Short Story: The Storyteller's Tale

Short Story: The Storyteller's Tale

The room was small and filled with people. The storyteller, who had no other name, lowered himself onto the stool, a stool the height of a footstool. His greatcoat, ox-blood red in colour, crumpled around him on the floor creating contours and ravines of crushed velvet.

A log-fire spat from the grate filling the air with a resinous scent.

Those attending had gathered with singleness of purpose, to listen to the aged spinner of intricate tales weave his words into elaborate scenes, which captivated both young and old along the way.

He knew not where his tale would go for he was a listener as well as a teller. All he knew was that through intricacy of plot those who sat before him would hang upon his every word, then, unknowingly some would hold their breath or shed a tear as magic, love and terror flowed in equal measure.

The storyteller lifted his gaze and the conversation faded as his audience fell silent beneath the spell of his peat dark eyes; eyes flecked with the spark of fire. Slowly, he chose his words. His voice, like his coat, filled the room with tones of velvet and warmth.

‘The story that I tell is one of love, not lust; of innocence corrupted, corrupted by man’s inhumanity and misconstrued understanding. It’s a tale of life… and death; a tale of the past, for its origins lies in five centuries of dust. It is a tale of the present, the future and of all eternity.’

He paused, lowering his gaze once more.

The fire’s warm ember glow fell upon his etched face, depicting lines of time and mystery beyond that of his earthly years. His shadow danced on the wall behind him, reaching across the ceiling, merging into the flickering shadows of his audience.

He reached down and with his finger slowly drew a circle on the floor. Before the circle was complete he caught his audience’s attention with the click of his fingers.

‘For those whose lives are played out within this tale, they knew little of love; they knew nothing of its poetry, or its passion, its depth nor its pain. For they were innocent, both, and when the spark became the raging forest fire of love, they knew not what to do or how to extinguish it – if that was indeed what they had wanted. It was not young love, for both had known life for more than one score year and ten, and he five more. No, this was not young love but forbidden love, for both were promised to another and had for years worked out their love through devotion, penitence and prayer. They were novices, in love, life and calling, for the love was between a nun and a monk and the love that they ignited was of the all consuming kind…’

He broke off, an uneasiness swept the room; the fire cracked startling those close by. The once warm eyes of the storyteller pierced the fire-lit darkness.

‘Sworn to celibacy and holy orders, yet caught with emotions which brought them both guilt and fear, there was no rush of sentiment, no explosion of desire for they rarely saw each other, and when they did they were not looking. Monastic and abbey life had taught them to look not upon the outward appearance of themselves, or others, but upon the heart. Their lives were lived in silence, cocooned in prayer and solitude, and yet…’ his voiced picked up, ‘there were times when their paths would cross.’

The atmosphere in the audience lightened.

‘It was never planned; fate was suggested by those who witnessed it, when on occasions their paths would meet as they trod the dusty road to market. Paths that met but that met in silence for words were never spoken.’

A group of girls exchanged glances with intrigue and wide-eyed wonder. There was a murmur, someone cleared their throat, a glass rolled and fell to the floor. The fire spat a cascade of sparks that traced the air, sending glowing buds across the room. The Storyteller straightened his back, slowly raised his head, and throwing his arms into the air expelled a roar that shook both room and occupants, ‘Why? Why was it allowed to happen?’

His audience froze. As one they, like he, sat with straightened backs – his eyes, no longer the dark mystery of peat, burned with righteous fire. He scanned them all one by one, staring and daring them to offer an explanation. None did.

The storyteller relaxed, allowing his arms to fold gently onto his lap and his chin to fall forward upon his chest. The mound of velvet that harbored the teller fell silent. Motionless he sat. The gaze of his listeners fell upon him. No one moved. Neither teller nor listener, as the atmosphere crackled with expectation.

Slowly he lifted his head, the fire from his eyes extinguished and replaced with a shadow of sorrow.

