If you don't like the story...keep it to yourself!

 

I am saddened and disturbed by the criticism of traditional tellers and the stories they share at events or concerts.  Honestly, I can't even imagine complaining about a story told at a performance any more than I would feel compelled to share my opinion about a play to an actor or about a song to a musician.  It's just plain rude. Yet this seems to be who are today in our de-civilized world. 

But storytelling takes this criticism to another level. It seems to be part of our current cultural debate regarding book banning and history rewriting because what is presented seems “too upsetting” to someone.  At one event, someone from the audience objected to a traditional folktale in which a rabbit was cooked by a farmer. This story can hardly be seen as overly violent in the way that most television and films are today (even those that are G rated).  Let us remember the Bugs Bunny cartoon character in which there was always lots of hunter references and explosives.  I still recall Elmer Fudd, as the hunter, singing or saying, “Kill the Wabbit!”

I have a friend who was an elementary school teacher.  She now reads stories to children at public schools, but each book she reads must be pre-approved.  What can’t be read?  A book about the Civil War perhaps?  A book in which a family is depicted as biracial or in which the parents are gay?  What about the librarians who face prosecution? This is our world and if we can no longer speak of our history of hatred and oppression because our children are too fragile to hear of these things, how do they ever learn empathy? What happens to the storytellers in historical museums?

It reminds me of the debate as to whether you can tell fairy tales to children at all.  While being age appropriate is important, I follow the psychologists who believe that these stories give children a safe place to ponder and make sense of a very unsafe world.  I think it provides that same function for adults.

I like to consider myself as a “keeper” of the old stories.  I like discovering the history, culture, and people within them - learning what was coded and how they spoke truth to power.  I especially treasure the messages within them that need to be heard today. But I’m not sure if I have a story to tell that might not offend someone.  I doubt that the bard or the seanchai of the past ever worried about that. I doubt that the medicine men or grandmothers did either.  Sometimes being offended was the point!  Could they tell a story about a changeling today, or a selkie without nary a complaint?  What about poor Demeter trying to give immortality to the king’s son by placing him in the fire?   What happened to poor Ariadne when Theseus abandoned her on the shore of some deserted island?  Is Tatterhood’s unfeminine demeanor an appropriate role model for girls? 

I love to tell stories, but I don’t want to be censored.  I love to tell stories in a safe environment which is why I like telling in class.  We can stop and talk about what might be disturbing in a story.  We can talk about all the mothers and stepmothers who needed to abandon their children. I love to write about stories and share them in my podcast.  I just turn off the comments, knowing someone somewhere has something negative to say.  I know I’m not the best to ask, because there is something in my core that believes the story is the most important.  I hope that there are tellers throughout the world telling stories of oppression, urging the people to seek justice and peace.  I hope they keep telling them even if people squirm in their seats, even if some walk off in a huff, even if they face prosecution. Perhaps that’s just my 71-year-old crone speaking.

I understand the need to nurture performance storytelling in community. My question is, how can we be both the keepers of the story while also the keepers of the tellers? How can we create a safe place to tell traditional stories, especially the stories that need to be told today? 

Here's my advice.  If you don't like the story, just keep it to yourself!  Or perhaps you'll like it better, once you learn a bit more.

 

From Star Wars to King Arthur – Why the Legend Continues

 

I’m a Star Wars’ fan, especially the first and last trilogy.  In fact, one of my favorite film moments comes in the Star Wars Episode IX: The Rise of Skywalker.  It’s only about 3 minutes of film footage, at the very end of the film.  But it brought tears to this crone storyteller's eyes, and it stays in my mind and heart during the dark days we live in.  Why?  I’ll get to that moment, but before I do, I think it’s best to start a bit earlier. 

