THE STORYTELLER

Oscar landed with a thud on the cold dark ground. He stood up, pulling his cloak around him. He was so white against the dense forest, he almost glowed.

He started off walking, through the sleeping woods. He walked until he came to a clearing with a great pond where the moon was admiring herself upon it's rippling surface.

The ripples grew, as though a large fish were swimming just below the surface. Oscar saw, instead, a dark shiny orb emerge slightly and then pop back down, and pop back up again, then bob back down. Pumping like this, until it emerged from the water, the ripples quivering, returning a liquid sonar back out over the pond.

And there she was. Revealed in the moonlight. Oscar could see the water dripping from her elbows and the ends of her dark hair. He could hear her teeth chattering as she breathed. He wanted to bring her his cloak but he stopped himself. She quickly put her clothes back on, and slipped away, through a bush.

I must follow her, he rationalized, because she will surly lead me to more people.

And so Oscar crossed the field, under the amused gaze of the moon, and disappeared after her.

He wandered through the dense foliage, having lost her trail long ago. How peaceful it was in the woods, how silent, except for the mysteries whispering in the trees. In the darkness, a doe raised her head, calmly watching him pass through.

After a time, Os lay down and slept on a large, fallen log that had grown soft and spongy.

Waking to the symphony of birdsong, Oscar rubbed his eyes, taking in his surroundings. Moss hung everywhere, treetops swayed high above him, and life was busy all around him.

He walked on, all that day. Was he going in a strait path? Would he end up back at the pond, full circle? He did not know. He couldn't recall having any prior experience traversing a wooded environment.

Funny, for all of his many tutors, he had not ever left the fortress he was born in, he had not seen the world he was to rule. Furthermore, he had hardly met anyone outside of his very small circle of servants. He wondered if he, and his forefathers before him, might have ruled better had they known the people they ruled, considered them friends, been ambassadors for their wellbeing.

It was after nightfall when he saw it: a warm flicker. He felt the vibrations of beating drums and heard the song of revelry on the wind. Lightheaded from hunger, Oscar stumbled towards it, hoping they were welcoming.

Fifty people or so were dancing or playing music around the fire. Another fifty, roughly, moved on the outskirts, talking, laughing, eating from a table set with leftovers from dinner.

This must be the very distant past, Oscar realized by the heavy rustic clothing and the fact that every man had at least one wicked looking piece of cutlery on their belt. Funny, he didn't think about where he was going when he decided to jump into the cauldron, just that he wanted to be somewhere where he could do some good.

Oscar saw her then, dancing near the flames. Her hair glowed red around her as she spun, oblivious to anyone else.

Suddenly, he was choked by a forceful arm, cold metal at his throat, “what's your business here?” asked the small, hard, leather-clad man, to whom the arm belonged.

“I- I come in peace. I am lost in your woods... a wanderer.”

“Where are you from?” he challenged.

“I... am from very far away, I do not belong to anywhere,” Oscar admitted.

The man sensed the defeated tone of Os' voice and relaxed his grip, “come, then,” he replied, holding Os by the arm. The man led him to what seemed to be the chief, sitting in a large chair robed with furs and a metal circlet upon his wild greying hair.

“O Callahan,” he addressed the chief respectfully, “I found us a traveler, lost in the woods. He says he is friend.”

Callahan looked Oscar up and down then into his face. “Have you collected his weapons?” Callahan asked.

“No... they must be concealed, but I have kept my dirk at his back.”

A search for weapons ensued and came up empty.

“Well,” laughed the chief, “he must not be the enemy if he has no weapon, but he cannot be very wise then either. Who are you, then, and what is your trade, traveler?” Callahan demanded.

“I am a... a storyteller!” he blurted out, hoping that his luck would be better than the flutist from Sasha's story, “a wandering bard” he corrected and gave a nervous bow.

The chief squinted, “and what do they call you?”

“Merde...” Oscar swore in french under his breath, rule number one in time travel, never use your modern name, “uh... Merd... Merden!” he stammered

“Eberwynn!!” the cheif hollered over the crowd to a woman standing by the table of food, “bring more food!!”

