The Storyteller's Tale

 -Ayaka

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 color, 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 the 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 or 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, and 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 harboured 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 listener’s 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 Rag stone 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.

 

 

 

Butterfly

-Ayaka                

Watching a pale gold luminescent butterfly float and soar; similar to watching a girl with yellow hair in rich print floral dress dance across brackish grass towards the beach with its shingle reach finger pointing into a clashing ocean; wading into breakers that threaten to drag her under.

Hopping about like a glistening mermaid until her breath becomes still, she remarks pointedly. “Did that get your attention?”

“Of course” I respond, sucking on a green grass stem.

She laughs. “I thought you said nothing I did surprised you anymore?”

“Did I say that?”

She wraps a towel around her body. “I could have drowned.”

“But you didn’t…..”

Sitting on her haunches to peel a banana before indulging in playful fellatio, snipping off bite sized chunks a piece at a time. Her eyes are never still; black pinprick dots that bore into mine.

“What did you ingest?” I ask, knowing she will refuse to answer.

She falls against my body, flesh digging into flesh burrowing deeper. “I wish I were a man – I’d love to take you the way you take me.”

“That’s queer talk.” I respond. She breaks into peals of laughter.

“I could haunt you – if I were dead. You’d never keep another woman - not after me.”

“God forbid….”

She pushes back her hair. “You know what I did once to my sister – hid in the wardrobe when she got ready for bed and jumped out after she’d turned off the light. I got a good hiding – Mum called me wicked. I couldn’t cry for laughing – they said I was hysterical. My sister threatened to stick my head under the cold tap – I kicked her ankles…..” She pauses. “Are you listening?”

“No. You’ve told me this before….or something similar.”

“Are you calling me a liar – is that what you think I am?”

“No. You’re embellishing – but never mind, it’s a good story…. Carry on.”

Instead, she buries feet beneath sandy shingle, building up a mound until it covers legs and ankles.

“What do you think happens to your soul when you’re dead?” she asks.

“It floats around a bit I imagine….”

“Like a butterfly? I love butterflies.”

“Perhaps.”

“But not a wasp – wasps are horrid.”

She is terrified of stinging insects and remains quiet in contemplation.

“Not a snake – I can’t abide snakes.”

I grin. “You’re beginning to sound like a character out of a Jane Austin novel.”

“Do you think so?”

She hovers closer. “Let’s make love?”

“Not here – the beach……” I gesture towards the emptiness about us. “People wouldn’t like it. They’d report us.”

“No they wouldn’t. Everyone loves a lover.”

Sometimes she opened her mouth to show me what she was eating, indulging in habits that ought to remain private but according to her opinion I should want to share in everything she does, everything she is; she isn’t entirely crass, simply inclusive and totally open.

Her favorite expression remained, ‘it’s the honest truth’, as in.

“If you fell for another woman would you tell me?”

“Do you expect me to?”

“If it’s the honest truth – I’d try to understand.”

I never knew if she really meant it, or if it was one of those things that popped into her head when she was feeling indulgent towards me.

“If I do – you’ll be the first to know.”

Sometimes she hit; she had a punch that came with some spite but I knew she rarely meant to damage, simply to wound. It was a signal she needed closer attention and made me shelter her in my arms.

Once, coming home from work I found her in pieces with the flat totally wrecked.

“I thought you were leaving,” she said, clinging on tight.

“Did I say that I was?”

“Yes. I picked up on a signal – something you did subconsciously…”

It was a delusion of course, but she reacted to body language long before feeling able to believe what a person might tell her.

“You’ll force me to take you back to Dr Lester,” I warned.

She started to rant, pinching arms and pummeling legs until I held her rigidly still.

“Listen…. Listen….”

She stared at me furiously. “What? What is it?”

“A wasp,” I hissed. “I think you’ve let a wasp into the room.”

“No,” She screamed, crawling beneath the cover of an overturned armchair. “No – get it out.”

I went to the window, opening it wide and taking time to restore calm.

“You’ve got to be good – really good and not make a sound.”

“I am. I will,” she whimpered like a frightened child.

It was cruel perhaps, but sometimes I didn’t know how to keep her under control and she was in danger of behaving far more erratically. Afterwards we tidied the room throwing out the broken, torn and smashed items. We never possessed much of significance which was a blessing.

“I can’t help it,” she apologized, agitated and upset.

“I know,” I smiled, stroking her head.