‘They did not know,’ he said, ‘they did not know that their passing on that dusty road would kindle emotions beyond their comprehension. They did not know that the duty of going to market was to become the hope of a new and different life. But it did. Their random and separate sojourns down that dusty road carried for them an unspoken prayer that on their journey their paths would meet - a prayer, which, on occasion was granted. It was a smile exchanged on a day much like any other that set the ember of love aglow. With time, a broader smile of joyous recognition lit their faces from a distance and fanned the unseen flame that burned into a silence-breaking greeting of ‘Hello’.

A smile travelled around the room.

‘No longer content with passing, he, on occasion would linger, walking the road beside her. In quiet reverent conversation they shared the beauty of the world around them and the joy of innocent friendship.’

The Storyteller paused, dragging once again his wavering finger across the floor, drawing nothing in particular except the attention of his audience.

‘But word got around…’ He said in hollowed tones, ‘People started to talk, not in reverent conversation but with the rattle of tittle-tattle; in venomous tones they spoke of standards, of what was expected, what was acceptable and what was not. Lines were drawn, the bar was raised. Could two people, devout people of God, exchange love for each other from beneath the hessian robes they wore? Did they have the right? Did they not know that they were people of God? The village rose as one, demanding that a stop be put to such liaisons, which were, in their belief, for a different time and a different place. Branding fire torches, the villagers chased both the monk and nun from their presence, perceiving it as their duty to pursue them from town to town to beyond the borders of the county. Beyond the borders of THIS county; beyond the borders of THIS town.’

He raised his hand once more, this time pointing with an outstretched finger across the room towards the door through which his listeners had arrived.

‘Beyond that door lies the market place, the market place to which they walked together. It was down the road along which, this very night, no doubt a number of you have travelled, that they likewise wandered in purest innocence of conversation. It was across the fields that stretch beyond the hill that they were chased away.’

The five centuries of dust in which the story lay were brushed away. What had once been a dusty road was now one lined with trees that were familiar to them all. Indeed the audience recognized that, in their sapling years, they too could well have witnessed the blossoming of the love of which the Storyteller spoke.

‘But this is not simply a story which ends in the flight of these two young novices, for in their bid for freedom, the nun fell from Ranstone Crag.’

A dozen minds switched from the dusty road to the notorious outcrop of rock which obscured a deep narrow ravine.

‘She simply lost her footing…and her life; nothing could she, her love or her pursuers do but watch as her innocence dashed upon the rocks.’

No one in the room made sound or movement; heaviness filled the air; there was a distant sound of breaking glass.

‘The monk fled,’ he continued, ‘fleeing the town, the county and our story. Never was he heard of again. There was never meant to be a death. But death there was; an unnecessary, accidental, unplanned, crowd induced death that tore the very heart of the community as townsfolk fell divided. What was to be done? Fallen from grace her burial was forbidden at the abbey and being ‘not of the parish’ there was no ground into which she could be laid and so internment into the walls of the church was deemed the most practical of solutions.’

The listeners minds moved from crag to church – they knew the place but not the story. Puzzlement was in air. Surely such a story would have been recorded they thought, the details making up the ingredients of local folklore handed on from generation to generation, but no one knew.

‘Never was a word spoken, neither any written. There were no records, no certificates. Nothing.

Dissolution swept the land bringing for those of faith a crushing blow beneath the supreme fist of the Monarchy. They were dark days; much was plundered, much was hidden. Chalices and crucifixes together with secrets were wrenched away and buried in hidden places. The nun was a secret, a buried secret, for no one spoke of the nun of Ragstone crag. But she was not laid to rest, but suspended above the earth encased in flint and rock. An undisturbed secret suppressed by silent tongues which until tonight had remained just so. But now the speaking of such things has disturbed the secret, unleashed the history and blown the dusts of time away.’

A rock exploded into the room, shattering the window in its wake; a scream, a crack of fire; the Storyteller sat motionless surrounded by the deep folds of his rich dark coat.