The storytelling traveler entered the village, his cloak dusted from the road and his staggered mare waiting patiently outside. He paused, taking in the lively scene—laughter, song, and the aroma of baking bread. Without hesitation, he made his way to the local tavern, eager to begin his ritual of tales.
The tavern owner, a burly man with a broad smile, greeted the traveler. "Good Morn my visiting friend, what can I get thee?" "A pewter tanker of your local ale," replied the traveler, settling onto a sturdy stool. As the tavern owner ladled ale, the villagers leaned in, eager for a story. "I have been forth village to thy village with my staggered mare outside. Telling stories near and far... From village peats to village fens, I have told stories everywhere, tales of times gone by to future tales of true crime, story books to little crooks and grandiose tales to queens and maidens and to her listening palace." One by one, the patrons’ eyelids drooped, heads bowed, and sleep overtook them, leaving the traveler to sip his ale in peace.
A market stall owner, hands stained with berry juice, questioned him. "Where ye, from, lonely traveler?" "I am be from, where miles meet ye sun, rivers kiss oceans and mountains rub clouds," he replied, spinning another tale of distant lands. As he spoke, the villagers gathered closer, entranced by the rhythm of his words. Slowly, the marketeers slumped behind their stalls, drifting into a gentle, dreamless sleep, granting the traveler solitude to browse.
The inn lady, her apron dusted with flour, approached. "Good Noon, wary traveler, been on the steed for long?" "I have traveled through the night, stopping at every village. My mare’s feet are weak and she needs to eat. I ask, can she have a bag of grain? The people of my last village say ye be nicer than they!" The inn lady prepared a feast for the horse, and as the traveler regaled the women with tales of ladies’ fashion and perfumes, they too succumbed to sleep, falling gently across chairs and beds.
The village pastor, robed in faded linen, greeted him. "Ye traveled far?" "I have cometh from Babylon Jerusalem, meeting other pastors, their closest earthly men to god," the traveler replied. Children and parishioners gathered, listening intently. Only the deaf and mute child, eyes wide and alert, remained unaffected, faking sleep while he watched the storyteller’s magic unfold. The rest of the flock succumbed to slumber.
Angry murmurs fill the air as villagers demand answers, but the child’s gestures and signs are misunderstood. He leads them toward the next village, crossing the stone bridge under moonlight. Upon arrival, they discover a grim scene: the next village sleeps deeply, never to wake, livestock and sheep among them, while the storyteller remains, spinning tales to oblivious animals.
He becomes a storyteller himself, sharing the legend of the traveler who sent everyone into deep, deep sleep. Yet, as he speaks, listeners gently drift into slumber, the cycle repeating, and the legend of “The Sleep” lives on, spreading from village to village with each retelling.