Finn and Rose, two Resistance members, are sent on a mission to find and disable the First Order’s tracking device. This is a new system that can track Resistance ships in hyperspace. (If all this already seems too much to follow, please watch the films or check out a written summary.) This quest takes them to a casino town called Canto Bight searching for the hacker DJ.  Canto Bight is a tourist planet with a casino.  (This part of the film brings back memories of when Luke and Obi-Wan go into the bar.) This casino is also filled with beings from all over the galaxy engaging in all manner of gambling. Soon everything goes amiss and the three find themselves chased by local security. In a surprising turn of events, they receive help from some orphaned children who work as stable hands at the racetrack.  Rose convinces the child, Temiri Blagg, to help them escape in return for her Resistance ring. Blagg and some other orphans then release a herd of fathers (a four footed, ridable animal), which stampedes through the streets of Canto Bight. As the animals are released, Finn, Rose, and DJ escape. The film progresses with many losses for the Resistance. Luke Skywalker appears to confront the First Order and his nephew Kylo Ren. Luke gives the Resistance time to escape and then dies or becomes one with the Force (depending upon how you see it).  So that should be the end of the movie, but the director decided to add another brief scene.  To me, it is the most important scene of all.

It’s an image of the slave children still working in the stables of Canto Bight. (Some say their slavery was the price paid for their parents’ gambling debts.) They are sitting in a circle and there is a doll that appears to be Luke Skywalker.  One of the children is telling the story of Luke Skywalker, the Jedi Master. The other children look at him in awe.  This is the story of Luke’s final battle, a hero’s journey certainly and one in which he prevailed against all odds. It is a tale that inspires them.  Then their master returns and puts them back to work. We next see Temiri Blagg going outside. A broom seems to fly gently toward his hand.  He sweeps slowly and then gazes off into space.  On his finger, is the Resistance ring. We know he’s dreaming of a better day.  He’s remembering how Luke won the battle and thinking of how perhaps he can too.  As the viewer, we now know that Luke’s legacy will continue. The Force will prevail as long as the story is shared.  As long as the story lives, the Force will be awakened in others.   

The scene almost didn’t make it into the film.  But I’m so glad it did.  "To me, it was really important to have that final scene, because it turns what Luke did from an act that saves 20 people into an act that inspires the galaxy," director Ryan Johnson explained. "The notion that what we're setting up here is something big in the next chapter. And when Leia says, 'we have everything we need,' she's talking about everyone on the Falcon, but also about what we see next, which is we now have a galaxy that has seen this beacon of hope and is getting inspired to fight the good fight." That galaxy comes together in the final film of the trilogy.

There is another tale that’s similar, of a young boy sent off to tell a story.  It comes from the book The Once and Future King by T.H. White.  It’s a literary story based on the folklore surrounding King Arthur. I give you the last few pages of the book.  It’s retold beautifully in the film “Camelot” with Richard Harris playing the role of King Arthur (should you wish to watch it). The scene begins before the final battle when Arthur will die (or sleep, depending upon legend).

T.H. White writes-  Arthur proved that he was not quite done, by lifting his head. There was something invincible in his heart, a tincture of grandness in simplicity. He sat upright and reached for the iron bell.

"Page," he said, as the small boy trotted in, knuckling his eyes.

"My lord."

The King looked at him. Even in his own extremity he was able to notice others, especially if they were fresh or decent…

"My poor child," he said. "You ought to be in bed."

He observed the boy with a strained, thread-bare attention. It was long since he had seen youth's innocence and certainty.

"Look," he said, "will you take this note to the bishop? Don't wake him if he is asleep."

"My lord."

"Thank you."

As the live creature went, he called it back.

"Oh, page?"

"My lord?"

"What is your name?"

"Tom, my lord," it said politely.

"Where do you live?"

"Near Warwick, my lord."

"Near Warwick."

The old man seemed to be trying to imagine the place, as if it were Paradise Terrestre, or a country described by Mandeville.

"At a place called Newbold Revell. It is a pretty one."

"How old are you?"

"I shall be thirteen in November, my lord."

"And I have kept you up all night."

"No, my lord. I slept a lot on one of the saddles."

"Tom of Newbold Revell," he said with wonder. "We seem to have involved a lot of people. Tell me, Tom, what do you intend to do tomorrow?"

"I shall fight, sir. I have a good bow."

"And you will kill people with this bow?"

"Yes, my lord. A great many, I hope."

