Real Stories

real stories
Milan Kundera, the Czech writer, once wrote that as we look back on our lives we recall, at best, a handful of 'snapshots' - memorable events - though we prefer to imagine that we remember it all.
I can't recall where he said that - but at a guess it would be in his 'Book of Laughter and Forgetting'. But I think he understated things slightly, though: we remember a few stories. I feel fortunate that I can recollect some interesting ones.
I was reminded of one in particular last night:
I was standing on the eastern border of Azshara, looking down along the road that leads into the country. For anyone who has not visited Azshara it is an extraordinary place - at once beautiful and terrible. The remains of a great civilisation litter its rocky territories - shattered by some cataclysmic natural disaster. The mournful cries of its long-dead inhabitants are carried on the wailing wind. It is also a dangerous place for the inexperienced traveller.
It was near midnight, and by moonlight the land was cast in shades of grey - a lonely place and a lonely time, then, and an excellent place to experience solitude and reverie to the full.
So I was surprised to spot a small character making his way hesitantly along the road, on foot. He was looking around him as if expecting to be attacked at any moment - as was, indeed, likely. As I walked towards him it became obvious that he was inexperienced, possibly lost. I approached with a smile and a cheery wave, and explained that it would be unwise to continue any further and that to do so would probably end in his untimely demise.
He paused in thought, and then responded simply 'help me', pointing down the road leading into the heart of the country. His expression said it all - he was not lost, just an explorer - determined to press on whatever the cost, driven onwards by the hope of reaching the ends of the world and an insatiable passion for the sheer extent of its beauty. And this was something that we had in common.
I laughed and nodded and together we set off. Over the next few hours we battled our way into the heart of the country, saying very little but fighting side by side the droves of wraiths and murlocs that were drawn from all around by the peculiar sight of such an inexperienced traveller.
And eventually we stood, bloodied and bruised, before the ruined capitol itself; its luminous temples still intact, its desiccated fountains curving ornately upwards as if frozen in time. Between us, an eternal tale of two adventurers sharing their wordless wonder at the world.
We remain friends to this day.
On my way, on foot, to Euston station last night I had passed a short woman by the entrance. She was utterly distraught; tears streaming down her face. She walked hurriedly - unable to hide her misery, desperate to carry it away from the crowd.
And as soon as she passed there was that awful feeling that perhaps there was something one could have done to help - a few words perhaps - buried instantly in a flurry of unanswered questions regarding what this helping thing would be, and how it might be interpreted by the person concerned, by the people around and whether or not it would be wise to 'get involved' at all.
By which time she was long gone.