Mightier Than

It’s said that there is an old hermit that lives atop the mountain which overlooks the village with the ability to disarm a weapon from any man with nothing more than a small household item.  An old broom for example or even in one version of the story, a pen.  It was a story brimming with exaggeration and hyperbole that everyone within the village had likely heard more times than they could feasibly count.  But each time it was told, a deep sense of curiosity never failed to peak within Thomas.  And so one day, he decided to journey up the mountain.  

The trek quickly turned dire as a sudden, unforeseen storm manifested overhead not long after he had made it to the supposed halfway point.  The ensuing rain slowed his pace considerably.  Struggling with each precarious step, he finally relented and ducked into a cave to wait out the storm.  As he explored the expansive enclosure, Thomas found light emanating from within and quickly released that he was not alone.  

“Take off your shoes,” a voice spoke from beside a humble fire.  

“Um… what?”  

“Take off your shoes.  I know it’s just a cave to you, but it’s my home and I like to keep it somewhat clean.”  

Desiring to dry off and share the warmth of the fire, Thomas complied.  While he sat enjoying a needed respite from the storm, the old man began to tell him stories of his past.  Colorful, vivid retellings of an eventful life.  Though he was dubious of how much of what the old man described really happened, nonetheless Thomas was enthralled.  He was a natural orator.  No matter how mundane at face value, he could spin things in such a way that was nothing short of effortlessly captivating.  Eventually, the old man’s voice grew tired and so he took a break from storytelling.  Visibly gracious to have someone with which to listen and talk, the old man eventually asked Thomas why he had ventured to this mountain and so he relayed the story that he had been told many times over the course of his life. 

Feeling some kinship with him now, the old hermit reluctantly admitted that he not only knew of the story, but that he was the one who had started it a long time ago.  It was something blown way out of proportion.  The hermit promised Thomas that an explanation would do little other than disappoint him.  A brief silence befell them.  Seemingly knowing that he wouldn’t be satisfied with this claim, the old man reached into his garb and retrieved a fancy pen from within.  Thomas’s eyes tightly focused on the pen, his hand hovered anxiously in the vague direction of his sword as the hermit slowly rose to his feet.  He watched as the old man twirled the pen this way and that.  As the shine of the fire glinted off the hermit’s eyes and Thomas reached for his weapon, his hand somehow came up empty.  Sheath inexplicably empty, he was unable to hide the astonishment written across his face.  

“Oh, don’t look at me like I’m some magic man.  I took it, your pack, and shoes several hours ago.  This isn’t even my pen.  No, I’m no more mystical than the mountain beneath our feet.  I’m just an old coot cursed with both the gift of gab and a bad case of kleptomania.”