"Suppose they were to kill you?"

"Then I should be dead, my lord."

"I see."

"Shall I take the letter now?"

"No. Wait a minute. I want to talk to somebody, only my head is muddled."

"Shall I fetch a glass of wine?"

"No, Tom. Sit down and try to listen. Lift those chessmen off the stool. Can you understand things when they are said?"

"Yes, my lord. I am good at understanding."

"Could you understand if I asked you not to fight tomorrow?"

"I should want to fight," it said stoutly.

"Everybody wants to fight, Tom, but nobody knows why. Suppose I were to ask you not to fight, as a special favour to the King? Would you do that?"

"I should do what I was told."

"Listen, then. Sit for a minute and I will tell you a story. I am a very old man, Tom, and you are young. When you are old, you will be able to tell what I have told tonight, and I want you to do that. Do you understand this want?"

"Yes, sir. I think so."

"Put it like this. There was a king once, called King Arthur. That is me. When he came to the throne of England, he found that all the kings and barons were fighting against each other like madmen, and, as they could afford to fight in expensive suits of armour, there was practically nothing which could stop them from doing what they pleased. They did a lot of bad things, because they lived by force. Now this king had an idea, and the idea was that force ought to be used, if it were used at all, on behalf of justice, not on its own account. Follow this, young boy. He thought that if he could get his barons fighting for truth, and to help weak people, and to redress wrongs, then their fighting might not be such a bad thing as once it used to be. So he gathered together all the true and kindly people that he knew, and he dressed them in armour, and he made them knights, and taught them his idea, and set them down, at a Round Table. There were a hundred and fifty of them in the happy days, and King Arthur loved his Table with all his heart. He was prouder of it than he was of his own dear wife, and for many years his new knights went about killing ogres, and rescuing damsels and saving poor prisoners, and trying to set the world to rights. That was the King's idea."

"I think it was a good idea, my lord."

"It was, and it was not. God knows."

"What happened to the King in the end?" asked the child, when the story seemed to have dried up.

"For some reason, things went wrong. The Table split into factions, a bitter war began, and all were killed."

The boy interrupted confidently.

"No," he said, "not all. The King won. We shall win."

Arthur smiled vaguely and shook his head. He would have nothing but the truth.

"Everybody was killed," he repeated, "except a certain page. I know what I am talking about."

"My lord?"

"This page was called young Tom of Newbold Revell near Warwick, and the old King sent him off before the battle, upon pain of dire disgrace. You see, the King wanted there to be somebody left, who would remember their famous idea. He wanted badly that Tom should go back to Newbold Revell, where he could grow into a man and live his life in Warwickshire peace—and he wanted him to tell everybody who would listen about this ancient idea, which both of them had once thought good. Do you think you could do that, Thomas, to please the King?"

The child said, with the pure eyes of absolute truth: "I would do anything for King Arthur."

"That's a brave fellow. Now listen, man. Don't get these legendary people muddled up. It is I who tell you about my idea. It is I who am going to command you to take horse to Warwickshire at once, and not to fight with your bow tomorrow at all. Do you understand all this?"

"Yes, King Arthur."

"Will you promise to be careful of yourself afterward? Will you try to remember that you are a kind of vessel to carry on the idea, when things go wrong, and that the whole hope depends on you alive?"

"I will."

"It seems selfish of me to use you for it."

"It is an honour for your poor page, good my lord."

"Thomas, my idea of those knights was a sort of candle, like these ones here. I have carried it for many years with a hand to shield it from the wind. It has flickered often. I am giving you the candle now—you won't let it out?"

"It will burn."

"Good Tom. The light-bringer. How old did you say you were?"

"Nearly thirteen."

"Sixty more years then, perhaps. Half a century."

"I will give it to other people, King. English people."

"You will say to them in Warwickshire: Eh, he wor a wonderly fine candle?"

"Aye, lad, that I will."

"Then 'tis: Na, Tom, for thee must go right quickly. Thou'lt take the best son of a mare that thee kinst find, and thou wilt ride post into Warwickshire, lad, wi' nowt but the curlew?"

