I was pleased NOT to be shot down in flames for my first attempt in a very specialised writing format, attempting to capture in print the spirit of an oral tradition of storytelling.

My sincere thanks for the constructive comments and suggestions made, and particularly the idea of barracking, backchat and banter from the audience ..........

Storyteller II

"Now, Stickman, we're many a long step from breaking down the door of Big Mick's hostelry at the end of our day's travels, an' all of us wi' hearts an' heads uneasy for the want o' hearing what happened to the poor Nonent-IT-ees? For we're thinkin' there's surely more to the story than that we've heard!"

"Of that you can be certain!"  Stickman sighs, "But while my throat's so parched, and the last thing as passed my cracked lips no stronger nor more invigoratin' than half a glass of Adam's Ale when we broke our fast this very morn: 'tis now no more than a distant memory! Alas, I'm thinking 'twould need more than the dregs from the bottom of a bottle o' pure to be produced and lubricate the vital parts, but if that were to occur who knows what tale of magic might yet be heard?"

"Ah, woe is us!" chirps the Flighty Ones, in unison. "Shall out hearts ever again beat steady in our snowy-white maiden breasts, unless a gallant knight might enter the lists to resolve this dilemma? For 'tis clear, there's a long, long tail hangin' off o' th' arse end o' this strange ani-mule, beggin' to be pulled!"

Behold! The age of miracles is not passed: here, by the wayside on the road from Keadue, heading towards fair Carrick is found the holy shrine of St. Lasair's Well.

As the company pauses to cool their aching throats with a scoop of its blessed water they discover to their amazement that each of them is indeed in possession of a drinking vessel which they had somehow entirely forgotten they had about their person. Further investigation confirms that the self-same containers are not empty, but contain the mostest peachy-deliciousest draughts of the purest poteen, distilled from the finest drops of dew, a delight for the discerning tastebuds of the most demanding and dedicated drinker. Due thanks could promptly be given to a provident God as the band of thirsty travellers stand and refresh themselves with this unlooked-for benison.

"In truth" opines Stickman, "the real miracle is that we've all survived the rigours of this hot and dusty desert track for as long as we have, and us without the sustenance of the least modicum of liquid refreshment!"

"That's as may be!" retorts the Gobby Ones, "but the fact o' th' matter, Stickman, and in its entire wholesome truthfulness as it appears to us in our singular opinion, there's no reason whatsoever for not revealing the remainder o' th' tale yiz started!"

Stickman nods at the delicate finesse and irrefutable logic of this argument, and carefully tips the final drips of the pure from his cup into the well as token thanks for favours received. Taking up his stick once more he resumes his toc-toc along the road, pulling his fellow-travellers close in his wake as a retinue of pages might attend upon their squire, or acolytes around their High Priest, each being alert to the least word which might chance to fall from the lips of the Wizard with Words.

"In this manner it came to pass. The Nonent-IT-ees saw how the maCHITes no longer dursted to leave their sealed, encryption-protected cells. Swiftly they lost first the desire and then the final, physical capability and even the nerve to leave, whether they might wish to do so or no.

"In little more than the time it takes for me to tell the tale, the Nonent-IT-ees became the last remnants of Mankind who continued to crawl about the surface of our planet. Further, they discovered that – contrarywise to the beliefs of the maCHITes, the majority of the population until that time – life without IT was not only a possibility, it was truly pleasant, and furthermore to be preferred, pursued, prized and preserved!"

"For the maCHITes, there could only be one ending, and that was as tragic and saddening as 'twas both sure and certain."
"When finally they were fast-rooted in their fortresses, they discovered – too late! – that they were at one and the same time unable to manufacture the products and the power their once-almighty plastic cards had purchased. The Nonent-IT-ees – or slaves, as the maCHITes had thought of them, if indeed  they ever thought  – who once supplied them with services and delivered the goods they demanded could no longer be cowed and cajoled, bullied and bought."

