Storyteller's song

"Quiet, quiet now, shush and hush, or I shan't speak a word of the story." the old storyteller threatened. The small group of children who eagerly awaited her words snapped their mouths shut immediately and a stiff silence filled the comfortable old room. The storyteller smiled kindly. "Now, I suppose your mothers told you that I am nothing like other storytellers? I should hope so, as I'm sure they've all been my audience before as were your fathers and maybe even your grandparents if they are of the younger generation."

"My mother told me you were a sorceress!" quipped a terrified looking little boy, though his wide eyes read more awe that true terror.

"In my time, indeed, I was." the storyteller nodded her old head. "But not the kind you're thinking of, I'm sure, little one." she chuckled her melodious laugh, gently rubbing her soft old hands together. Her long silver hair sparkled with a blue not quite as deep as her eyes, which were silvery blue as well. In the candle light her soft skin looked tanned and tough, making her out, in the littler children's eyes, to be an African priestess from one of their immense collection of bedtime stories.

"Grandma says you can make butterflies out of fire!" challenged a skeptical looking teenage girl who was no doubt only there to accompany her younger sister. The storyteller could see they were sisters, they were nearly twins, both with the same blonde hair and same blue eyes, though there was most certainly at least a ten year age difference.

"Smoke and mirrors, my dear, but even they have their own magic." the storyteller smiled, completely baffling the girl, who was obviously expecting a little more venom in the storyteller's voice for having to rationalize her methods. "Now, hush, no more questions, I'll start my story now."

The tiny bit of conversation that had started up disappeared in an instant. The children all leaned forward expectantly. In her younger days when the children would lean forward like that, the storyteller would leap up screaming a nonsense word at the top of her voice to release the tension, but now, she simply smiled and began her story.

***

"This story is about a storyteller." she began, her voice low and calm. She loved all her stories too much to tell one more often than the others, so she always rotated them equally. This story always made her serious: it wasn't a very happy story, though to the children, it would be a painted world of fantasy and wonder.

"The old storyteller sat at her old loom, a strong wooden frame made of mahogany wood that had the carvings of the flowers written into it: all spirals and spheres and vines and thorns and the occasional spider web." She watched the children's awe: the room around them transformed into the room she described as she spoke the words. There was a loom, just as described with dark wood and intricate carvings and a figure without personality or description sitting at it. "The walls in the room in which she sat were all windows, and outside the windows an endless reflecting sea stretched out until the clouds made of gold and pink covered the water from view." Windows appeared on the wall.

The children were all gasping and craning their necks to see more, though did not move an inch from their seats, having been warned by their parents and by the storyteller herself.

"The storyteller was a fairly young woman with long black hair that spiraled and curled down her slender back like a waterfall. Her skin was white, but not unhealthy looking, and her lips were pink, not red as it is said true beauties' lips are, but pink, normal pink, just like everyone else's. Her eyes were the deepest shade of blue with tiny flecks of silver within them. She wore a long red satin gown that opened in the front revealing a cream layer of silk beneath the red, with tight black strings holding the dress to her slender frame. A golden medallion hung on a chain around her neck, clutching tightly to her throat."

The maiden appeared and all the children gasped. She was a beauty. The storyteller smiled.

"Once upon a time the storyteller had a name, back when she lived in the little town down the road from the cliff on which she lived. She no longer remembered her name, and to not have one's name can cause a very painful existence. But the storyteller did not care. She had her stories: she needed nothing more."

“Now this storyteller had an odd way of telling her stories. She woven them into the blankets and gowns and other things she made on her loom. She could weave a fair woman into existence simply by weaving a maiden into her quilt or stitching her figure into the dress. Her stories always came true, so they were not really stories, but creations, if you will: she could sing a song of birds and birds would appear all around. This talent of hers was naught but a nuisance until she discovered that if she wove the stories into the dresses and blankets she sold, they would stay in the cloth and only come out when a reader discovered how to read the stories. It was very rare, true enough, but it happened often enough: a young child would come to her wanting the dragon brought out of his or her blanket sent back into it before their parents discovered that the dog was missing and there were scorch marks on the furniture. The storyteller was always happy to do so, but always was left with a sense of sadness: the children only ever read the monsters and spooks out of their things, never the beautiful things like the butterflies and the sunsets and the dashing prince who always came to save the maiden.”