Murden was sat down beside the king, wrapped in furs, and a large plate piled high was set down beside them. The chief was eager to hear news and tales, but the music postponed such necessities, to Murden's relief.

Instead, he sat there watching the dancers: one dancer in particular. Oblivious to anyone, she moved like a flame herself, taking in the mystery of night, consuming its shadows, burning it up, casting her own radiance.

She was before him now. Where cool moonlight had, upon the previous night, unveiled her secret beauty, now warm flickering fire exposed her passion.

She met his dark eyes, her dance became a dangerous net, a cobra rising up. And he went willingly. Yes, his eyes whispered knowingly, yes I speak your language.

She dropped her arms. Eyes like a deer, she took a step back and fled into the darkness.

Oscar, now Murden, wanted to run after her, but could not leave, as he was the guest of honor. So for the rest of the night, even as he drifted off to sleep in the bed they had given him, all he could do was wonder.

At breakfast the next day, Murden was sat beside the chieftain. During their polite conversation, he asked Callahan about the woman who fled the bon fire so suddenly.

“Ach,” he shrugged, “that is Gypsy-Rose, my niece. Her story is a mysterious tale.”

Callahan shook his head, “You see, one thing you have to understand about her mother, my sister, is that she was a wandering spirit, most days she went off into the woods and no one knew what she did. But she did no one no harm, so we let her be. We can't say for sure how the story goes, but we suppose, that one day, while wandering in the wood, my sister came upon a strange bunch of men. And one of them took a liking to her and after a time they married each other in secret. Until one day, it was clear that she would soon have a baby. She stayed close to home, but kept her secret as to who the father was. She wanted to have her baby by the hands of the wise woman here. But after the baby was born, she disappeared with her child. And none heard from her ever again. Even when we searched the wood, we found not a trace of anyone.

“And so a few years passed, and one day a wee child was found in the wood. Not a scratch, nor sign of her mother or her father. Yet perfectly healthy and clothed just as we were... and very much of the likeness of my sister. And to this day, she still has her likeness.

Callahan leaned close, putting his hand over his mouth and whispered to Murden, “there's some who say it were the faery folk who are her father's people,” then he righted himself and said in a usual tone, “but if you ask me, her mother was queer enough herself to have had such a child.”

“Gypsy-Rose studies with the medicine woman,” he added, “the same woman who bore her so many years ago... Perhaps she has some memory of those hands, perhaps it helps her remember her mother and father, for she must remember them, if even just a little.”

Callahan buried his face in his flask with a far off look in his eyes. Murden should have known that her origins would be unfathomable, but then, to these people, so was his.

“Now that I have told you one of our stories, I expect you will return the favor tonight. It has been long since our fire has been graced by a true bard,” Callahan gave Murden a hearty smack on the back and went on to his official duties.

Murden walked about the town, but no where did he see Gypsy. He found the herbal woman on the outskirts of the village. He knew it must be her, because she was by far the oldest one around.

Her hair was grey, sticking out in all directions under a kerchief. Her hands were bony, veins standing out as she delicately tended her garden. Her voice thin as she sang a little folk song. Murden had never seen anyone take so much care in anything as this woman with her plants, but then this was rough earth to be growing such delicate things, and these herbs were life support for her people. The things she knew were ancient, the things she knew had kept human kind from extinction. The things she knew lived inside her, keeping her alive all these years, as though she was but their vessel.

Murden walked around the small cottage and discreetly peered in through the window out of the corner of his eye. He saw a dark figure stirring over a pot and his heart leaped. This must be Gypsy! He heard pounding of pestle on mortar as she pulverized some seeds. He closed his eyes and listened to this sound as though his ear were against her chest and we were listening to her heartbeat. He wished she would lay down her work and come out of that dark little house. He would take her hand and...

“What'cha spyin' on?” a loud little voice spurred Murden from his daydream.

“I...” Murden looked down at a tiny snot-faced little boy holding a stick, not knowing what to reply.

The little boy leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Don't even think to take from the witch's garden, or else she'll be angry and you'll have to pay the price!” His earnest face looked up seriously, repeating what his mother had told him.

“Oh?” was all Murden could reply. The little boy, apparently, had a full schedule that day, and stabbing at Murden's leg with a fierce “hee-ya!”, he ran off around the corner.

