The Engineer of Storytelling

My Aunt Lyla would take us walking through the woods behind her home. The trees would move with the wind and slowly the leaves on the ground would rustle.

“Sh. Listen, they’re talking,” she’d say, kneeling on the ground. “The trees are speaking to one another, and if you wait, will you listen.”

“I don’t hear anything,” my younger sister, Elise, whispered, scanning for something, waiting to hear them speak.

“They’re language is not like ours,” my aunt said, her hair flowing in the wind. “Words are not the only thing one needs to make a language.”

“Who understands them, Aunt?” I whispered. She smiled at me, while glancing up. “Is there anyone out there who can?”

“Oh, there is one. He understands all languages, even the ones that are not spoken.”

“Where is he then?” Elise looked around, as if he might appear too, from among the trees.

“There are legends, but the one I believe is he’s trapped—deep in the forests, somewhere; he’s not been seen in ages. Since then, everything has not been right, almost…forgotten.” She grabbed our hands to return home.

    “And what did he do, Aunt? Why is he of great importance?”

I remember her smile, her stare, as she walked. “My dear, he’s the reason why there’s anything at all to stand for. The natural world exists because of him, many creatures great and small thank him for all of it, and not to mention, stories—well, he invented them, of course.”

We were small then, young enough to believe fairy-tales, and old enough to know she spoke truth.

“What is he called?” Elise said softly.

“The Engineer. The Engineer of Storytelling.”

The trees moved in agreement, and the wind glistened in the fading sunlight, as we walked home, before darkness consumed the forest.