Images of dragons and children and birds blossomed around the room in their own time as the storyteller told her story. The children, as she thought, were only interested in the creatures, and not in the story at all. She sighed and continued.

“Gradually, as time turned, the children no longer needed her blankets and dresses. Her stories were cast aside as parchment and proper books came into the picture. The storyteller and her stories were all forgotten. The children all regarded her as the witch on the hill as age faded her beauty and took her smooth skin.”

“The medallion around the storyteller’s neck did not age however. It remained as shined and polished as the day it was made in the flames which shaped it. The medallion preserved the storyteller’s life, as possessions seem to do if you care for them enough. She did not know why she was kept in life, only that the medallion must have a reason.”

“Indeed it did.”

The scenery changed suddenly. The storyteller wasn’t describing the story anymore; it was playing on its own: all she need do was read it.

“The glorious walls of the chamber, once bathed in the ocean’s golden light, fell black and old, like a haunted room in a haunted house. The loom stooped low in age, rickety and no longer beautiful. The maiden storyteller herself now stooped low in her chair, her fingers fumbling with a single strand of thread in her quilt of wonders. She’d been working on it for decades, embroidering flowers and butterflies into the fabric with golden threads and silken cords. She was sure she would finish it that night.”

“There was a knock on the door. The storyteller sat up, blinking sadly through thick glasses, her frazzled grey hair falling about her shoulders without enthusiasm. She had nearly forgotten where the door was. She slowly stood, her old bones creaking ominously. She snatched her staff, which went well with the loom, same wood and same carvings, and made her way to the door.”

“It was a stormy, stormy night, she noticed. She opened the door, peering out suspiciously through the crack. She looked around. No one was there. The she looked down and gasped, feeling suddenly very sad.”

“A young maiden stood there in a dress that the storyteller had woven years and years ago. Her hair was golden and ragged due to the wind and rain upon it. The storyteller recognized her immediately. She was the young musician from one of her woven stories. The storyteller would have recognized her anywhere, even though she was naught but a ghost. The dress itself was material: real, and solid, but the girl’s flesh was made of smoke and wind, and only appeared real because the girl herself believed herself real.”

The children gaped at the massive thunderheads that had appeared above them and at the rain the poured down upon them but did not wet their skin. The teenage girl was not as interested, it seemed, as she was looking intently at the storyteller, waiting for her to continue, as was her sister.

“’You poor child,’ the storyteller crooned, pulling the lost little ghost into the house and shutting the door.” When the real storyteller spoke the story’s storyteller’s voice, it changed into a voice that was not her own, but a darker, wearier voice. “’Come with me,’ The child followed the storyteller into the room with the loom. ‘And upon the child’s entry, a grand piano of black shine appeared on a tall pedestal.’ The storyteller spoke. A piano appeared and the little musician smiled radiantly. She had no voice: the storyteller had never given her one. ‘Play now, child, and keep this old storyteller company.’ The storyteller smiled warmly for the first time in ages. The little musician nodded and scurried up to the piano and began playing.”

“The music rolled off the walls and radiated around the room, echoing endlessly. The storyteller smiled. It was the little musician’s lullaby. How nice it was to hear it.”

At this point she was interrupted. "Storyteller make it rain again!" cried an over eager child. Immediately all the images encircling them vanished and the storyteller glared at the youngster.

"It's rained enough in this story already." she snapped. The children flinched a little and the one who had burst out looked to be nearing tears. "My story is nearly done now, if you would let me finish I can find you a nice magician to cater to your every greedy little whim."

