On Storytelling

by Alison J. Littlewood

 

I open my mouth and nothing comes out.

“Surely you already know?” I said. “You have been everywhere, everytime, everything already.”

“But tell me. I want you to say it,” he said.

I look down, mouth dry. I take a drink from the flagon, another stalling tactic.

“I’ll tell you… I’ll tell you the story of the girl who doubted,” I said.

He nodded and smiled. “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” He waved a hand for me to continue.

“She doubted so much, sometimes, she didn’t even try. But then one day she realised she had to. So she started to walk…”

He sat back and closed his eyes, twirling the many-coloured scarf he wore.

“And she came to a cliff. She didn’t know this cliff, she just knew that when she looked down it was a long, long way down… far higher than the gulls could soar, far above the children who play. Only the sound and the clouds could reach.”

“And what did she do?” he said, emphasis on ‘do.’

“Well, she came to a cave… and then she talked,” I finished feebly.

“NO!” He shouted, voice resonant, resonance of all the ages crashing around the walls.

“No. She didn’t. She saw a fishing rod, and she started to fish…” I cast my eyes around the room, hoping to see something, find something. Where does it go? Where does it end? Where does anything?

“But she didn’t like to fish, this girl. She didn’t want to catch anything. She thought it was cruel. Instead, she baited her line and fed it out as far as it would go, until it reached the swirling gulls… and they started to feed, and to take, and take, and take. And then the girl had nothing left, no bait, nothing in her creel, and so she pinched off a piece of her flesh and fed them that too. Then another…”

“Why did she?” he said, looking straight at me now, a wild sparkle in those eyes. It was life, a bright sparkle and a knowing, but it was a little bit insane too. You can’t know so much without going a little mad sometimes.

”She was stupid. Stupid!”

“So make her stop,” he said. “It’s your story, after all.”

“She stops…” I gulped. What next? What comes next?

“You  know,” he said. “You don’t need anyone to tell you.”

“She stole a man’s scarf,” I said, “and she started to knit. And it didn’t stop, even though the yarn was undoing at one end while it added to the other. And the scarf grew longer and longer and longer, past the gulls, past the gannets, until it reached all the way to the beach. The children were waiting, and when it was time, when the scarf of all colours was long enough, then they came. They climbed and climbed to the cave with the living walls, and they started to lick them where they shone…”

He nodded. “Good…”

“And it tasted good, candy mint and pastel and ice cream running down slick into their mouths and their tummies. Until all the children, all the stories, they were sated.”

“And you?”

“I created this place,” I said, looking at him. “You’re only in my mind, you know.”

He nodded. “We all are, dear,” he said. “We all are.”

“So what shall I do with you?”

“What you will. We are yours. You are mine.”

 

© Alison J. Littlewood. All rights reserved.