Chapter Seven: The Blind
Rainy, the young Teller sat cross-legged in the center of a circle of small children, her voice weaving a story that danced through the warm afternoon air. The children’s faces were alight with wonder, their imaginations painting the pictures her words described. Behind them, a few adults lingered in the shadows, their arms crossed and expressions tight with disapproval. They didn’t like the stories Rainy told, but they couldn’t resist listening.
“Once, long ago,” Rainy began, “there was a world blanketed by darkness, where no one had eyes. Life unfolded through the symphony of other senses. The people lived in a vast garden, their hands brushing against leaves, their noses guiding them toward fragrant blossoms, their ears attuned to the rustling of the wind and the songs of unseen birds. They walked endlessly along paths that had always been there, finding comfort in the rhythm of their existence.”
A little boy raised his hand. “Did they really not have eyes?”
Rainy smiled gently. “Not like we do. They didn’t know what they were missing, so they thought their world was complete.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“But then, into this world, a child was born who could see.”
Gasps rippled through the circle. The children leaned closer, their curiosity palpable. One of the adults in the back muttered something under his breath, but Rainy continued undeterred.
“At first, she seemed like any other child,” Rainy said, her hands gesturing as she spoke. “But as she grew, she began to describe things that others could not fathom. She told them about colors, about shapes, about the way the sun made the leaves glow. The people didn’t understand. How could they? They had no eyes, no way to know what she was talking about.”
“What happened to her?” a little girl asked, her voice small.
Rainy’s expression grew somber. “They were afraid of her. They whispered that she might be a spirit or a witch. Her knowledge made them uneasy. They didn’t want her looking at them, seeing what they couldn’t see. They liked their darkness and wanted to stay in it. So they told her to leave.”
The children’s faces fell, and even the skeptical adults shifted uncomfortably. Rainy let the weight of the moment settle before she continued.
“But the child didn’t give up. She walked away from the garden, her heart heavy but her spirit hopeful. She believed there might be others like her, others who could see. She prayed that she wasn’t alone.”
Rainy’s voice softened, her words now carrying a note of triumph. “And one day, after many days and nights of walking, she found them. A small group of people, their eyes bright and open, just like hers. They welcomed her, and together, they built a new home, a place where sight was not feared but celebrated. They shared their knowledge, their wonder, and their light.”
The children’s eyes sparkled as they imagined the child’s journey and her discovery. One of the adults stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Why do you tell them such tales, Rainy?” he asked, his tone sharp. “What good is it to fill their heads with impossible ideas?”
Rainy met his gaze calmly. “Because stories teach us to hope,” she said. “They remind us that even in darkness, there is always the possibility of light.”
The man hesitated, then turned and walked away, shaking his head. But the children stayed, their faces aglow with the magic of Rainy’s words. And as she continued to speak, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to listen, too.
Rainy’s voice wavered as she finished her story, her gaze lifting from the small eager faces gathered before her. The children sat cross-legged still in a half-circle, their wide eyes still sparkling with the thrill of her tale. But beyond them, a different audience loomed. The village folk, drawn by her words, now stood at the edges of the square, whispering behind their hands and casting her sharp, disapproving glances.
She could feel their judgment pressing down on her like the weight of the storm clouds that often clung to the nearby mountains. The story she had just told—one of courage and doubt, of shadows and truths too heavy for the unready—had stirred something deeper in the children than mere wonder. For the adults, however, it was something else entirely: a challenge to their carefully curetted peace.
Rainy swallowed hard. Who did she think she was, they would say, spinning tales like that for the young ones? Tales that planted questions, that stirred fear as much as hope. The Tellers were meant to guide, to comfort, to illuminate a simple path. Her story, they would claim, veered too far into the wilderness.
She shifted uneasily, her fingers brushing the hem of her cloak. The murmurs behind her grew louder, the gestures sharper. Her chest tightened as the unspoken threat settled over her—exile.
In the village, to be cast out was not just to lose a home but to lose one’s purpose. Without the role of a Teller, what was she? Her stories would die with the wind, unheard, untethered. And so Rainy did what any Teller would do—she told another story.
But this one, she decided, would be safer. Softer. Something that would soothe the villagers' frayed nerves.
She raised her hands, calling the children’s attention back to her. Their chatter fell silent, their eyes glued to her like moths drawn to flame.
"Once," Rainy began, her voice light and melodic, "there was a little bird who lived in the tallest tree at the edge of a great forest. The bird loved her tree—it was her world, her home, her shelter from the wind and rain. But the little bird also loved the sky. She would sit on the highest branch and dream of flying farther than she ever had before, past the horizon where the sun dipped each evening."