I found her in the bathroom one evening staring at blood trickling down her fingers after breaking a glass in the sink.

“What will it be like after we’re dead?” she asked as I applied a bandage.

“Dark I expect – very dark, and black – very quiet…. Like it is when you sleep.”

She grew limp in my grasp and I realized she had passed out.

There was a time when I dated her sister, and I knew they liked to play tricks by wearing one another’s clothes, hair styles, perfume and make up. They remained similar in looks and I didn’t mind the games; it added a little frisson to the relationship to kiss the wrong girl. What they never appreciated was that I could always tell them apart by their ear lobes; one had a double piercing.

Once she suggested we organize a threesome with her sister and I nodded without thinking, believing it was another of those unrealistic or highly erotic games she liked to play. She punched me hard.

“I knew it,” She screamed, going off alarmingly before I could protest my innocence. “It isn’t me you want – is it? Tell me the honest truth.”

Even as I tried to reassure she was far too impassioned to believe a word I said, reacting emphatically.

“I’ll find you a whore instead,” she offered. “Come on – let’s go find a pretty brunette.”

There was no way I was going anywhere with her in that state of mind and allowed her to stew on it before she burst into tears.

“Is that the sort of woman you’d like me to become?” she screamed.

I didn’t know what to answer as she repeated herself angrily.

“I like you the way you are.” I attempted to console.

“And my sister – I suppose you’d like to fuck my sister?”

“Why bring her into this?”

“I know you like her better – you always did.” She handed me the phone. “Call her up – the filthy bitch.”

“Your sister’s done nothing to harm you.”

She screamed, pummeling my chest. “Did you sleep with her before you dated me?”

It was a question I felt able to avoid as thankfully her sister remained silent on the subject knowing the distress it could cause.

Once a fortnight she went to see Dr Lester while I waited in the ante room watching fish swim around a ruined castle in which an open treasure chest with fake Spanish Doubloons lay exposed. The hour seemed to fly by but afterwards she refused to speak; closed down. She wouldn’t let me touch her and we had to drive at a quiet pace with soothing music playing on the radio. She liked a treat to be provided; something sweet and sticky that allowed her to lick her lips, resorting to childhood.

She wouldn’t tell me what they discussed during those sessions but Dr Lester confirmed she was making progress. I tried to be certain she took her medication, but sometimes she came home high as a kite and then we had to leave the flat – walking the fields, following pathways towards distant hills, or down towards the sea where she felt able to run her body against the waves to feel the tingle touch of life and death against her flesh.

It was then she needed to be held and demanded to make love.

Favorite movies were largely old black and white Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers; she loves dance routines with their phony glitter and false romance.

“I’m going to dress up like they did back then,” she announced impulsively. “And you’re going to take me dancing and we’ll drink cocktails, and afterwards we’ll screw somewhere in full public view – standing up, and…”

“But I don’t dance,” I protested.

She shot me a glance. “You never try – do you? You never try. Can’t you believe in the things I do?”

It was an impossible question and quite unfair; quite unreasonable.

One day when I met her at the park I found her talking with an old lady and heard her ask what it felt like to make love in the old days, and how men kissed back then and were the orgasms better than they are today.

I think the old lady considered her strange but answered truthfully, disclosing details of romantic encounters with young soldiers during the war and things she had done to which I half closed my ears.

Once in a while when she doesn’t come home it can prove difficult.

I used to worry she was out of control and mixing with people who would take advantage of her delicate state of mind, but she insisted she just drives – sometimes all night, ending up in places she never meant to visit.

I didn’t know what to do about it and asked Dr Lester. He told me it’s a form of stress release and providing she does no harm to herself and isn’t a hazard to others he sees little reason to try to prevent her.

I offered to go with her but since she felt unable to plan these little excursions never knew when they were likely to occur; on her return she is usually empty, exhausted, and quickly falls asleep.

“The honest truth is,” she tried to explain once, as if it’s possible to reason out the unreasonable, “some other person is driving – not me. I’m not even conscious. The car is on auto pilot, and at some point it comes to a halt.”

“Where do you think you are heading when you set out?” I asked.

“I never know; it’s a strange feeling.” She smiled, but it brought small relief. “It must be what it’s like when you die.”

“No, not really.” I disagreed. “Not when you’re young and otherwise healthy – dead people are stiff and cold.”

“But I am when I’m in that state – rigid. Rigor mortis sets in…..”