"I will ride post, mate, so that the candle burn."

"Good Tom, then, God bless 'ee. Doant thee ferget thick Bishop of Rochester, afore thou goest."

The little boy kneeled down to kiss his master's hand—his surcoat, with the Malory bearings, looking absurdly new.

"My lord of England," he said.

Arthur raised him gently, to kiss him on the shoulder.

"Sir Thomas of Warwick," he said—and the boy was gone.

Two different stories.  Two youths serving as a kind of vessel to carry on an idea.  As Arthur said, “when things go wrong, and that the whole hope depends on you alive” can you be that kind of vessel? Both Temiri Blagg and Thomas of Warwick fit the bill.

Joseph Campbell outlines the story of the hero in his “hero’s journey” cycle.  After the hero is initiated, faces challenges, and is transformed, he/she must return. Ultimately, it is the hero’s responsibility to go back to the beginning and share what was learned from the quest. Luke Skywalker was in a fight against the First Order, a fascist, military group seeking to control the galaxy. King Arthur was also fighting for his ideals: justice, equality, chivalry, and honor. Camelot was a utopian society, at least for a while. But what happens if the hero is unable to return? Both Luke Skywalker and King Arthur died in the story; and yet, it was still important that their lives, their ideas, and their message continue. 

This is where the storyteller comes in.  In the dark ages of Ireland, the storyteller was as important as the king, for the history and culture of the people were contained within his memory. In fact, the death of the storyteller required the same punishment as the death of the king.  Our ancestors understood the importance of the story.  King Arthur’s first written reference was as a 5^th century king.  His legend continues today, over and over again, with each new retelling.  There are no signs of it stopping, for the spark within that tale still holds meaning for us many centuries later. Today, as forces try to silence some stories, as history is rewritten, and books banned; it’s important to remember why stories were told and recorded in the first place.

Ben Okri writes in the book A Way of Being Free, “It is easy to forget how mysterious and mighty stories are.  They do their work in silence, invisibly.  They work with all the internal materials of the mind and self.  They become part of you while changing you.  Beware the stories your read or tell: subtly, at night, beneath the waters of consciousness, they are altering your world.”

The candle must burn long and strong. Stories that are held in our hearts, can never be extinguished.

White, T.H., The Once and Future King.  New York: G. P. Putnam's, 1939.  "Star Wars, the Rise of Skywalker," J.J. Abrams, director. San Francisco, CA: Lucas Films, 2020.

For more about these stories, listen to my podcast of the same name published on September 2022).

“The Storyteller at Fault” – a Celtic Folktale

At the time when the Tuatha De Dannan (a supernatural race of people in Irish mythology) held the sovereignty of Ireland, there reigned in Leinster a king who was remarkably fond of hearing stories. Like the other princes and chieftains of the island, he had a favorite storyteller, who held a large estate from his Majesty, on condition of telling him a new story every night of his life, before he went to sleep. Many indeed were the stories he knew, so that he had already reached a good old age without failing even for a single night in his task; and such was the skill he displayed that whatever cares of state or other annoyances might prey upon the monarch's mind, his storyteller was sure to send him to sleep.

One morning the storyteller arose early, and as his custom was, strolled out into his garden turning over in his mind incidents which he might weave into a story for the king at night. But this morning he found himself quite at fault; after pacing his whole demesne, he returned to his house without being able to think of anything new or strange. He found no difficulty in "there was once a king who had three sons" or "one day the king of all Ireland," but further than that he could not get. At length he went in to breakfast, and found his wife much perplexed at his delay.

"Why don't you come to breakfast, my dear?" said she.

"I have no mind to eat anything," replied the storyteller; "long as I have been in the service of the king of Leinster, I never sat down to breakfast without having a new story ready for the evening, but this morning my mind is quite shut up, and I don't know what to do. I might as well lie down and die at once. I'll be disgraced forever this evening, when the king calls for his storyteller."

Just at this moment the lady looked out of the window.

"Do you see that black thing at the end of the field?" said she.

"I do," replied her husband.