Murden decided not to garner any more witnesses to his interest. He spent the rest of the day on the other side of town chopping wood for the blacksmith and trying to think of what story he could tell around the bon fire that night.

The blacksmith's fire was a popular gathering place for the pyromaniacally inclined. Some of the warriors had recently returned from a hunting and trading trip, and were lounging around the fire, heckling each other and poking sticks into the embers.

Murden was entertained by their presence, but the blacksmith seemed annoyed, he took his profession seriously and did not appreciate his fire being violated. The warrior men had an air of casual superiority that seemed to threaten village symbiosis.

A farmer by the name of Finnioan came up to pick up his mended plow shear.

“How goes it, Finnioan?” asked the blacksmith.

“Ach, well...” Finnioan looked hesitantly to the side, “In truth, I'm worried for this season's rainfall. It looks to be a dry year, and I don't know how I'll yield enough. This may be a lean winter,” he finally admitted.

“Achh,” mocked one of the warriors, “perhaps if Finnioan weren't so lean himself!” The rest of the party exploded into laughter.

“Don't worry Miss Finnioan, we'll catch enough game to see us through the winter, you can dry your eyes,” said another.

“You just take your little plow and go tend your little plants,” said a third.

“You all can hush your corn holes if you know what's good for ya!” shot back the blacksmith.

Finnioan gave a tired look to the blacksmith and went on his way.

That evening, the fire was lit. The people were riled up after food and drink. Murden's hands were sweaty, he was not a public speaker.

“Now for our evening's entertainment, Murden the Bard is tellin' us a story!” Callahan announced.

The crowd made ruckus noises of excitement, tapping their flasks on the wooden tables that were set around the fire. Murden could see small puffs of smoke coming up like tiny chimneys from their pipes.

He cleared his throat and ascended the ledge around the fire pit.

“Once...” he began, voice trembling, “once...” he cleared his throat again and someone handed him a flask to drink from.

Murden took a long drink, gathered his courage and began

THE ONION PATCH KID

Once, there was a great merchant, a tradesman who traveled far and wide and had great success. He returned home with many horses and trunks full with treasure. He had a great beautiful house built and married the most lovely girl in town.

Because he had worked so hard early in life, he had a distaste for work and preferred to buy what he wished instead of producing it himself. He did not let his wife lift a finger to clean or tend a garden, insisting that they have servants clean and buy her anything she wished. But there was one thing he could not buy: a child.

One day, however, their prayers were answered. His lovely wife discovered that they would soon have a child.

As the days passed, a curious desire arose within her, an appetite for vegetables. And so the servants were sent out daily to fill the cupboards with carrots and peas, spinach and rutabagas, celery and parsnips.

One night, his wife awoke him from his sleep with a terrible craving for onions. What could he do? The market was closed, the servants were gone, and they had no garden, not a single thing grew around the house but tulips.

The merchant crossed to the bedroom window. Looking up at the moon, he asked what he should do for his wife. And it was then that he saw an answer to his prayers.

Next to the merchant's house, lived a witch, whose garden was her pride and her joy. Rain and shine she was out there tending her herbs and plants. As the moon shone down upon his neighbor's garden, the merchant saw the row of big beautiful onions sprouting up.

And so he dressed, climbed the fence, and picked one onion, bringing it home to his happy wife.

The next night, his wife awoke, pleading him for an onion the same as she had last night, and not one to withhold anything from his wife, he dressed and climbed the fence again, this time brining home two onions.

The third night, she awoke again, and again he dressed, climbed the fence, he pulled up three large bulbs, white as the moon. But the witch was waiting for him this night, and before he could climb back over the fence, she caught him by the ankle, and pulled him to the ground.

“Oh please, I beg your forgiveness! It is for my wife, she is with child and wants nothing but your onions!” the merchant begged.

“Why have you no garden of your own, then?” replied the witch, “You take from me, because you have not the foresight to have provided for yourself. But these,” the witch motioned to the garden, “these are my children, my loved ones, they are no ordinary onions, they are magic. When the babe is born, she will also be magic. Because of your wickedness, you must give her to me to raise.”

The merchant was devastated, but returned home to his wife, who ate the three onions.

