Telling of Stories

        I was walking alone in the night.  Everywhere was pitch black; all I could see was a tiny spark of light somewhere far ahead.

        I walked toward that spark.  As I approached it I could make out what was at the source of light: it was a campfire, and six figures were sitting around it in a circle, with only one empty spot left.  All of them wore cloaks and hoods that hid them in shadows, just like the kind that I was wearing.

      When I got close, one of the hooded figures spoke to me in a voice that I could not tell whether it was from a man or a woman. “You are late, brother or sister.”

      I nodded in acknowledgement but kept my hood tight around my head, so that they could not see my face clearly.

      As soon as I sat down, the hooded figure to my immediate left spoke in a similar voice.  “Now we are all here, I shall begin.”

      “My story is a story of the writer.”

      “The writer was passionate about his craft, but he was not very talented, and his writings were not good.”

      “He went to other writers for advices.  Some did give him, some did not; some gave him genuine, helpful advices, some gave him fake, harmful advices.  None of them helped him improve.”

      “Then one day, he met an elderly writer.  This writer was old, how old no other writer really knew, for apparently he was older than every other writer.”

      “He told the writer looking for advices to find a muse.”

      “The unsuccessful writer went to Greece.  He went to a mountain, where the muses were rumored to be last seen in the human reality.”

      “He searched the mountain long and hard, he looked in every cave, every corner and every crack.”

      “And finally he found a muse.”

      “The muse was young, she was full of beauty and innocence.  She was also hurt, since she sprained her left ankle and could barely walk.”

      “The writer went up to the muse and broke both her legs.  He proceeded to crush both her eyeballs as the muse screamed and screamed in agony.”

      “Now that the muse could not move or see by herself, the writer carried her down the mountain and back to where he lived.”

      “He kept the captured and broken muse in a secret room that no one but him knew exist.  He would force himself upon the muse whenever he needed to write.  Each time after he raped her, he could write, and he wrote well, even though some commented that his writings were twisted and disturbing.”

      “That story does not entirely belong to you.  Someone else thought out the main plot and wrote it down long before you told it.  You do not own that story.”  The hooded figure sitting directly opposite of me spoke as soon as the story was finished; the figure’s voice was exactly like the two that had already spoken.

      The figure that first spoke to me answered.  “The Rules require us to gather here and tell stories.  The Rules do not require us to tell our own stories.”

        There was silence around the campfire; after awhile, another hooded figure to the left of the last storyteller began also in a voice neither male nor female.

        “My story is a story of the dragon slayer’s son.”

        “The dragon slayer was a brave warrior.  When a dragon attacked the village, the village people promised him rewards for slaying the dragon.  He slew the dragon, and the village people paid him the rewards as promised.”

        “The dragon slayer happily spent away all his earned rewards on boozes, tips and gifts to the young girls in the village, and on various other useless playthings.”

        “After he was poor again, he looked for a job; but having no other skills other than slaying dragons, no one would employ him now that the dragon was no more.”

        “The dragon slayer soon died a drunk in poverty.” 

        “His son was also a brave warrior.  When another dragon attacked the village, the village people asked him to slay the dragon and promised him rewards.  He went out to slay the dragon and returned to the village a couple days later.”

        “The village people paid him the rewards as promised.”

        “A day after his return, the dragon that he was asked to slay attacked the village.”

        “The village people were furious, they gathered at his house and demanded an explanation.  Some of them openly called him a liar.”

        “The dragon slayer’s son opened the door, and calmly told the village people, that if they would not pay him more, then he would not slay the dragon.”

        “The village people had no other choice.  They paid more to the dragon slayer’s son and he went out to slay the dragon.”

        “He returned a couple days later, and no dragon showed up for a year.”

        “Then on the first day of next year, that same dragon attacked the village.”

        “The village people, like an angry mob, marched to his house.  They tore down his fences, they broke his windows with stones, and finally they burned his house down.”

        “The dragon slayer’s son was not there, he was gone.”

        “The dragon kept attacking the village for five consecutive days, each day he took away cattle, burned houses, and killed people when they tried to fight him.”

        “On the sixth day, the dragon slayer’s son came back to the village.”

        “He spoke to the exhausted and terrified village people, in a calmly manner, that if they would pay him a set amount of money and goods each and every year, he would make sure that the dragon never attack the village as long as they would keep paying him.”

        “The village people refused; the dragon slayer’s son shrugged and left the village again.”

        “After another ten days of ceaseless dragon attacks, the village people gave in.  They found the dragon slayer’s son and paid him.”

        “After that, they paid him each and every year with the amount of money and goods he demanded, and the dragon never attacked the village again.”

        “That story felt superficial.  It attempted to appear deep, but only managed to display nothing more than a shallow pretension.”  The hooded figure to my right complained in a voice not unlike the other figures.