I turned away to hide my distress and when I turned back she met my gaze candidly.

“I’m going out. There’s somewhere I need to be.”

“Please don’t go,” I pleaded, knowing she refused to listen to warnings; especially when she’s already convinced herself there’s little point in negativity as she describes it.

“It’s my body, and if I want to fill it up with chemicals I will,” she protested.

“Listen,” I retaliated, seeking the nearest means at my disposal. “I was thinking of calling up your sister. That threesome – maybe she’d be agreeable….?”

Her face dropped immediately as the intended barb dug deep.

“I expect you’d prefer to be with her instead of me?” she screamed.

“If you leave tonight I’ll go to her,” I threatened.

She raised a fist. “I hate you both.”

She refused to talk for the remainder of the evening but later as we went to bed began a dark and disturbing tale of filth and lust. I had to wonder where it all came from even when I knew her history.

“Do you share this kind of stuff with Dr Lester….? It’s pretty neurotic?”

She grinned. “I never know what I’ll say to him – it isn’t planned, none of it – it just sort of tumbles out and the deeper it gets – the darker it becomes. He calls it mining. Does it upset you? He says nothing I say will shock him – why should it shock you?”

“It doesn’t, maybe I’m just made differently and it’s never easy to tell when you move from truth to lies in the blink of an eye?”

She stroked an arm to ease my distress. “Not all the stories are made up.”

As I moved against her in the darkness I was reminded of what it was that had attracted me to her in the first place, and though I’d like to believe that what we have is love I sometimes wonder if all I’m doing is marking time by playing a waiting game, especially as I realize that to love is to capture and she won’t be held.

On one of those afternoons when we headed onto a deserted beach she sat hunched beneath a towel with fevered eyes scanning a rolling sea.

“It’s hard to stay alive,” she grinned defiantly. “Real hard.”

“You know there are certain cultures that refuse to distinguish between life and death – for them everything is sacred and a part of nature. By comparison the world we’ve created is artificial and tame; one in which we’ve devised separation and function as the means to define a person’s life force. It’s why we have so much stress and anxiety - we’ve lost spirituality.”

She was skimming pebbles against the waves and laughed derisively. “You’re really funny at times. Do you think anyone cares?”

“Really,” I added, sharpening my tone. “We’re mostly cast against type – who would believe you and I stood a chance? We’re hardly alike….”

“That isn’t important,” she declared defiantly. “I expect some people might consider me an oddity but that’s only because they choose not to take the time to find out who I am. I can’t be one of those people that do everything the same as everyone else – I can’t be like that, and I won’t….”

“What about me?” I asked, seeking to define my own position in this relationship as we were talking so openly about ourselves.

She didn’t answer at first, fondling a pebble between finger and thumb to feel textures of smoothness and roundness. “You’re not like other men, are you….?”

“Am I not – what makes you believe that?”

“You won’t hurt me – not like I was hurt before. Dr Lester say’s you’re a good man. He say’s you’re the best type of medicine for a woman in my condition.”

“Maybe I am.” I laughed. “It doesn’t make me good – what does good mean to you personally? Do you mean I’m better than the man who screwed you up?”

“You know very well that you are…. and I’m grateful. Today – with you - has been a good day. And any day without memory feels… brilliant.”

I thought briefly about the pale gold colored butterfly; if it remained alive or dead, wondering how the species survived during winter months and realized I knew very little about the natural world.

She raised her face in a grin. “Sometimes I feel a bit like a pebble myself – one day on top of the stack and the next, underneath. Its dark down there – promise me you won’t ever leave. You won’t, will you?”

She gripped my hands during this outburst, digging in nails as I shook my head. She immediately let go the hold, scattering pebbles broadcast style towards the sea. “People say things they don’t mean.”

“Not me,” I declared forcefully. It started to drizzle and I stood up. “We should go home.”

“Should we?” She allowed the towel to fall away from her shoulders. “Why do we have to do what we’re supposed to do – why can’t we just remain the way we are? Why is there so much disapproval and complication in life?”

I arched an eyebrow, reminded of what I’d been contemplating only moments before. “Because we do and to go against the world just creates aggravation.”

“Am I an aggravation to you?” When I didn’t answer she laughed, shaking her head. “When I die I’m coming back to haunt you.”

“I know.” I smiled. “I know you will, but that can’t be for a long time yet.”

