Villagers trekked from the far reaches of the land and those who could not walk were carried – this was the night of Syrots.
The throng gathered shoulder to shoulder, forming a crescent before the blazing fire that rose high into the night sky. Children on shoulders pointed and laughed at the shadows that danced eerily across the faces of those perched precariously on the branch of a nearby tree.
Excited voices dimmed to the crack of orange sparks spat from the glowing fire, zipping the air as earthly comets. No one took their gaze from the story teller, for soon all will be caught in his web of words. For he is the dreamer, the actor, the poet in stories that have been handed down from one generation to the next.
The story teller is now the writer of books, still forever the actor of words. He can be found in every library, in books tall as the Red Wood, and pages that await the inquiring mind in words woken from their sleep as children’s itchy fingers seek adventures in stories old and new, answers to questions of how and why? The questions that made you and I sigh.
A library, a place where silence is alive, safe from the busy feet that pound the street, and the clatter of chatter that does not matter, for it has seen the passing of the young and old, in faces like books that are waiting for their story to be told.
Books are so extraordinary, they have the power to transform that which is ordinary to one of amaze, yet more amazing are the lives they have ‘Inspired’.