EPILOGUE

 

 

“...WELL?”

“Well what?” asked the storyteller.

Mouse was leaning so far forward on the stump, he was in danger of losing his balance and toppling off. “What happened after that?”

The storyteller pointed upwards. “The sky grows dark—or even darker, I should say. It will be night-time soon and I don’t have to tell you what dangers await if you linger in these parts too long.”

“But—”

The storyteller held up a finger, though it didn’t stop Mouse from continuing.

“But that can’t be the end of the story!”

“The end?” said the old man, smiling and revealing those rotten teeth. “Oh, my young friend, stories never end. They have happened before, many times—and will happen again.”

“What?” Mouse was confused. “What do you mean?”

The old man said nothing.

“Look, I just want to know what happens next!”

“I’ll tell you what, if you return this time tomorrow, I promise I will continue the story. Is that acceptable to you?”

Mouse thought about it for a moment or so. It seemed fair enough, and the sky was getting quite dark. He should probably find somewhere to sleep... to hide overnight. “Okay,” he said. “If you promise.”

“I just did, did I not?”

Mouse got up off the stump. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

The old man nodded.

Mouse was turning to leave, when he thought suddenly. Something he couldn’t wait for, something he had to know. “The... rocket thing, as you called it; was that what caused—” He began, but realised there was nobody around. The old man, the storyteller, was gone—as quickly and mysteriously as he had appeared in the first place.

Mouse looked about him, but all he could see were the blackened stumps.

There was no time to think about that now; Mouse had to get out of there. Find cover before night really did fall.

But he would return tomorrow, because he wanted to know. Whether or not the old man would keep his promise, Mouse couldn’t be certain. Trust was a hard thing to come by these days.

Yet as he wandered off to lose himself, to get to safety, he began to hope. And that seemed strange, after its absence all these years.

In the end, though, he realised—as well as the story—that was something else the storyteller had given him.

Hope, where once there had been none.

And trust, in a world without faith.