In the hushed pre-dawn air, the old Storyteller, weary and hollow-eyed, finally stumbled into the deserted agora. Climbing atop a small hill, he settled onto his usual perch and leaned his aching shoulder against a large boulder resting beside it. Sleep had become a stranger as the relentless pain in his back and hip forced him into a nightly dance of tossing and turning. Yesterday, his pain worsening, the Storyteller visited a physician, but the only remedy offered was an elixir that was, at best, useless and, at worst, nauseating.

He exhaled, a wave of relief washing over him as the intense pain receded just enough for him to take a full, satisfying breath. It didn’t matter whether it was the pleasant surroundings or his uncomfortable posture; for the first time in weeks, he fell asleep.

He dearly loved this place, the aged Agora of Athens, for here he stood alone; he mattered. Over the years, storytellers would come and go, but not him; he had labored tirelessly. Near midday, each day, he could be found wandering about Athens’ seaports and its warren-like alleys, listening, straining to catch the hushed conversations of the sailors and merchants recounting the tales of what they had seen and heard as they sailed from port to port. He had acquired knowledge that eluded many through his efforts, often possessing it long before even those who were thought to be informed were aware.

Each evening, as was his way, he’d find a peaceful moment to reflect, thoughtfully incorporating his day’s discoveries into engaging stories for those who would gather to hear him at the agora. He was delighted to see how intently they listened, the soft smiles on their faces, and how their eyes would close in imagination as his words held them spellbound.

He was known as a storyteller, though recently some had labeled him a philosopher, a term that made him feel uneasy. Though he occasionally resorted to parables, he found the blatant flaws in human nature and political discourse awkward and inviting scrutiny from those quick to take offense. He was a humble storyteller, cherished by many who generously filled his purse, respected his privacy, and still let him vanish into any gathering without a second glance.

The morning’s sun soon crossed over the top of the boulder, and he could feel its warming rays upon his face. As he opened his eyes, he could see that many had gathered nearby, each taking great care not to wake him.

He looked up at the sky, a sleepy realization dawning that he’d been asleep for roughly four hours, and a smile spread across his face. Feeling energetic, he got up and warmly welcomed everyone, expressing his gratitude for their kindness.

Without a moment’s pause, the Storyteller, who found immense pleasure in weaving tales, began his work. Soon, just as he hoped, the agora was filled with admirers whose eyes shone with fervent admiration, their breath held captive by the cadence of his speech. With each subject he broached, he deftly directed their emotions, much like a puppet master guiding his marionette. This was not about him, no, he was never the subject; it was about his words and the way they held sway over those who listened.

As he spoke, a familiar face appeared, weaving through the dense crowd toward him, his gaze fixed solemnly on the Storyteller. It was the physician.

The Storyteller paused and, sensing that an unpleasant conversation was at hand, implored those assembled, who were now quite curious, for a few minutes of respite in order that two may converse in private.

The physician, his expression grim, revealed to the Storyteller what he had learned after his last visit. He shared that the Storyteller’s body was ravaged by an unprecedented level of cancer, unlike anything he’d witnessed in a person who was still alive. The physician then placed his hand on the Storyteller’s shoulder and asked if he could do anything to comfort him.

Though neither of them knew it, their words were overheard by others who had started whispering amongst themselves. Soon, the agora was filled with sounds of harried tones as many raced away, eager to tell the story of the Storyteller’s impending demise.

After his fate was revealed, a profound silence settled over the Storyteller. He took a moment to breathe, then bravely nodded, turned around, and faced the agora. He let out a sharp gasp. The sizable crowd that had been present moments earlier had disappeared. The physician, shaking his head at the behavior of his countrymen, frowned deeply.

“Why has everyone abandoned me?” the Storyteller wondered. Haven’t I earned their loyalty?

“I’m afraid not,” replied the physician. “The price for loyalty is beyond your means.”

“How could you say such a thing?” the Storyteller asked, staring at him, taken aback by his words.

“Each day you wander, listening to the dregs of society and gleaning an insight few will ever experience. Yet, your stories are benign, oddly reflecting very little of what you have seen and heard. Why is that?”

“So, you’re saying I should just rehash what I learned yesterday, every single day?” he snapped. “Betray their trust and reveal their secrets to the curious in exchange for a coin or two?”

“They aren’t aware of your existence,” the physician replied, shaking his head. “When you speak, do you offer ideas, thoughts, opinions, or even a solution?

“Those are questions for philosophers, not for me,” the Storyteller snapped, his voice laced with annoyance. “I don’t want to upset anyone; I just want to be left in peace.”

“And here we are,” the physician announced, his voice echoing slightly as he spread his arms to take in the agora’s entirety. “You’ve been granted the very thing you desired.”

“That was a rather unkind thing to say,” he murmured.

“I do not wish to be cruel, but honestly, what did you expect?” asked the physician. “Your stories criticize no one, nor do they offend, teach, or offer anything of value. They appear to be simple observations of your life’s experiences.

Honestly, haven’t you noticed that you’re at the end of the walkway that winds through the agora? Before they even get to you, these people have already had to listen to the lengthy, often-repeated speeches of at least two dozen philosophers, all hoping to win them over. Of course, they sit with you quietly, closing their eyes, eager to hear your words; you say nothing of consequence. With their minds weary, they desperately crave rest before facing the inevitable return to that hornet’s nest that lies ahead.

A much better option would have been for you to relax under that shady tree, complete with a large stack of cups and a jug of chilled water. They would have filled this field just the same and still left behind a coin or two for your trouble.

Loyalty, you ask. How devoted would you be to a man who simply offers you a cup of cold water?”

The Storyteller stood silently, regretting his seemingly simple question.

“I’m sorry for my harsh words, my friend,” the physician confessed in a hushed tone. “Given that death is so close, I didn’t want to fill your last moments with untruths.”

With a handshake and a strained smile, the physician solemnly left.

Crestfallen and alone, the Storyteller gazed from atop his small hill. His world had collapsed in mere moments, leaving him deserted and on the brink of death. For nearly twenty years, he had occupied this hallowed ground, always careful of his words and deeds, choosing each cautiously so that he was never the object of scorn or ridicule. He was an admired storyteller, a dusty-footed member of the Athenian middle class, or perhaps a rung just below it. Regardless of what the physician had said, he was quite at ease with his place in the world.

Sadly, he was no longer an observer of the story but had unintentionally become the story itself, a pit from which few, whether philosophers or simple storytellers, ever escape.

Looking out into the distance, he noticed that the individuals who had at one time regarded him with admiration were now scrutinizing him with an unmistakable air of disdain. He waved at them, but no one dared to wave back. The thought of watching him die of cancer, whatever that was, was repellent to everyone, and the idea of helping him, or worse, being saddled with him long-term if he died slowly, was unthinkable.

With a ferocity that was nothing short of hellish, his pain, which had subsided, suddenly returned with a vengeance. Feeling a surge of exhaustion, he sank to the ground and once more rested his throbbing shoulder against the boulder.

Reaching into the depths of his waistband, he took out a large flask of opium, a gift of kindness from the physician, and drank it all.

After a short while, the discomfort gradually subsided, and with a gentle inclination of his head, he found solace by leaning it against the boulder that was so well-known to him. From there, he gazed at the wide-open agora before him and smiled. “There once lived a simple man who loved to tell stories…” he whispered, his voice fading as he drifted into that eternal slumber.