A Story of Hope

The old woman pushed her rickety handcart into the town square as the sun dipped below the distant horizon.

She moved slowly, no more than a shuffle really, but there was a purpose in her step. A homespun shawl was wrapped around her frail shoulders, and her gray hair was tied back. Her face had lines upon her skin, and she looked weary from her journey. She’d been walking all day, but she had finally made it. This was where she needed to be.

The town square was nearly deserted. The vendors at the stalls were done for the day. Their wares were either sold or put away. Still, the old woman pushed her handcart toward an empty space between two stalls.

She felt eyes on her and turned her gaze to see two young children peeking out from behind one of the nearby stalls. They ducked out of sight with frantic whispers when they realized she had seen them. She pursed her lips together and then smiled faintly. No, she wasn’t too late. Not at all.

She set down her handcart and began to unpack its few contents. A small wooden stool. A loaf of bread wrapped in cloth. A waterskin of faded leather.

The old woman sat down on the wooden stool, grateful to be off her feet. She felt the eyes once more. This time, she didn’t look up. Instead, she unwrapped the loaf of bread and tore a piece off it. She chewed that piece slowly, with exaggerated care, and set the rest of the loaf on the handcart.

“My, my,” she sighed in a carrying voice. “If only there were someone to help me finish my supper. I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

The town square was silent; nothing moved.

Then, two small children with dirty faces and ragged clothes stepped out from behind a nearby stall. They approached the old woman cautiously. One looked older than the other—a girl and a younger boy. Siblings, perhaps.

The girl darted forward and snatched the bread from where the old woman had left it. The girl drew back from the old woman’s reach and then tore the loaf in half. She handed one of the pieces to the boy. Both devoured the bread hungrily.

The old woman simply smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes as she looked at the children. She took a drink from her waterskin, and as she did so, the girl spoke up.

“Where’d you come from?”

The old woman’s smile grew. “A difficult question to answer, child,” she mused. “I’ve been all over this land. I come from far away—very far away, as far as the distant stars.”

The young boy’s eyes widened. “That’s pretty far!” he exclaimed, and the old woman chuckled.

“Why, yes, yes, it is.”

“Why are you here?” the girl asked her.

“Another good question,” the old woman said. “I’m here because I needed someplace to sit and rest for a while. I’ve been walking for a long time. All day, in fact.”

“Are you a traveling merchant?” the boy asked. He eyed her handcart curiously, wondering if she had trinkets or baubles hidden beneath the ragged blanket.

The old woman shook her head. “Not a merchant, no,” she said. “What I have is worth far more than what they have to sell. Though, I have nothing to sell.”

The girl frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

The old woman smiled at the children. “I’m a storyteller, dear. Would you like to hear a story?”

Both children nodded eagerly. Their faces lit up with excitement. The old woman’s smile grew, and she beckoned the children closer to where she sat. “Very well.” Once they were seated in front of her, she began her tale. It was a tale she had told many times before and likely would tell many times again.

“Once, long ago, in a far-off land, there lived two young children—a brother and a sister. Life had not been kind to them.

“The brother and sister lived on the streets; they had no place to call their own, no place to keep themselves safe. They slept wherever they found shelter. Sometimes they slept in kind strangers’ barns under the warm, soft hay. Other times, they slept out in the elements, under a field of stars that danced their way across the night sky.

“They begged for food; at the mercy of strangers, they often went hungry. On more than one occasion, the thought of stealing food from street vendors crossed their minds. But if they did, the brother and sister knew. There would be no place safe for them from the law; nowhere they could hide from justice. They would be on the run from then on, forever.

“They had no parents, no one who cared for them, wondered where they were, or scolded them if they were late for supper or if they had dirt on their faces. Their clothes were threadbare and torn. The sister had tried patching them with a needle and thread that she found, but despite her best efforts, their clothes were still ragged and tattered.

“They saw other children their age, well-fed, dressed warmly, and loved by their families. They watched as the other children went to school, laughing and playing together in carefree childhood bliss. And they wondered. The brother and sister wondered what life would look like if they didn’t need to worry about what they would eat or drink or where they’d sleep that night. What would that sort of life look like for them?

“The brother and sister knew that life had not been kind to them. Life had been cruel and had left them with practically nothing. But they had each other, and that was enough. That was more than enough. They knew that. Even if they had nothing, they still had each other. Knowing that got them through many hardships. That, and stories.

“The brother would tell the most wonderful stories to his sister on cold and sleepless nights. And such stories they were! They were filled with lost princesses, wandering knights, and powerful wizards, and were often stories of overcoming frightening monsters and impossible tasks, of triumph and victory. The brother’s stories always filled his sister with hope and a desire to hear another tale. Those stories were bright moments of happiness amid the darkness of the world around them.