"Sure, and that's only right and proper!" exclaims the Flighty Ones "For there's none the right to use another so shameful as that!"
"Aye, an' serve the lazy Gobshytes right!" crows one loudmouth, raising his shot o' the pure to the other Gobby Ones, who cackled a cheer in response.

"Sure, the maCHITes still had some human elements, and human needs" Stickman stated, calmly, for all the world as if the constant flow of bicker and bluster all around affected him not in the slightest.

"'Twas indeed their downfall. Although their human traits had become stultified, less and less important as their machinatory elemental attributories acquired the ascendancy, the fact remained that they required sustenance, food and drink ………."
"And most especially the Drink!" chorused the Gobby Ones, all together "Sláinte!"

And with that they once more applied themselves, suiting word to deed.

"Food, and drink" repeated Stickman with the lightest of stressing on the first. The Gobby Ones took his meaning, and settled once more to listening, dutiful as children under the Master Storyteller's eye.

"Weakened by lack of sustenance, and half-crazed by the conflict between Man and Machine, 'twas but a short step o' time and the maCHITes either ceased to function, entirely …."
"Or? Come, now, you cannot stop just there, Word Wizard!" screams the Flighty Ones. 

Stickman pauses; momentarily, he seems disinclined to continue. Suddenly, unbidden, a bottle upends itself, discharging into the empty glass which has somehow appeared from nowhere in speticularly, materialisering in his presently unoccupied hand (the one not needed to manipulate his stick). Wouldn't yiz know it, the drink imitates the action of the smiling Tiger, being suddenly on the inside o' the canny Storyteller, the smile remaining outside, now on the face of Stickman instead ….

With the Inner Man satisfied (at least for the moment), the peripatetic purveyor of prose continues his deposition of the day:

"The Nonent-IT-ees, having almost been entirely and forever removed from the face o' the earth by the technologically tyrannical maCHITes, were now the proud possessors of a pristine planet, the last remaining evidence of intelligent life crawling upon its surface."
"There's many would say that's a word to use more sparingly, Stickman!" grouses the mainest Gobby One, and the Flighty Ones twitters agreement as they hears the Sunday words and nods as if they knows what's being said.

"When once in a lengthy while a maCHITe was discovered still functioning, it took but a few determined Nonent-IT-ees with lumphammers and other implementals of destructivity to render unto seizure reminders of their recent past. Small, close-knit communities began to form, with courtesy and kindness their common woof and warp."

"But see, my friends! It seems the road has risen indeed to meet our steady pace! Around this curve, beyond the honeysuckle hedge which screens us from the noonday sun, Big Mick's Inn thrusts its thatchéd roof skywards, a welcome sight to cheer the weary guest! I for one am fair faint with hunger, and if my nose deceives me not, there's fresh-baked bread to be found! And should we be so fortunate, we may experience a repetition of one of the most startling of modern miracles, which happened once upon a not-so-very-long-ago time, and within the very walls of this establishment ……….."

Stickman stops, and pats his pockets until he dislodges a short-stemmed clay pipe, followed in short order by a battered tin of Sweet Afton and a small box of lucifers. Seemingly heedless of the impatient looks of curiosity and inquiry amongst his companions he leans his stick carefully against the bole of a massive oak and sits on a convenient stump close by while he rubs an appropriate amount of baccy between his weatherbeaten fingers, fills the pipe and sets a decent coal to glow within it.

"Ye'll allow an old man his weakness for the weed at the end of the trail, and before partaking of the lunchtime meal, I hope?"

"Aye, surely yiz have earned it on the way, Stickman: there can be no doubting of that! And perhaps you'll indulge us and tell something of the bones o' the history you're hinting at, while we take our rest alongside you and bid Big Mick bring forth his bestest beer!"

And so they sit, Stickman on a stoup alongside the entry door, his audience now willing captives, ensnared by his word wizardry and sitting at his feet in the manner of children in a bygone age gathered to con their lessons for the day. Pitchers of ale and a sufficiency of glassware appeared (unbidden, it seemed) on tables and were swiftly distributed as Stickman gathered his thoughts before beginning ……………