched the page, blue spilled out.

It flowed from the man's hand onto the pages, splashing across the parchment and dripping into the pages below. The man's skin seemed to be spiraling, as the blue swirled faster and faster, up his body and through his hand, into the pages. The boy watched in awe as the blue man turned to the pale, pasty color that he had been once, when he started his journey at ten years old.

The last speck of blue drained from the man's fingernail.

The Story Collector took the man's hand off the book, picked up the man, and carried him out the back door. "Don't move," he commanded.

But the boy was curious. The book, he noticed, didn't have solid blue pages, but WORDS. And he realized, with a thrill, that this was the man's Text. This was his Story.