“The brother could see the excitement and joy on his sister’s face as he told her the stories he spun. That look was the one that pushed him to keep telling his stories—through good times and bad. If he could see that look one more time, that was all he needed.

“Eventually, the brother and sister grew up, as all children do. They were able to find work for themselves, and they worked hard to provide for each other. For the first time in their lives, they didn’t have to worry about the things many people take for granted. They had survived.

“And the brother and sister knew. Without each other, and stories, they would likely not have made it. They knew full well the importance of such things as family and stories. And they would never forget. Even if long years passed since they’d heard the stories last, they would never forget. The End.”

“Remember what I told you, children,” whispered the old woman to the two children gathered close to her.

“Look,” she urged them, and they pressed closer. The last rays of the sun had departed from the town square. Darkness had crept upon the three of them, unaware as she told her story.

The old woman took a match from the pocket of her dress and struck it with her fingernail. Light flared into existence. The young boy drew back, startled, and the old woman smiled, reassuring him that all was well.

“Stories are a thousand little candles, brightening a darkened world,” she murmured, watching the flame. She waved her hand in front of the burning match, and it looked as though she had grabbed the tongue of flame from the match head before tossing it into the night sky overhead.

The girl gasped and then looked up, following the movement of her hand.

“Stories are a thousand little stars, shining in a field of pitch-black night,” the old woman told them.

“Look,” she said again.

The old woman showed them her empty hand. The other held the deadened, darkened matchstick. She reached up into the sky as if to pluck a star from the heavens. Her hand closed into a fist around the burned-out matchstick, and she smiled at the two children. Then, she opened her hand slowly. The children gasped. There, impossibly, a small flame had been rekindled on the head of the match, flickering faintly.

Her words were barely more than a whisper, but they didn’t need to be more than that. “This is important, dear children. Take hold of stories,” she whispered to them. “And then, share them with others so that they too may see the light.”

She fell silent and bowed her head, blowing out the match. A faint tongue of smoke drifted up from the matchstick into the night sky. Her tale was finished. She’d said what she needed to say.

The children sat back, the last crumbs of the bread long since devoured. The girl had a troubled expression on her face, though, and the old woman noticed.

“What is the matter, child?” she asked kindly, though she could guess what was bothering the child.

“Was that supposed to be us?” the girl demanded, a hint of anger in her young voice. “Was that supposed to make us feel better? Was that supposed to solve all our problems? Tell a few stories to each other?”

The old woman was silent for a moment, not at all surprised by the girl’s anger. She stared back at her, a sad look in her eye. “Oh child,” she whispered. “That story wasn’t about you, as much as it might seem like it was. And no, stories don’t solve all our problems.”

The girl looked taken aback by that confession, but the old woman wasn’t done. She paused, a faint look of remembrance on her face.

“Not all stories I tell are my own, but this one was. Every single word I told you was true. It happened to me. My brother and I grew up on the streets, and for a long time, all we had was each other and the stories my brother would tell. Those stories gave me hope to not give up, hope that someday, my brother and I would be okay. And eventually, we were. Despite that being many long years ago, I’ve never forgotten. Remember what I told you. Stories are important, children. Stories shape us, just as they are shaped by us. That’s why I told you that story instead of a different one.”

“What do you mean?” the boy asked with a frown.

The old woman smiled and gestured to herself. “Because of our time spent living on the streets as we grew up, my brother and I realized we wanted to do everything we could to make sure that no child went through the same kind of life. We worked hard to save up money and started up an orphanage. All sorts of children live there.

“If you wish, you may come with me when I leave this town and head on to the next. Before long, we’ll head back to my orphanage. That’s why I travel, you see. To tell my stories and look for children who need a place to stay with good clothes and warm food. If you decide to come with me, who knows? Perhaps it will lead us both to a better place.”

Both children were quiet; they looked at the old woman with wide eyes, not even daring to hope.

Then, “Why?” asked the girl. “Why would you do that for us?”

The old woman thought about her question and then gestured to the two children in front of her. “Why? Perhaps it is because I once sat where you sit now. I am old now, children, older than I look. I’ve lived a long life, and I’ve experienced both joys and sorrows. I know how hard this life can be, how easy it is to lose hope. I know how terrible that feels. If by doing this for you, I can keep you from experiencing that any more than you already have, I will.”

She paused and then asked the two children, “What do you say? Do you want to hear another story?”

The brother and sister looked at each other, and they knew. They knew she was offering them more than just a story. She offered them hope. Then, they looked back at her and nodded solemnly. She smiled and nodded back. She settled on her stool across from the children and wondered what sort of story she would tell them next. Then, she found it. The old woman took in a deep breath and began to tell them another tale. It would be a story of hope.

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