They drew nigh and saw a miserable looking old man lying on the ground with a wooden leg placed beside him.

"Who are you, my good man?" asked the storyteller. “Oh, then, 'tis little matter who I am. I'm a poor, old, lame, decrepit, miserable creature, sitting down here to rest awhile."

"An' what are you doing with that box and dice I see in your hand?"

"I am waiting here to see if anyone will play a game with me," replied the beggar man.

"Play with you! Why, what has a poor old man like you to play for?"

"I have one hundred pieces of gold in this leathern purse," replied the old man.

"You may as well play with him," said the storyteller’s wife; "and perhaps you'll have something to tell the king in the evening."

A smooth stone was placed between them, and upon it, they cast their throws. It was but a little while and the storyteller lost every penny of his money.

"Much good may it do you, friend," said he. "What better hap could I look for, fool that I am!"

"Will you play again?" asked the old man.

"Don't be talking, man: you have all my money."

"Haven't you chariot and horses and hounds?"

"Well, what of them!"

"I'll stake all the money I have against thine."

"Nonsense, man! Do you think for all the money in Ireland, I'd run the risk of seeing my lady tramp home on foot?"

"Maybe you'd win," said the bocough[i].

"Maybe I wouldn't," said the storyteller.

"Play with him, husband," said his wife. "I don't mind walking, if you do, love."

"I never refused you before," said the storyteller, "and I won't do so now.

Down he sat again, and in one throw lost houses, hounds, and chariot.

"Will you play again?" asked the beggar.

"Are you making game of me, man; what else have I to stake?"

"I'll stake all my winnings against your wife,' said the old man.

The storyteller turned away in silence, but his wife stopped him.

"Accept his offer," said she. "This is the third time, and who knows what luck you may have? You'll surely win now."

They played again, and the storyteller lost. No sooner had he done so, than to his sorrow and surprise, his wife went and sat down near the ugly old beggar.

"Is that the way you're leaving me?" said the storyteller.

"Sure, I was won," said she. "You would not cheat the poor man, would you?"

"Have you any more to stake?" asked the old man.

"You know very well I have not," replied the storyteller.

"I'll stake the whole now, wife and all, against your own self," said the old man.

Again, they played, and again the storyteller lost.

"Well! here I am, and what do you want with me?"

"I'll soon let you know," said the old man, and he took from his pocket a long cord and a wand.

"Now," said he to the storyteller, "what kind of animal would you rather be, a deer, a fox, or a hare? You have your choice now, but you may not have it later."

To make a long story short, the storyteller made his choice of a hare; the old man threw the cord round him, struck him with the wand, and lo! a long-eared, frisking hare was skipping and jumping on the green.

But it wasn't for long, who but his wife called the hounds, and set them on him. The hare fled; the dogs followed. Round the field ran a high wall, so that run as he might, he couldn't get out, and mightily diverted were beggar and lady to see him twist and double.

In vain did he take refuge with his wife, she kicked him back again to the hounds, until at length the beggar stopped the hounds, and with a stroke of the wand, panting and breathless, the storyteller stood before them again.

"And how did you like the sport?" said the beggar.

"It might be sport to others," replied the storyteller looking at his wife, "for my part I could well put up with the loss of it."

"Would it be asking too much," he went on to the beggar, "to know who you are at all, or where you come from, or why you take a pleasure in plaguing a poor old man like me?"

"Oh!" replied the stranger, " I'm an odd kind of good-for-little fellow, one day poor, another day rich, but if you wish to know more about me or my habits, come with me and perhaps I may show you more than you would make out if you went alone."

"I'm not my own master to go or stay," said the storyteller, with a sigh.

The stranger put one hand into his wallet and drew out of it before their eyes a well looking middle-aged man, to whom he spoke as follows:

"By all you heard and saw since I put you into my wallet, take charge of this lady and of the carriage and horses, and have them ready for me whenever I want them."

Scarcely had he said these words when all vanished, and the storyteller found himself at the Foxes' Ford, near the castle of Red Hugh O'Donnell. He could see all but none could see him. O'Donnell was in his hall, and heaviness of flesh and weariness of spirit were upon him.

