The Prophet in the Graveyard

While most dramatic tales begin with "once upon a time," you will find this story will be no different. For it was once upon a time that this story was told to me by my grandfather, his voice low and warm, with a jolly laugh that shook Santa Claus with envy. He always began his stories with "once upon a time"; whether it was to ignite the mystery in my bones, I do not know, but it rather did make sleep draw near. I cannot be sure if it was the story itself or the way he spoke that made my eyes heavy.

So, I will tell you the same stories he told me, only to help you fall asleep at night if you are the kind with a heart missing of fear.

"Once upon a time, on the fifth street from our dwellings, near the old swing Old Man Dougie put up for all of the children to play, they lay an outback road. Prized in rotting branches and hidden snakes waiting to feast on a rabbit hopping by. Only that rabbit never came to the snake's demise, only a young man skipping along town to meet his love.

The smell of damp moss welcomed his nose, the crunch of twigs under his shoes, and the harmony of the bird's song.

He made his way only a few yards into the woods when he started to notice archaic inscriptions clawed into the pine trees. The air smelt of salt and tasted of iron, burning his eyes and throat. So much so he thought the symbols to be glowing! The markings seemed to be shaped like eyes or a poorly drawn storm cloud.

Now, I wonder what—

The rustling of bush yanked him out of thought. He turned to see why insects of all frightening sizes scrambled out from the murmuring thicket.

It was then that an old man from the wood greeted him, “What brings you to this side of the woods, young man?"

He was a giant in size with waist-length white hair, his face stern and stubborn as a donkey. The old man's calloused hands lay on the hunting knife by his hip.

“I am going to see my darling; she lives across the forest,” the young man answered with a bright smile, but the old man’s pale lips downturned.

The sky clouded in birds while a snake slithered by to escape the weather.

"Surely you've heard the stories," the elderly man said, his voice as thick as the clouds above. "Only a fool risks the wrath of the lightning god. This trail is his graveyard. Go around; the route is longer, but you will endure."

The young man smirked and tossed his head, like a proud colt. "My father called me bright, and my mother called me powerful. I fear no god made of ghost stories—and no old man who believes them."

"You're obviously not. The god travels this way at night. He has a thunderous voice and a flaming hand. If you approach him with empty hands, he will light you up until you're nothing but ash, like a lightning-struck tree," the stranger with prophet eyes said with a husky tone.

The callow man rolled his brown eyes. "A flaming hand? You are daft! All this living in the woods has made you daft, old man!"

He leaned down and grabbed a stick, throwing it high into the air so it might touch the rumbling sky.

The old man's eyes hardened. "Once, travelers laid offerings on this very road," the old man said, gesturing to the mud. "Those who came empty-handed were struck down by the lightning god. That is why this place is called the graveyard." The stranger with hardened eyes glances down at the empty hands of the cocky man.

"Bah! That's a legend to scare children from wandering! And I am no child, I tell you. Now be gone." The young man made the 'shooing' gesture to the old, wise man.

"You have no offering, so I do tell you, mark my words when I say that you will be lost to the god of lightning like the dim ones that came before you. Do not go into those woods. Do not dare to walk the path, for only the path you will walk is one to the graveyard," the old man warned.

Still the young man rolled his eyes. “I am not afraid.” He turned on his heels.

"Then you are as dim-witted as the souls who came before you," he declared.

"Me and my brother are racing! He went around like our grandmama said, and I am cutting through! This way I can get to my love before my brother and win her hand!" The young man called over his shoulder.

"The jackal lost the race, boy," the old man uttered.

Choosing to ignore the strange old man's warning, he continued on the path, stepping on the brush creeping up on the path. Choosing to ignore the raging storm brewing above him, he trotted along, mud nipping at his ankles, coating his old, brown shoes in dirt. But he did not stop his journey, hopping over thick branches where foxes cower. Yet, the shivering of a fearful animal did not stop him, nor did the crackling of the newfound storm brewing above.

Birds fled, singing songs of warning as they departed.

Every step he took, the forest seemed to be watching him as if in heightened anticipation.

The young man continued on his way, cool rain now showering his deep brown hair, avoiding many of the things on his walk, until the boom of lightning struck the mighty tree to his right, shaking off the leaves faster than any fall weather could bring. This young man, the one who was warned, the one whose mother told him he was strong, was killed by this tree. Never again to see his love or the old swing he once loved. Never again.

Grandfather always told me at the end of this story, if I was still awake, "That you should always carry fear, not the knee-buckling kind, but the," he chuckles, "logical fear."

When I would ask what that was, he explained it was so: “You would never take a wild hound by the ear, that is only looking for trouble, or you would always respect a bear by not petting it. While some call this common sense, for many will say you are afraid for not taking a risk, while the more logical answer with the far better outcome lies before you.”

Grandfather was an old man now, so when I tell you that he was the brightest, I tell you the truth. For he once did try to walk along that path, but instead he listened to the old prophet, not like his idiotic brother. My grandfather married the girl because his brother did not live to; she did not lie when she once told him that she would not wait for him.

My grandfather knew and told this story without a mourning shadow in his blue eyes, as if he still heard the lightning bolt that struck his brother limp.

The moral of the story should not be to listen to an odd, older man that lives in the woods, but that gods sometimes whisper to strangers.