A Stranger’s Tales

 

 

I spent last night sitting with a very strange-looking man. I have no idea where he came from, but the man told me stories in a smooth, but somewhat gravely, hypnotic voice. His eyes seemed to change color with every sentence he spoke and his skin was an eerie reddish hue.

I wanted to leave, but when I tried to stand he would begin another story and I would sit down in wide-eyed awe. He knew things that no other could possibly know, and told of happiness, pain, life and death as if it were all one and the same.

The man said a book had been written about 3500 years ago and was intentionally misinterpreted so it could be used to benefit the Kings, Queens, and wealthy land owners of all the kingdoms across the land. It became nothing more than a rule book to keep the poor and enslaved in line, and in fear of what would happen if they didn’t obey. The reddish colored man claimed he only came into existence after the book had been translated over and over to fit the needs of each generation of Lords and Ladies. I asked if that meant he only existed in my imagination and after a short time he said, “I’m no longer sure if I am real, or not. I guess I’ll be real as long as the book exists, but when it’s gone and faded from memory, the way of most ancient tales, I’ll fade away, also.” I told him that he sounded as if he wanted the book to be forgotten. He just looked toward the ceiling, shook his head, and started another story.

Near dawn, after the man had finished the last of his stories, he sat quietly for a few moments as if he had forgotten I was there. Then he slowly stood, walked across the room and poured us a drink. I noticed his yellow finger nails as he served me red wine in a long-stemmed glass. I hesitantly took a small sip, but he drank his down in one swallow, and said, “Don’t worry about it. They’re only stories from a once feared man who is fading into obscurity. Truly, I was never a threat to anyone.”

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again he was gone. I knew it was only a dream… until I got out of bed and stepped on a very fragile long-stemmed wine glass. I guess small remnants of a long-lost belief that was forced on me as a child still exists, but it’s quickly dying. I won’t hold that against my mother. Having been born in 1916, at a time of world-wide religious fanaticism, she didn’t know any better.