ittle Lali danced out her door and looked along the road. A breeze tugged at her brown curls. The sun shown down brightly, the air was warm, and it was a great day for walking. On the slope below her, someone was doing just that.
Lali squinted into the sunlight, trying to see who it could be. "Hiking stick, yes. Broad brimmed hat, yes. It's her! It's Storyteller!"
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Along the way stepped the Storyteller, humming to herself, hmmmm, ummmm, mmmmmm. She was a tall, strong woman, with bright dark eyes, braided black hair, and a warm brown face. Her plum colored blouse was dusty with travel, and her sturdy khaki leggings were too, but she stepped along humming contentedly, hmmm, ummmm, mmmmm.
Lali raced around back to her mother's workshop. "Mami, come see! The Storyteller!"
Lali's mother looked up from sanding a chair leg. "Great day, Lali! New tales, if we're lucky. See if she'll tell you one, you've heard all mine a million times already."
"Oh, but I like yours, over and over!"
"Yes, but a new tale is fresher. Tell you what. You go listen, while I work on Dadi's chair, for his birthday. Then come back, and you can tell the tale to me this time! Is it well?"
"Yes," cried Lali, excitedly. She skipped around to the front, and along the way to where Storyteller walked. Lali danced down to meet her. "Hai, Storyteller! What can you tell me?"
Storyteller smiled. "Many things, child. What can you trade me?"
"Oh, but I don't have any money..."
"Not money, child. What do I need with money? Trade me something I can use. Have you water, fresh and cool? Trade me a drink for a poem. Have you oranges, juicy and sweet? Trade me some for a tale."
"Plain water? We have lots of water!"
"Then you are lucky indeed. And I come from a dry land, many miles away. It is a long and dusty walk. Will you trade me?"
"Oh, yes!" Lali skipped away, quickly, quickly! The Storyteller moved steadily, and slowwwwwwww, because she was tired. Lali looked up, saw her way behind, and darted back to keep her company. So they walked up the hill together.
At the edge of Lali's yard stood a tall, tall tree. The breeze was cool in its shade. "Wait here, Storyteller! I'll be right back!" Storyteller sat and rested. Lali ran inside to the kitchen. Dadi was baking honey cakes. "Dadi, the Storyteller will trade me a tale for a meal. Can I bring her some?"
Dadi wiped his dark hair back off his forehead. "Surely, love. Get a tray. And mind the oven, it's hot."
Lali got out the tray and a bowl and a mug. She filled the mug with water while Dadi ladled spicy bean soup into the bowl. He added fresh bread, three oranges and some of the honey cakes, and gave some to Lali, as well.
Storyteller had brushed the dust off herself and put on a brightly colored overskirt and a silk scarf with winding spirals on it. She saw Lali coming with the tray and grinned. "A feast!" she cried. "And just in time. Many thanks!" She gave a pause for gratitude, then ate eagerly. Lali watched, nibbling a honey cake.
When the bowl was empty and the last crumb swallowed, Storyteller leaned back against the tree and sighed contentedly. "For that, I will tell you any tale you wish! Which will you have, then--a story or a poem?"
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