          The figure that first spoke to me answered.  “The Rules require us to gather here and tell stories.  The Rules do not require us to tell thoughtful stories.” 

          Then there was only silence among the figures again.  Just like last time, yet another hooded figure to the left of last one spoke; and just like last time, the figure’s voice was absent of gender trait.

          “My story is a story of the painter.”

          “The painter was down in the sewers one day, when he found a mermaid lying in the filthy sewage.  The mermaid was wounded and unconscious.  The painter took her to his house.”

            “He placed the mermaid in a bathtub, and moved all his painter’s gears near the dying mermaid.”

            “The painter began to draw the mermaid: he drew as the wounds on her body got infected; he drew as she moaned and yelped in high fevers; he drew as the infection began to spread and her scales started to fall off.”

            “The mermaid was rarely conscious, and when she was, she only watched the painter without uttering a word.”

            “Days passed by and the mermaid’s conditions grew worse.  Her skin took on the color of unhealthy gray, her un-cared for wounds oozed out blackened liquids and yellowish pus.  Worms and maggots crawled in and out of her body as they feasted upon her flesh and blood.”

            “Still the painter drew, oblivious to everything but his canvas.”

            “On the day he finished his painting, the mermaid died.  She died unnoticeably, barely registering an impression on the painter’s mind.”

            “The painter chopped up the body of the mermaid with chainsaw and kitchen knifes.  He put the scattered pieces in garbage bags and disposed them to the city dump ground.”

            “The painting went on to become a classic, a masterpiece.”

            “Besides not being your own, that story was also mean-spirited: it only served to sicken and disgust.”  The second storyteller’s accusation was made in flat tones.

            The figure that first spoke to me answered.  “The Rules require us to gather here and tell stories.  The Rules do not require us to tell pleasant stories.”

            Seeing no one had more to say, this same figure continued after a brief interval of silence.  “My story is a story of the rainbow chaser.”

            “The rainbow chaser believed in leprechauns.  He was a stout man, and his belief was as firm as his physique.  He traveled around the world, going after each and every rainbow he could find, seeking to catch a leprechaun and claim that pot of gold at the end of a chromatic bridge.”

            “He failed time after time, but he kept trying, and he kept failing.”

            “At some point in his life, exactly when no one knew, he stopped chasing rainbows.  Instead he started robbing and cheating, stealing and lying.  He did everything and used every mean to get his hands on money.”

            “After some time, he accumulated a large amount of funds.  He commissioned builders and technicians to build him a huge artificial waterfall in a remote spot.”

            “On the day of its completion, he made everyone on the site leave, so he became alone with the newly finished waterfall.”

            “He turned it on.  A rainbow took form as water poured down from the top and created mists in the air.”

            “He patiently walked over to the end of this little man-made rainbow and caught a leprechaun, just like he had planned.”

            “He took the pot of gold and released the leprechaun.”

            “The rainbow chaser would then turn on the waterfall whenever he wanted, and the leprechauns had no recourse but to show up.  He soon amassed a fortune with all the pots of gold he took away from the leprechauns.”

            The figure to my left commented.  “That story made absolutely no sense.  It was too far-fetched and had no internal logic.”

            “The Rules require us to gather here and tell stories.  The Rules do not require us to tell sensible stories.”  Answered the figure that first spoke to me.

            The figure sitting to my opposite was the fifth to speak, as the customary silence was broken.  “My story is a story of the musician.”

            “The musician had a lover.  She was a wonderful little thing, with a heart pure as crystal and a soul untouched by taint.”

            “The musician loved her deeply.  He took her with him everywhere he went, and everyone had nothing but admiration for the two of them.”

            “It was a beautiful day when the musician took his lover to a glade in the middle of nowhere.  It was the first time they had ever been there: the musician had a surprise for his lover.”

            “The two of them walked to the center of the glade, and the musician showed his lover a living unicorn.”

            “She was ecstatic, for she had always dreamt of seeing this beast of myth.  The musician gave her a batch of nuts and fruits, he also told her to try feeding the unicorn.

              “The musician’s lover gingerly walked toward the unicorn.  The mythical beast stood impassive and allowed her to approach.  She gently touched the unicorn’s thick manes while the unicorn watched her without moving.  She then held out the nuts and fruits to the unicorn, but this time the unicorn would not take them.”

              “‘Eat from them by yourself first; you have to show the unicorn that you held no ill intent.’  The musician urged his lover, and she did what he said.”

              “Having seen her ate from them, the unicorn took in the nuts and fruits from the hand of the musician’s lover.”

              “The musician and his lover went to see and feed the unicorn for two more days.  Each time the musician would give his lover a batch of nuts and fruits to feed the unicorn, and each time the unicorn would only taste them after the musician’s lover ate from them first.”

              “On the fourth day since their first visit, the musician again gave his lover a batch of fruits and nuts.  She approached the unicorn, caressed the unicorn, and ate from what she held in her hand.  The unicorn, like the past three days, took in the fruits and nuts given to her by the musician.”

