Patience of a Patron

It was overcast and heavy outside. The wind huffed its way through the trees, setting their leaves all a fluster. Somewhere a dog was barking. Shouting his scorn in words falling upon deaf ears. People moved too and fro on their journeys, passing one another with hurried defensive strides.

He spent many days at this window. Warm within his comfortable home, running his gaze back and forth as the world bustled on by. The world had gone and gotten itself in an awful hurry.
The broad features were rich with care worn lines and as usual a slight frown drew his heavy eyebrows slightly closer together. It hadn't been too long since the last visit from the little story teller, but still he felt the creep of that loneliness return. For so long he had existed without companionship and had, so he believed, been quite content. 

Now, he wasn't so sure.

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There had always been change, for to change is to grow, but now the change was building and he felt the shifting energies as if it were an ache in his very bones. She was at work, He was sure of that. There were Big tales to be told. There was work to be done and change to occur, but even the little storyteller's life was full of its own bustle. 

Shaking his head to clear the clouds within he turned from the window and roamed his gaze about the room. The table stood with papers strewn across its surface. Moving over he glanced down at the words scrawled in print. Here a sheet describing a battle against a worthy rival. He smiled to recall that great day and reaching his big hand up to his arm, stroked the scar there under his loose shirt with a callused thumb.  It was a good fight that, he thought as he returned the paper to the pile.

His eyes roamed across the sheets and scrawls, the sketches and the drawings, coming to rest on another pile as yet unfinished. The smile became a smirk as he recalled the storytellers blush. No prude them-self, they still turned quite red as he began describing the encounter at the ford. This work will be completed like the others, the story teller just needed time away from that particularly heated topic. 

Stepping past the table he moved towards his chair, passing the wall where he fondly kept all the postcards he received from those all around the world who took time to remember him. There were not many, but he cherished each and every one, and always enjoyed a happy smile when another one arrived. 

Settling into his wide comfy arm chair, he glanced at the phone. It had been a long time since it rang and once again there were no messages. Blowing out a hefty sigh, the Dagda picked up his book and turned back to his place to read. 

The Scéalaí Beag would be back soon. Who knows, maybe there would be a call for help with some work or other once the stories get around. He smiled at the memory of the big busy days, then got back into his book.
He was nothing if not patient.

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Slán
 An Scéalaí Beag