The children leaned closer, and Rainy saw, with some relief, the softening expressions of the villagers in the background. This was the kind of story they approved of—simple, sweet, and harmless.
"But the bird was afraid," Rainy continued. "She had never flown so far before, and she worried: what if the winds were too strong? What if there was nowhere to land? What if she couldn’t find her way back?"
A boy in the front row tilted his head. "Did she ever go?" he asked, his voice full of innocence.
Rainy smiled. "Not at first. She stayed in her tree, watching the sun set and rise, imagining what it would be like to see the world beyond. But one day, a fierce storm came. The winds howled, the rain lashed, and her tree swayed and groaned under the weight of it all. The bird clung to her branch, trembling, until a great gust tore her loose."
She paused, letting the tension build. Even the adults seemed to lean in, despite themselves.
"And then," Rainy said, her voice softening, "she was flying. Not because she chose to, but because she had to. At first, she flailed, her wings awkward and her heart pounding. But as the storm carried her higher and farther than she’d ever dared to go, something changed. She stopped fighting the wind and began to glide with it. And for the first time, she felt the freedom of the open sky."
Rainy looked at the children, then at the villagers, who were now listening in reluctant silence. "When the storm passed, the bird looked down and saw a new land stretching out beneath her. It was full of trees even taller than her old one, rivers that sparkled in the sun, and valleys bursting with flowers. She realized she had found something she hadn’t even known she was searching for. And though she missed her old tree, she knew she could never return—not because she wasn’t welcome, but because her heart now belonged to the sky."
The children erupted into excited chatter, debating what the bird must have seen and what kind of adventures awaited her. The villagers exchanged glances but said nothing. Rainy’s story had been safe, yes, but it hadn’t been shallow. She had given them what they needed: a tale that comforted while still carrying a quiet truth.
As the crowd dispersed, the children running off to play and the adults returning to their tasks, Rainy sat alone for a moment, staring at the sky. She knew the villagers would still whisper about her; still watch her with wary eyes. But she also knew the power of stories, even the gentlest ones.
Perhaps she hadn’t been as safe as she thought.
Rainy touched the small book in her pocket. Her stories might not always be welcome, but they were hers, and they carried truths that even the villagers couldn’t deny forever.
With that, she stood, gathering her cloak around her. The children would come back tomorrow, eager for more tales. And Rainy would tell them—not to please the village, but to plant seeds in young hearts. Some seeds took longer to grow than others, but Rainy was patient.
After all, the sky didn’t belong to the bird alone. It belonged to all who dared to fly.
“Once, long ago,” Rainy began, “there was a world blanketed by darkness, where no one had eyes. Life unfolded through the symphony of other senses. The people lived in a vast garden, their hands brushing against leaves, their noses guiding them toward fragrant blossoms, their ears attuned to the rustling of the wind and the songs of unseen birds. They walked endlessly along paths that had always been there, finding comfort in the rhythm of their existence.”
A little boy raised his hand. “Did they really not have eyes?”
Rainy smiled gently. “Not like we do. They didn’t know what they were missing, so they thought their world was complete.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“But then, into this world, a child was born who could see.”
Gasps rippled through the circle. The children leaned closer, their curiosity palpable. One of the adults in the back muttered something under his breath, but Rainy continued undeterred.
“At first, she seemed like any other child,” Rainy said, her hands gesturing as she spoke. “But as she grew, she began to describe things that others could not fathom. She told them about colors, about shapes, about the way the sun made the leaves glow. The people didn’t understand. How could they? They had no eyes, no way to know what she was talking about.”
“What happened to her?” a little girl asked, her voice small.
Rainy’s expression grew somber. “They were afraid of her. They whispered that she might be a spirit or a witch. Her knowledge made them uneasy. They didn’t want her looking at them, seeing what they couldn’t see. They liked their darkness and wanted to stay in it. So they told her to leave.”
The children’s faces fell, and even the skeptical adults shifted uncomfortably. Rainy let the weight of the moment settle before she continued.
“But the child didn’t give up. She walked away from the garden, her heart heavy but her spirit hopeful. She believed there might be others like her, others who could see. She prayed that she wasn’t alone.”
Rainy’s voice softened, her words now carrying a note of triumph. “And one day, after many days and nights of walking, she found them. A small group of people, their eyes bright and open, just like hers. They welcomed her, and together, they built a new home, a place where sight was not feared but celebrated. They shared their knowledge, their wonder, and their light.”
The children’s eyes sparkled as they imagined the child’s journey and her discovery. One of the adults stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Why do you tell them such tales, Rainy?” he asked, his tone sharp. “What good is it to fill their heads with impossible ideas?”
