A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.1: Freedom

The Storyteller ran. He felt so light even as the heavy satchel around his shoulder slammed on his hip over and over and his guitar strap cut into his sides and his chest, there was no pressure upon his throat or his ribs or his heart or his soul and so he ran. He smiled then, running so quick on feet that were born to touch the frost-covered grass bare with his shirt as white as the moon in his hand though it was nothing close to a white flag of surrender, and he laughed. A real laugh, with his breath a blinding fog, which rang through the night with pure happiness and freedom, leaving everything from before this moment behind him. He had no use for it now.

He laughed at the full moon that shed white light upon his pale, scarred chest; he laughed at the stars that winked at him and followed his path just as quickly as his feet could carry him; he laughed at the midnight sky that concealed him while he escaped only to blind him with light once he was free.

He laughed and ran until he ran out of breath with a cramp in his side and only then did he stop and pull his shirt over his head, chest heaving, a smile burned upon his lips. He lay wearily, content, shivering beneath an oak tree and slept the night away with his satchel as his pillow and his flannel his blanket only to begin again as the midnight quilt was burned to blue by the blazing sunrise.

He walked North according to his compass, which pointed slightly left of true North, all the while humming a song to himself. He knew not what the song was called, nor any of the words, but he hummed it nonetheless because it was familiar and it kept his legs from giving out even after they should have and it kept the tears from falling from his eyes when his knee was scraped after he tripped on a crooked stone. He instead picked himself up and continued walking until his feet were numb from the cold.

He reached a place where there was a break in the trees and, looking to the main road, saw a sign that he recognized. He refused to read it aloud for fear it would disappear, simply smiling at it widely and escaping back into the trees. 'East now,' he decided and headed surely East, only checking his compass once, now confident in where he was going. It may have been only March, and still cold enough to need pants and shoes and flannels, and though he only had two of those, he knew where he was going and that was enough to keep his heart beating and his blood pumping.

His flannel was tugged around his shoulders as snow began to fall from the sky. It was a light and warm snow, March snow. The boy, so caught up in the joy of his freedom, caught snowflakes on his tongue and made half-hearted snow angels in the already melting snow. His smile was brighter than the sun, hidden beneath the thick layer of clouds.

He began to move once again, seeing that it was close to noon in relation to the sun's position. He trekked far, never letting up after that as his toes were freezing and he wrapped his feet in more cloth, hoping to preserve himself from frostbite. His satchel weighed heavy with books and his cards and stories and notebooks. His guitar was getting damp from snow and he reluctantly covered it with his flannel, his bare arms beginning to shake from the cold.

He panicked then, thinking he would not last through the spring. He knew, though, there were only a few months left. But a few months could mean snowstorms and blizzards and below freezing. Not to mention his lack of food. Only a single loaf of bread and bottle of water, complete with $20. He set his jaw, squared his shoulders, and continued on.

It did not take him long to reach his destination once the snow let up and he could once again claim his flannel. Fairgrounds. The same in each story he told; uneven roads, dust and mud, splintering seats. His new life was here, he was sure of it. And he would be damned if he didn't at least try to find it.