              “The musician watched as his lover fell to the ground; he watched as the mighty beast fell soon after.  He walked past his fallen lover, poisoned to death by the fruits and nuts he gave her, and bent down to the dead unicorn: he started to cut off the unicorn’s thick, lush manes.

              “The musician, after returning to his mansion with the unicorn’s manes, asked one of the finest luthiers in the world to make him a violin; he specified for the use of the unicorn’s manes as base materials for the strings.  The violin was made, and the manes were used to make the strings.”

         “It was said that when the musician played with that violin, even the gods above stopped what they were doing and listened intently.”

              The third storyteller made the critique this time.  “That story left no memorable impression.  It was uninteresting after similar ones were already told.”

            “The Rules require us to gather here and tell stories.  The Rules do not require us to tell memorable or interesting stories.”  Answered the figure that first spoke to me.

              The ensuing silence did not last long; it was the turn for the figure to my immediate right.  “My story is a story of the novice fairy-dust collector.”

              “The novie fairy-dust collector was new to his trade.  Collecting fairy-dust was not easy: it was a tedious job with long and irregular hours, since the collectors had to wait for the fairies to show up in the dead of night; but the fairies were free-spirited and unbound by rules, so they rarely made timely appearances and they tended not to visit one same spot too often.  Beside that, fairy-dust was only available for collection when they drift off from the wings of fairies as these little wonders flew around in the air; the size of fairy-dust was so tiny that human eyes could hardly see where they fell to.  Even an experienced collector could only gather no more than half an ounce of fairy-dust each forenight.”

              “The novice collector entered the trade without knowing much about it; thus his fellow collectors were all surprised when only after a handful of nights, he had collected four to five ounces of fairy-dust.”

              “They asked the novice fairy-dust collector about his secret, and he answered without hesitation.  ‘It really was not too hard.  I just caught them with a net, packed all of them into a grinder and then grinded them down to dust.’”

              The figure that first spoke to me was the last one to comment on a story.  “That story tried to be funny, but it failed to deliver much comedic effect.  It was also too short.” 

                “However, The Rules require us to gather here and tell stories.  The Rules do not require us to judge stories.”  The figure that first spoke to me immediately followed up after the last sentence. 

                Silence enveloped the campfire and those that sat around it.  As I kept holding my tongue, the figure that first spoke to me said to me, “Brother or sister, tell your story, so we may all go freely, as The Rules require.”

         Gauging that it was about time, I opened my mouth, and from it came out what I hoped was my most masculine-sounding voice. 

                “I will not tell a story.”

         All of the figures sitting in the circle stared at me; the figure that first spoke to me said, “You are not one of us.  Nevertheless, The Rules require that those sitting in this circle to tell stories, or else none of us could leave.”

         To that I replied, “That is precisely what I wish for.  You see, you are all bound to me until I tell a story, like The Rules require; so now I hold power over every one of you since none of you could leave, unless I wish to tell a story.”          While I was speaking, my employees appeared from every direction.  They brought with them what I instructed them to bring: recording equipments, a tent and various supplies for me.  I always had a strict standard when I picked people to bring  into my company, Dream Entertainment Inc.

         The figure that first spoke to me protested, “But surely you know what we are.  Surely you know your prolonging us here will only do harms to this world.”

         I was prepared for that too.  “That is exactly why you should do what I say.  The less you resist, the more quickly this can be all over with.”

         So they obeyed.  They listened as I listed my demand, and they complied.

         They spoke to the recording equipments my employee had set up; they told every story they knew, every story that mankind had ever thought of, dreamt of, and conceived of.  I sat comfortably in my tent, surrounded by the modern luxuries my employee brought to me; meanwhile I squeezed them dry of last bit of lore and tales that they held.  These recordings would soon become a rich source of ideas for screenplays, scripts, stage plays and god knew how many entertainment projects.  I shuddered in excitement when I envisioned the future profits rolling into my own pocket.

         Gradually I made good on my promise.  I told a story as The Rules require, and I let them go.

         There was only one last little thing to do.

         After my employee went away, I again set out to the everlasting night.  I did not have to walk far; the one I had to meet was waiting for me nearby.

         The figure was covered in hood and cloak, the figure spoke in a voice that I could not tell whether it was from a man or a woman.  “Was it all done?”

         I nodded and I gave the figure a signed and filled cheque.

         The figure took it and started to leave.  I still had a nagging question ever since this figure first came and proposed to me what I should do tonight.  “Tell me, why did you sell out your brethrens for this earthly wealth that you do not actually need?”

         The long night was almost gone, the stories were told, and my goals were accomplished.  The departing figure that started it all looked back to me and was about to answer my question.

         But then the night was completely gone; I was left all alone in this barren world, devoid even of the last storytellers.