Cotion
I descended a little while later, deposited in a suit so far above my
payscale that I could feel it looking down its sleaves at me, and
entered the main hall.
Now, this is a little difficult, so I’m going to start simply. Imagine
your kitchen at home, or wherever you eat dinner. Now, imagine it with
flagstone floors. Don’t worry, I’ll still be here while you go put some
socks on.
Now, replace your dining room table with a very large, round, wooden
table. At the end of your kitchin is a fireplace with a nice roaring
fire in it. Now, imagine it at about a hundred times the size.
The room was the size of a football pitch, the table the size of a
ferris wheel placed on its side, the roaring fire contained whole trees
and was the size of my entire flat. I stood looking lost for a moment
before a helpful servant of some kind pointed me towards the fire, where
Art, Jenny and my new aquaintance Emily were waving at me. I sat down.
Over the next few hours we ate and drank and talked of many things. I
danced with Emily – I can’t dance, and she guided me though every step – and drank wine that would cost my entire retirement fund. As the evening
wore on and people came up to make their excuses and walk away, the
table shrank and we drew closer together. The music (did I mention the
music? There was music) faded away and the shadows drew in.
“You may wonder” said Art, “Why you are here.” and I realised that I had
wondered, once, but it had been swepted away in an evening of words,
dancing and Emily with whom – I was beginning to realise though a mist
of very good wine – I had been exceedingly comfortable with for a little
while now and could see no reason why it shouldn’t remain as such, and
all this had obscured – as well as the wine (and it was very, very good
wine. Did I mention that? I’m sorry, I may have mentioned that the wine
was nice, but it was nice wine. I’m sorry) – that I had once questioned
my position within the company and Art was begining to speak again.
“Well, it was partly to introduce to you some other people, partly to
see you enjoy yourself, and partly for this. You see, we have a
tradition in this hall of storytelling.”
The mist of wine, which was probably more like a fog, cleared up like a
icecube under a blowtorch. Stories were my life. Are, really, my life.
Art knows this.
“The best story of the night wins the night” he said. “And since this is
your first time, I think you should start. Tell us a story.”
And Emily shifted closer, and I suddenly felt a great need for this to
be a big, impressive story. I looked around the hall, grasping for
inspiration. A place to start from, my very own Keiser’s Corkboard.
There was a web above one of the pictures on the wall.
“Once upon a time….”
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