Rainy met his gaze calmly. “Because stories teach us to hope,” she said. “They remind us that even in darkness, there is always the possibility of light.”
The man hesitated, then turned and walked away, shaking his head. But the children stayed, their faces aglow with the magic of Rainy’s words. And as she continued to speak, the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to listen, too.
Rainy’s voice wavered as she finished her story, her gaze lifting from the small eager faces gathered before her. The children sat cross-legged still in a half-circle, their wide eyes still sparkling with the thrill of her tale. But beyond them, a different audience loomed. The village folk, drawn by her words, now stood at the edges of the square, whispering behind their hands and casting her sharp, disapproving glances.
She could feel their judgment pressing down on her like the weight of the storm clouds that often clung to the nearby mountains. The story she had just told—one of courage and doubt, of shadows and truths too heavy for the unready—had stirred something deeper in the children than mere wonder. For the adults, however, it was something else entirely: a challenge to their carefully curetted peace.
Rainy swallowed hard. Who did she think she was, they would say, spinning tales like that for the young ones? Tales that planted questions, that stirred fear as much as hope. The Tellers were meant to guide, to comfort, to illuminate a simple path. Her story, they would claim, veered too far into the wilderness.
She shifted uneasily, her fingers brushing the hem of her cloak. The murmurs behind her grew louder, the gestures sharper. Her chest tightened as the unspoken threat settled over her—exile.
In the village, to be cast out was not just to lose a home but to lose one’s purpose. Without the role of a Teller, what was she? Her stories would die with the wind, unheard, untethered. And so Rainy did what any Teller would do—she told another story.
But this one, she decided, would be safer. Softer. Something that would soothe the villagers' frayed nerves.
She raised her hands, calling the children’s attention back to her. Their chatter fell silent, their eyes glued to her like moths drawn to flame.
"Once," Rainy began, her voice light and melodic, "there was a little bird who lived in the tallest tree at the edge of a great forest. The bird loved her tree—it was her world, her home, her shelter from the wind and rain. But the little bird also loved the sky. She would sit on the highest branch and dream of flying farther than she ever had before, past the horizon where the sun dipped each evening."
The children leaned closer, and Rainy saw, with some relief, the softening expressions of the villagers in the background. This was the kind of story they approved of—simple, sweet, and harmless.
"But the bird was afraid," Rainy continued. "She had never flown so far before, and she worried: what if the winds were too strong? What if there was nowhere to land? What if she couldn’t find her way back?"
A boy in the front row tilted his head. "Did she ever go?" he asked, his voice full of innocence.
Rainy smiled. "Not at first. She stayed in her tree, watching the sun set and rise, imagining what it would be like to see the world beyond. But one day, a fierce storm came. The winds howled, the rain lashed, and her tree swayed and groaned under the weight of it all. The bird clung to her branch, trembling, until a great gust tore her loose."
She paused, letting the tension build. Even the adults seemed to lean in, despite themselves.
"And then," Rainy said, her voice softening, "she was flying. Not because she chose to, but because she had to. At first, she flailed, her wings awkward and her heart pounding. But as the storm carried her higher and farther than she’d ever dared to go, something changed. She stopped fighting the wind and began to glide with it. And for the first time, she felt the freedom of the open sky."
Rainy looked at the children, then at the villagers, who were now listening in reluctant silence. "When the storm passed, the bird looked down and saw a new land stretching out beneath her. It was full of trees even taller than her old one, rivers that sparkled in the sun, and valleys bursting with flowers. She realized she had found something she hadn’t even known she was searching for. And though she missed her old tree, she knew she could never return—not because she wasn’t welcome, but because her heart now belonged to the sky."
The children erupted into excited chatter, debating what the bird must have seen and what kind of adventures awaited her. The villagers exchanged glances but said nothing. Rainy’s story had been safe, yes, but it hadn’t been shallow. She had given them what they needed: a tale that comforted while still carrying a quiet truth.
As the crowd dispersed, the children running off to play and the adults returning to their tasks, Rainy sat alone for a moment, staring at the sky. She knew the villagers would still whisper about her; still watch her with wary eyes. But she also knew the power of stories, even the gentlest ones.
Perhaps she hadn’t been as safe as she thought.
Rainy touched the small book in her pocket. Her stories might not always be welcome, but they were hers, and they carried truths that even the villagers couldn’t deny forever.
With that, she stood, gathering her cloak around her. The children would come back tomorrow, eager for more tales. And Rainy would tell them—not to please the village, but to plant seeds in young hearts. Some seeds took longer to grow than others, but Rainy was patient.
After all, the sky didn’t belong to the bird alone. It belonged to all who dared to fly.