Old Uncle Drum had worlds of stories, and he had worlds of time to tell them in. Those he didn't make up, he remembered. To the children who heard them, they were all real and true.
“Uncle Drum, are you asleep?” The old man opened his eyes, smiled at the gaggle of young faces arrayed around him, bright and open, like flowers in a meadow. He wasn't their uncle, of course, except in the way any old man was uncle to all the children among the People. In the world he came from, they would all have been home watching television. The People did not know of televisions, but they had among them old men like Drum, who knew even older stories. “Not any more, it seems. What's up?”