Just days before our autumn festival, my mentor's old age caught up with him, and he died. He was gone from this life, this story, gone from me, and I felt just as dead. He was my teacher, my father, my closest friend, and I was now at a loss as to what to do. For days I sat in my tent alone, listening to the rain, staring at the fire as the smoke rose through the ceiling. I wanted to go out, fly in this downpour and let it wash away my grief, but I couldn't move. Wherever he was, he probably wouldn't even remember my name, for I did have a name, or my face, I thought. My eyes were like the sky outside. I tried to wipe the tears away, and the almost fur-like skin of my hands felt unusually comforting on my face. I remembered when as a child, my mentor would speak of me in the future tense. He would stroke my face and tell me of my gift of being a storyteller. I didn't know what exactly he had meant until he began training me for the art. With just a whim, my voice could convey the most agonizing grief, or the most amazing wonder. He taught me to hold my audience in my palms. I was very close to being a true storyteller, close to the point where I would weave my tales for my clan, and become their official record keeper. Then the tragedy hit, and there was no more training. I sat in that tent for days. The dark one came to check on me often, but I barely noticed. I didn't eat much and I slept less. Time was frozen for me in the sound of the drumming rain outside and the crackling fire before me.
The festival was to go on as planned. I heard a distant voice calling my name. The hunter stood outside the tent flap. The stories were always a large part of the festivities, and he said the clan wanted me to go on with my duties. I told him I was not ready, that I hadn't yet completed my training, that I couldn't possibly attempt yet to replace the old one. He came in and sat next to me. He said the clan had faith in my abilities, and reminded me that life goes on. I stared at the flames, not answering. He gently turned my head to face him, his eyes glowing in the firelight. "Please, come to festival. Tell a story of your mentor's travels. Tell it in the manner he taught you, how I've seen you weave your stories, and honor his memory tonight." I slowly nodded, and he smiled. Putting on my purple-gray cloak, we walked out of the tent and to the circle of pavilions, which marked the festival. It had stopped raining the day before, I just hadn't noticed. The clan was gathered, enjoying the feast. They gathered around the center bonfire, and I stood nervously before them. I began my tales, and soon the entire gathering was silent, hanging on my words. I knew I had them enthralled. I looked off to the side, and just at the light's edge the dark hunter stood smiling. I knew he was proud of me...my mentor also.
I was now the storyteller. I enjoyed my duties, and I think that is what honored the old one's memory the most. And I was grateful to the hunter for dragging me from the fire, from wallowing in sadness. We didn't get to hunt together as often anymore, so I cherished those few times we did have, spending all day at the beach, watching the moon rise from the water. I taught him a little of storytelling, and we would invite the children from the nearest human village to join our young as his practice audience. He could get very silly, and they would giggle until their faces hurt.
Months later, members of our clan gathered for the evening meal. I sat by the fire, watching the last rays of daylight fade. The hunter brought me a bowl of stew and sat beside me. I asked if he was not hungry, he just shook his head and stared at the fire. I asked if there was anything wrong, he said it was nothing. I didn't push him about it, I ate my stew, talked with some others. I set my empty bowl on the ground in front of me, and looked again to my dark friend. I saw such distress in his face, sadness in his eyes. But he would not tell me what troubled him. He took my bowl to be cleaned. I watched the fire hypnotically, I didn't even noticed that he'd returned. I teetered in my seat, and he put his hands on my shoulders to steady me. I said I didn't feel well, but I couldn't stand, I felt very tired. I think he carried me to my tent. I remember laying on my mat looking up at him, but as if I were looking through a cloud. Then darkness.
When I awoke my tent, all the other structures, the other members of my clan, were all gone. There weren't even scorch marks on the ground from our fires, or holes in the ground from our tent posts. I sat up, my cloak falling from my shoulders like it had been draped over me as I slept. It was day, but I felt as if I had been asleep for years. I scrambled around the hill for any sign of my clan. There were no tracks on the road other than the usual wagon wheel treads and horses. I flew above the clearing and saw nothing. They had vanished, like they never existed. All that was left was a lone storyteller with her cloak and pendant.