The child sulked sadly as she continued with more vigor than before, determined to finish her story before she was interrupted again or her patience wore away completely.

"The storyteller and the little musician lived together for a very long time. Around them, the world turned and the little village turned into a middle sized town and then disappeared completely due to plague and fire." the room erupted in flames and the children cried out. "They were very happy, content to watch the ivy crawl lazily up the side of the house, covering the windows and obsuring the glamorous veiw. But soon, even the veiw lost its luster."

"Slowly, ever so slowly, the storyteller slipped away. The musician never spoke a word. She played her music and never thought of doing anything else. Then, one day, the storyteller called her to sit beside her at the loom. 'I'm dying,' the storyteller said. 'I want you to leave this place. Go out into the world and see what its become in my absence. Go, and come back some day long in the future and tell me what you've seen.' With that, the storyteller gave the musician something she could never have received from anyone else. The storyteller gave the musician her voice."

"So, the musician went out into the world the very next morning. She wandered from her safe little home on the cliff and ventured out to see what she could see. Many years passed and the musician encountered many things and many people, wonderful and horrible all the same. Whenever she heard music she would sing with her new voice and whenever she heard a story she would counter with one of the storyteller's. She did not have the storyteller's gift so nothing came to life, but instead only appeared in the air, one of the many wonders given to her by the storyteller's voice."

The children 'ooed' and 'awed' as farms and people and clouds and other such wonders of the world flew over their heads in a rush. The storyteller regained her calm mood and continued her story happily.

"Then, one day, the musician found herself a woman and decided to go home. She followed the old roads back up to the house on the cliff. It was old and slanted slightly, the ivy covering all the windows and nearly all the bricks. Still, as she came up to the door she could smell the comfort one always gets when going home. She did not feel it, she smelt it. Yes, that's what I said." the storyteller chuckled at the children's confused faces. At least they were listening. "The musician pushed open the old, weathered door and wandered into her old home, calling for the old storyteller."

"She came to the only lit room in the entire house, the storyteller's old bedroom with a single shaft of light coming from above through a tiny patch of window not yet consumed by the ivy. 'I've returned, Storyteller!' she exclaimed happily. The old storyteller stirred from her sleep from beneath layers of blankets despite the warmth of summer around her. 'Tell me, little one, tell me what you've seen.' So the musician told the storyteller of everything, every horror and wonder, of everyone she'd met and of the things she'd done; and that she'd discovered her name. Three days passed before she was done, but when she was at last done, the storyteller smiled. 'So you're name is now Melody? What a lovely name.' the storyteller told her young musician. 'Long ago when I was young I knew my name as well. But now I know nothing of names. That's why I never named the people in my stories.' she continued."

It was a thing of beauty to see actual sadness on the children's faces as the story ended. "The old storyteller died then. But she left Melody with something very special. Her name, her voice, her medalion and most importantly, her stories. The End."

***

The children sat stunned. "That's it? But, what happened to Melody?" the little girl with the teenager asked.

"She got old telling the storyteller's stories, and was very happy when she told them." the storyteller smiled. "Now go home, I want to go to sleep. It's very late."

The children all stood with the air of disappointment. The storyteller watched them all go until she realized she was not alone. The skeptical teenager was still there with her sister close at hand.

"Where did you hear that story?" the teenager asked.

"From a very young girl, actually." the storyteller smiled. "It was written into her blanket."

"You're Melody, aren't you?"

"No, if you must know, my name is Minerva. Melody, in fact, was my mother."

"She told you the story?"

"Yes."

"But how could she be young then? If she was the young musician then she must've been ancient when she had you."

"She was young at heart, and that's all that matters. Now leave me in peace, or I won't stay and tell you another story tomorrow night."

The teenager left and Minerva sighed, leaning back and creating a blue sky above her with her words. Her mother was long gone, but the gift of storytelling and song singing was not. It was one of Minerva's few comforts when she slept in her ivy covered house of windows that resided on a cliff up hill from a little town where the children still loved stories.

The End