She shot me a quizzical look as we trudged back along the beach. “You don’t really prefer my sister do you?”

I stared at her overlong, believing it to be another in a variety of unpredictable traps she was about to spring on me. “Your sister is a good person and I’ve never looked at her in that way since we got together.”

She grinned. “That’s what my sister says too – but its okay, really I don’t mind we can keep it in the family.”

Considering her history it was an odd statement to make.

“I have neither appetite nor stamina – what kind of man do you think I am?”

Dr Lester believes the strength of our relationship lies in a common bond and that her needs must come before my own if we are to form the basis for a long term recovery, but nothing is ever as simple when she can suggest the improbable.

She slipped an arm through mine, abandoning what I took to be yet another test of character. “I pity you….” She remarked blithely. “You’ve made a poor choice. I’m bound to disappoint.”

“Perhaps.” I responded as lightly. “Perhaps it isn’t me that needs pleasing.”

She gave an odd stare. “I won’t ever change – not for you, not for anyone. Not even for Dr Lester.”

“Did he say that you should – did I?”

“As long as you know.”

In that moment I felt what could only be described as hopelessness, but she slipped a hand into mine; something she rarely did and started to hum.

I was about to speak when she sat down abruptly to empty gravely sand out of a shoe. “If we had a child….” she remarked. “What would we call it?”

The question startled me. “Do you want a child?”

She nodded. “Don’t you?”

There are times when no answer appears appropriate, and this was not one of them but I felt unable to respond staring into the distance as if I found it fascinating.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, putting her face directly in front of mine so I was forced to meet her gaze.

“Is this another fantasy?” I questioned.

“No.”

She spoke so lightly, how could I tell.

“Can I come in next time you see Dr Lester. Do you mind?”

She shrugged. “I don’t – maybe he does…. Professional ethics etc.”

“You don’t know what you’d be taking on,” I said sharply.

We were walking again, hand in hand and staring ahead towards a break in the trees between which it was possible to see the roofs of houses. Her hand felt cold; indeed I felt her shiver whenever a strong gust of wind struck her body.

“You’re making yourself weak – all these drugs. What have I told you?”

She withdrew her hand impatiently. “Don’t go on – I’m not… I’m not a child.”

She held her distance; impatient, angry and yet struggling with something inside herself she felt unwilling to communicate.

“What is it?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to die… but sometimes I think it’s all I deserve for what I’ve done. For all that’s happened.”

I knew she needed to be held; consoled. “Is that why you think a baby would be good for you? Something to give you hope? A fresh start…. New life?”

She stood stock still, arms revolving in frustration. “I don’t know. How can I tell – everything in my life is crazy. I can’t trust anyone or anything…..”

“You can trust me.”

She stared at me hard; a hard critical stare. “But how can I tell? What makes you so different….? I…”

“I love you,” I blurted out, pulling her against me but she fought free with fists raised.

“No," she yelled. “No. That’s exactly what he used to say – exactly that, and then….. He hurt me.”

Her tears began hot and sharp while I maintained a respectful distance, tearful myself and feeling deeply resentful I was unable to help her wrestle the demons that came upon her unprovoked. It was several long minutes before I felt strong enough to take her hand and lead her towards home.

“One day at a time – if we can manage one day at a time, but you’ve got to allow me to help you. You can’t do this alone.”

Sometimes it felt as if I was trying to convince myself as I said this and not her.

“I don’t want to be on my own. I can’t be alone.” She remarked bitterly. “That’s when I’d surely die – you won’t let me die will you?”

The easy response was to answer ‘no’; instead I held onto her with all my might, feeling her fragile heart beat against my own and it wasn’t until that singular moment I truly understood that to love is also to let go.

“I don’t know,” I answered slowly, forcing back the tears. “I can’t make promises for us both, but I’ll try….”

“Good enough,” she grinned, and perhaps it was, but I remained uneasy watching as she danced ahead along the path.

A child? How could we possibly raise a child while every day remained unpredictable?

I felt the lesson learned about love was not sufficient to sustain me in the way it might her, but I’m a practical person while she is given to flights of fancy. That’s what I told myself.

Her face when I caught up to her was turned towards the sun that shone through a chink in the low cloud. “That’s really beautiful,” she observed dreamily.

“Life is….”

I was about to say more but fell silent, marveling as a beam of light sparkled as it played about her face. It wasn't about me - none of it, and something inside broke.

"You're crying," she grinned.