The Greatest Storyteller

 


(This story was first published in Ethereal Tales. Thanks to Teresa Ford for publishing it.
Their website is at: www.etherealtales.co.uk
And a Facebook page at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Ethereal-Tales/106658326022240 )
My short story website is: https://ashbyshortstories.wordpress.com/


If you’ve ever sailed up the Lycian Peninsula in a two masted schooner, then I am sure you’ll remember the tall golden tower that tops the palace of King Drog. A tower of beauty rising out of the sea mists, and the fumes from the tanning factory. The golden tower, well it’s brass really, had seen better days, and so had King Drog. The King was of extensive build. Like a house! His three main loves in life were eating, eating, and storytelling.
But the King had become bored. Bored, bored, bored. His storytellers had told their last story. Every original story has been copied and rewritten a hundred times. All three Royal Storytellers could plagiarise no more.
Princess Drogalina came to the rescue, “Father, I have an idea. One that might remedy, your never-ending desire for fresh stories. And at the same time bring much needed tourism to this noble Land. Anything that makes people forget the Poll Tax is a good thing.
“It’s simply this. You have a tournament. Send invitations out to all the countries that lie this side of The Dragon’s Waste Land. Say that in one year’s time you will have a Competition to decide the Greatest Storyteller in the World. You will have all the stories that your ears can handle and all at the cost of only ten or twenty gold coins for the winner.”
King Drog smiled and exclaimed, “My little ball of perfumed lard. What a good idea. And the only cost to me is one gold coin and a signed picture of your Mother. Painted when she was younger. Much, much, younger. I give the Royal Seal of approval. Let our brave Realm move swiftly into a new era. An era full of new and exciting business opportunities.”
A year had passed since the Royal discourse that you have just been privy too. Not much had happened in the Kingdom. One dragon killed. A mass exodus of fairies: this was caused by the ruthless imposition of the King’s special fairy tax, “a golden coin or a golden finger” as the King so aptly put it. The one plus of the year was the high turnout at the annual public execution. A family day out that had everything.
Anyway, it is now the day of the storytelling competition and His Highness is much pleased! His fat face is as red as the huge Strawberries he was trying to force into it.
The King turned to his attentive child and spluttered out, “Daughter dear. Your idea has been a gift to every business in this land. A multitude of strangers has arrived, none of whom are up to date on the latest exchange rates. And my ban on strangers wearing swords has meant that a thousand of our best pickpockets have seen wondrous fair profits for their noble work. The port has been busy all day. Traders have never before sold so many ill-made goods for such exorbitant sums.
“In the streets of those ill-smelling Commoners you can, I am told, hear a dozen different languages and a hundred varied dialects. But best of all, the stories! Oh yes. One story beats another.
The traveller from far off Giant-Land told a tale full of laughter, bawdiness, and with a most surprising ending. Tales of love and loss. Tales of wonder and imagination. That last storyteller has all the others beaten though. His tale will be retold a million times. A tale of adventure and pirates, where the hero fought villain after villain in order to win the hand of the golden haired Princess, and her substantial Dowry. The story was filled with laughter and tears. I can see no one beating him. But hush. The very last storyteller, the man from Tiraos, is yet to speak”.
The final storyteller told a tale long forgotten. He spoke of the fabled Arianse. The Arianse was a monster seeming fair that stole babies from their cradles and lived on the misery of humans. It actually drew strength from the torments of widowed wifes and fatherless children. Some people can see evil and others are evil. But the final storyteller was a Channeler. He could channel evil through time and distance and bring it into being in front of him. As he spoke about those who had been slaughtered by the Arianse, a chill was felt throughout the Great Hall of the King. A wind came out of nowhere and blew out the huge fire.
The storyteller’s voice was soft and lilting. As he described the creature’s evil deeds, the audience imagined they heard the cries of the Arianse’s victims. He spoke of men burned to death on spits. And of women, shrieking in agony in the torture chambers of the Arianse. The evil being had come to rule many Lands. Some times it wore the guise of a pitiless monster, blood dripping from its greedy jaws. But it had other modes of dress. It was a confidante of Priests and a friend of Kings. For over a hundred years, no warrior, no land could oppose it.
The reek of sulphur choked many in the Hall. And there was the smell of something else, something much worse.
Many in the audience tried to leave the hall. But something held them back. Kept them squirming in their chairs as they listened for more.
The teller of tales fought to keep possession of the thing that now came into being in front of his small quaking body. It was the Arianse, brought into life by the sheer power of the storyteller’s craft. He uttered words of command that quelled the apparition as it moved about in front of him, a swirling fog of evil. Drops of blood fell out of the midst of the Fog and splattered on the wooden floor.
None in the Hall spoke as the Arianse took on flesh. Took on the flesh of a most beautiful woman. It leaned forward to kiss the storyteller on his dry, trembling lips. For an instant his resolve weakened and he let out the most hideous scream. Every candle in the Hall was extinguished by a stinking wind that blew from the very Gates of Hell.
The voice of a young woman laughing was heard. And then all went quiet. All that was left of the Beast were the stains where its blood had etched into the wood of the floor.
King Drog shouted out, his voice hoarse with fear, “Guards, to me. To me. Let us see what has happened to this poor man, for surely he is The Greatest Storyteller in the World! He must have his prize.
“Yet I fear he will never speak again. The Arianse has also won its prize. Aaargh! It has eaten the tongue from out of his mouth.”