When the babe was born, the witch came and took her, locking her in a tower where the world could not touch her.

******

“...and so the merchant's daughter grew up in the tower, under the guidance of the witch," Murden's eyes met Gypsy's then, and time stood still for just a moment as amusement shaped her lips, "...if only the merchant had made use of his garden, if only he had not taken from the witch... but that would have been another story...”

Murden stepped down and took another great long drink from his flask. The crowd spoke amongst themselves as they shuffled off to bed.

The next day, the blacksmith stood peacefully hammering by his otherwise vacant fire. Where had all the ruffians gone?

Murden soon found out, as they all returned to the blacksmith that afternoon. Having spent the morning buying seeds, they each now needed a hoe.

Over the course of the next week, the yards of every member of the village had rows dug and planted.

Finnioan could hardly get his work done, there was always someone coming by to ask him advice on this or that. But many of the older children eagerly completed his work for him in exchange for learning from a master grower.

Seeds became a precious commodity, and the evenings were devoted to meetings about the cultivating of seeds, the best fertilizer, and how respond to changing weather.

Murden was on his way back from delivering another shovel to the Finnioan farm, when he came upon the home of one of the warriors from his first day around the blacksmith's fire.

The warrior, whose name is Specklaine, was now out in his garden, building a trellis for his beans.

At this moment, a village girl, by the name of Melinda, was on her way, carrying a basket of calendula. She swayed as she walked, the ribbons in her hair fluttering on the autumn breeze.

Specklaine crossed to the fence and whistled in appraisal.

Melinda frowned, “I'll thank you, sir, not to whistle at me as if I were an animal.”

“Oh, my deepest apologies,” Specklaine replied sarcastically, giving her a mock bow, “I had you confused with one of O'Derbie's milk cows. But now I see it was a mistake, for I know that O'Derbie would not braid ribbons in their hair.”

Melinda's face showed furious horror at his words before she turned up her nose and irately went on her way.

Murden passed by many gardens on his way back. Each one with a sweaty gardener, but an empty home. In the village, he saw many groups of be-ribboned ladies, swaying as they walked with their baskets; all of them talking amongst themselves happily, but keeping far from the rough menfolk.

That night, the great fire cast its flickering shadows across Murden's face as he stood before a rapped audience.

*****

GLYNDA AND THE LION

And so it was that the merchant's daughter came to live in the witch's tower. The witch called her Glynda, and taught her everything she knew of goodness and kindness, keeping her far from the dangers of the world.

Meanwhile, the merchant and his wife had many more children, who thrived along with their proliferous garden.

Until the day came for him to set off again on business.

On his way out of town, he stopped by Glynda's tower to say farewell and ask if there was anything she wished him to bring back to her. But Glynda, knew nothing of the world and therefore wanted nothing, she could not fathom what to ask for. She did, however, notice that her father did not look forward to his work, and simply replied that on his journey, he should stop and smell the roses. To which the merchant nodded seriously and galloped away.

He took his promise to heart, stopping by the roadside whenever he saw a rose and breathing in its sweet smell, remembering his family when he did so. And because of this, he had the best of luck in all his business dealings. But on the way back, he was in such a hurry to get home to his wife and children, that he rode all through the night and got lost in the woods.

Wandering, the merchant came upon a large garden full of roses. Scrambling over the fence, he eagerly smelled them, hoping they would give him the good luck he needed to get back to the road.

But alas, after wandering in the wood another day, he came right back to the same garden.

Then, the merchant had another idea. If he could pick one rose and take it with him, perhaps he could maintain his luck, not only on this journey, but in all future circumstances.

So the merchant climbed the fence and walked through the flowerbeds until he found the most perfect rose. Grasping the stem between his forefinger and thumb, he snapped it from the bush.

No sooner had he done so, than a terrible roar filled the silence of the garden, and a great huge beast sat before him, his glowing yellow eyes causing the merchant to tremble.

“Why would you pick this flower?!” he roared, “these are my beauties, my darlings, these are not ornaments to be plucked!!”

Meanwhile, the witch was sitting up in the tower with Glynda They were embroidering a tapestry depicting all the most lovely things they cold imagine.

