You managed to find yourself a quiet little spot underneath an old oak tree in the field opposite, studying the old history of the world of which we live in. You find yourself fascinated by the myths and stories told by your ancestors, from the ancient worlds of Greece, Rome, Britain, the Far East. But that would have to wait, as it looks like the day is drawing to a close.
As you stand up, looking upon the hills around, you often wonder what lies beyond your borders, daydreaming of what adventures could be had in the lands that are beyond your gaze on the horizon. But this is a fools dream, knowing in your heart that there may never be a chance to go and visit these lands.
No, the family always came first, or at least it did, when it seemed to be relevant to you. Your mind begins to wander to a dark memory, but you swallow that moment, and return back to the world of the living for the present, returning to your serene life of peace and order. Still, it doesn’t hurt to wonder.
The day brought about the usual chores, cleaning the house, feeding the animals you’ve associated with on your land like birds, cats, cows, even the Shetland ponies you find have taken up a permanent residence across the land. You’ve always been one with nature, having been practically raised on a farm itself, it seems to be the only real life you’ve ever known. Soon after, you decide to go star gazing. It’s a beautiful summer night, the tint of orange still at the base of the sky, the cool cut grass under your feet as you walk into the field, and the sound of crickets fills the night air.
The night time brings a certain easiness to your heart, you feel as if you could truly be yourself when looking upon the stars, and no one could ever judge you, no one could ever question your actions, and you didn’t need to worry about the happenings of the world. That’s when he came by. An old man. He seemed to have a funny way about him, draped in an old purple and light blue cloak, with a large pointy hat cocked over his eyes. What was most bewildering about this old man was this very strange hat. It had a charcoal grey belt with a gold buckle, and a series of small bells around the brim. He was not a stranger upon these parts, since you would often see him in the markets of the town, but never fully conversed with him, other than the occasional greetings as you passed each other in the street.
It was as you rested against your favourite tree, where he approached, right hand on his satchel, staring at you with a contented and bewildered look, as if he had just seen something, or in this case someone, who put whatever was troubling him in his thoughts to rest.
A minute passed before you acknowledged this old man, as he stood there running his hands over his long grey beard which reached down to his belt buckle.
“Good evening”, those seem to be the only words you can muster to the old man.
“And how is that so?”, replied the old man, hiding a smirk, as if to show that he is simply playing with you.
“Sorry?”
“How is it a good evening? Do you mean to tell me it’s a good evening? Or that you want me to feel good this evening?".
You can’t help but look a bit bemused as the old man rambled on,
“Or maybe that you wish me to have a good evening whether I want to be or not? Or perhaps it is not a good evening to start off with, and you wish me a better one for the remainder?”
You almost stumble upon your reply “If-If I had to decide, I’d say all at once I assume”, blinking in await as to what he would say next.
But he doesn’t reply, he just looks at you, with concerning eyes, taking note on how you chose to retort him. Standing his ground, he continues to eye over you.
“Is there something I can do for you?” you answer. He doesn’t seem to flinch a muscle at your remark, but you just can’t stand awkward silences. You pray that he simply says no, and moves along his business, but this is not what comes to pass. As an alternative, he simply stays in place, and breaths easily, with a glow in his eye.
“That will all depend upon yourself”.
You look even more puzzled to him than ever before, cocking an eyebrow up questioning his response. It depends on myself? How does it depend on myself? These seem the only questions which remain afloat at the moment.
He takes one step forward towards your sitting area, and rests both his hands on his cloak.
Whoa, you think to yourself, where are you going with this? Hoping for him to simply talk instead of making you feel as uncomfortable as ever.
“I’m looking for a certain someone to share in a little voyage with me”, smiling expecting an answer straight away.
A voyage? He barely said 10 words to me, and he expects me to say yes I’ll go on a trip with him? But not wanting to be rude, you allow him to continue with his explanation, but he doesn’t, instead he shifts from one foot to the other, seeing if you say yes. You cock your head to one side, ready to ask possibly the bluntest question that you could possibly think of.
“Wait, are you asking me if I want to go?”
He smiles to your question, content with what seems as the reply you just gave “Splendid, that is absolutely splendid news, I knew I could count on you”
You give a much questioned look now, both eyebrows raised, and your mouth dropped in surprise to what he said “Count on me? Count on me for what?” but before he answers, he starts to walk off. To which you scramble to your feet in order to chase down what he means by this outburst.
He is starting to make his way into the town, and so you stop, but only to be beckoned by him to follow him. This night just keeps getting odder and odder. Still, curious as to what he meant, you follow in pursuit.
After a lengthy 5 minute walk into town, over the cobble roads, and under the street lamps, where moths are buzzing near the lights, you seem to reach your destination. An old pub on the corner of a street. You gaze upon the sign of the brewery, vaguely recalling the last time you ventured into it. An almost ancient establishment, one where your family had brought you many years ago on a cold Christmas day, recounting the smell of pipe smoke, roast turkey on the spit fire, and the scented perfumes of the lady folk surrounding the tables. The last stop, which was what they called it, since there wasn’t another one for miles away.
The old man walks straight up to the bar, pointing two fingers upwards to the landlord, for two pints of golden ale. The man seems to know his way around town. And so he should, seeing as he’s been here since you were a small child, possibly before the last Great Conflict at least. The entire town is settling in for the night, as all the lights in people’s households flicker off throughout. It appears that tonight, the world has slunk underneath the blanket of darkness, leaving the two of you to discuss the obvious business at hand. But what business? Just who is this man? And what does he need you for?