“When will my father come home,” Glynda wondered aloud, “he was supposed to return yesterday.”

Now, the witch had a magic mirror which could show her anything she wished to see. She always brought it with her to the tower, so she could keep an eye on the world down below. And when she looked into it, she saw Glynda's father being chased from the garden by the beast.

“My sweet, the time has come to let down your hair and enter the world.'

And with that, the witch led Glynda down the stairs and onto a horse.

The horse took Glynda into the woods to the doorstep of the beast.

Glynda knocked on the door and it opened. The beast stayed in the shadows, and having never been taught of fear or threat, she did not look for anyone lurking about, she simply saw a dark room.

“Oh!” she said delightedly at the enchanted house which magically invited her in, “Hello? Is anyone home?”

Not knowing the etiquette concerning breaking and entering, she walked through the house until she found a room that seemed hospitable.

Overwhelmed with this new experience, Glynda lay upon the bed and fell fast asleep.

The beast did not know what to make of this woman. She did not cower or cry in terror at the sight of him like everyone else. She was like a sweet rose, blossoming, perfuming the air with her very being.

That evening, Glynda awoke to a great hunger, so she went downstairs to see if there was any food in the house. She gasped with delight when she saw the table was laid out with a beautiful meal.

Glynda could see the shadow of a great man sitting in the dark at the other end of the table.

“Oh! Why thank you,” she exclaimed as she crossed to the table, “I am Glynda” she curtsied and sat.

The beast did not know how to answer. He did not know how to care for anything but roses, so he carefully poured her a glass.

“'Mmmmmm!” Glynda let out as she appreciated the meal, “did you make all of this food? It's so delicious!”

Her dinner companion did not answer. He simply sat there silently in the dark.

They ate dinner together in this way, Glynda having a one sided conversation, the beast keeping her watered.

After diner, Glynda shivered. So the beast lit a fire, and as it unveiled his great hairy mass, his sharp menacing teeth, and his yellow ferrel eyes, Glynda gasped.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, “how fluffy you are! How sparkling your smile, how warm your gaze!” and before she could stop herself, she reached out and touched his shoulder.

The beast, knowing only the touch of violence and fear, snarled ferociously and raised up a great claw, slashing Glynda's dress. In shame, he fell into the shadows, trembling.

Glynda stood there bewildered, a great hole in her dress. She gently approached his great cowering form.

“It's all right” she soothed. Then she stepped back to the fire to warm her hands. She looked down at her dress and she gave out a great laugh. She had never seen fabric rip apart and this was a wonder to her. She studied the clean tear that went all the way through three petticoats.

“Oh my!” Glynda was overjoyed, “You would be very very handy with my sewing projects!”

The beast's fear melted, and he came out of the shadows. He took her carefully in his great paws and gave her a gentle hug, careful not to crush her petals.

Glynda and the beast, spent many days together. He taught her of all practical things and she filled the house and garden with sunshine. And soon they were married and spent many nights together sewing by the fire, or strolling through the rose garden by moonlight.

******

The next day, not much work was done. Ladies found themselves branching off from their friends and strolling past sweaty gardeners. Men found themselves at their fences with glasses of water, talking patiently about flowers or ribbons or whatever else she had on her mind.

Over the course of the passing week, many picnics were had by the lake or under the apple tree. Many walks were taken by moonlight. Many hummed to themselves as they went about their work. And in a month, many happy weddings were performed.

In two months since he had arrived, Murden watched village life transform. The homes were full of love now and surrounded by thriving vegetation. With the inclusion of so many fresh herbs and vegetables to their meals, hardly anyone fell sick, and wounds healed quickly.

Murden never felt better in his life. He had never been able to do any good with his own people. And although this was a far corner of the world, he couldn't help but feel some pride and accomplishment here.

Murden stood at the well, splashing water on his face and arms from the bucket. It was a windy day, the kind that reminds you that winter is coming. He had hoped Gypsy-Rose would weave ribbons in her hair and come to the blacksmith fire with a basket of flowers in her hand. But she kept to herself. He had not seen her anywhere in weeks.

Enough is enough, Murden decided. He tucked in his shirt, pulled closed this leather jerkin, and set off to the house of the wise woman.