"Go out," said he to his doorkeeper, " and see who or what may be coming."

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank, grey beggarman; half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a green wand of holly.

"Save you, O Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman.

"And you likewise," said O'Donnell. "Whence come you, and what is your craft?"

"I come from the outmost stream of earth,
From the glens where the white swans glide,
A night in Islay, a night in Man,
A night on the cold hillside."

"It's the great traveler you are," said O'Donnell. "Maybe you've learnt something on the road."

"I am a juggler," said the lank grey beggarman, "and for five pieces of silver you shall see a trick of mine."

"You shall have them," said O'Donnell; and the lank grey beggarman took three small straws and placed them in his hand.

"The middle one," said he, "I'll blow away; the other two I'll leave."

"Thou canst not do it," said one and all.

But the lank grey beggarman put a finger on either outside straw and, whiff, away he blew the middle one.

"’Tis a good trick," said O'Donnell; and he paid him his five pieces of silver.

"For half the money," said one of the chief's lads, "I'll do the same trick.

"Take him at his word, O'Donnell."

The lad put the three straws on his hand, and a finger on either outside straw and he blew; and what happened but that the fist was blown away with the straw.

"Thou art sore, and thou wilt be sorer," said O'Donnell.

"Six more pieces, O'Donnell, and I'll do another trick for thee," said the lank grey beggarman.

"Six shalt thou have."

"Seest thou my two ears! One I'll move but not t'other."

"’Tis easy to see them, they're big enough, but thou canst never move one ear and not the two together."

The lank grey beggarman put his hand to his ear, and he gave it a pull.

O'Donnell laughed and paid him the six pieces.

"Call that a trick," said the fist-less lad, "Anyone can do that," and so saying, he put up his hand, pulled his ear, and what happened was that he pulled away ear and head.

"Sore thou art, and sorer thou'lt be," said O'Donnell. "Well, O'Donnell," said the lank grey beggarman, strange are the tricks I've shown thee, but I'll show thee a stranger one yet for the same money."

"Thou hast my word for it," said O'Donnell.

With that the lank grey beggarman took a bag from under his armpit, and from out the bag a ball of silk, and he unwound the ball and he flung it slantwise up into the clear blue heavens, and it became a ladder; then he took a hare and placed it upon the thread, and up it ran; again he took out a red-eared hound[ii], and it swiftly ran up after the hare.

"Now," said the lank grey beggarman; "has any one a mind to run after the dog and on the course?"

"I will," said a lad of O'Donnell's.

"Up with you then," said the juggler; "but I warn you if you let my hare be killed, I'll cut off your head when you come down."

The lad ran up the thread and all three soon disappeared. After looking up for a long time, the lank grey beggarman said: "I'm afraid the hound is eating the hare, and that our friend has fallen asleep."

Saying this he began to wind the thread, and down came the lad fast asleep; and down came the red-eared hound and in his mouth the last morsel of the hare.

He struck the lad a stroke with the edge of his sword, and so cast his head off. As for the hound, if he used it no worse, he used it no better.

"It's little I'm pleased, and sore I'm angered," said O'Donnell, "that a hound and a lad should be killed at my court."

"Five pieces of silver twice over for each of them," said the juggler, "and their heads shall be on them as before."

Thou shalt get that," said O'Donnell.

Five pieces, and again five were paid him, and lo! the lad had his head and the hound his. And though they lived to the uttermost end of time, the hound would never touch a hare again, and the lad took good care to keep his eyes open.

Scarcely had the lank grey beggarman done this when he vanished from out their sight, and no one present could say if he had flown through the air or if the earth had swallowed him up.

He moved as wave tumbling o'er wave
As whirlwind following whirlwind,
As a furious wintry blast,
So swiftly, sprucely, cheerily,
Right proudly,
And no stop made
Until he came
To the court of Leinster's King,
He gave a cheery light leap
O'er top of turret,
Of court and city
Of Leinster's King.

Heavy was the flesh and weary the spirit of Leinster's king. 'Twas the hour he was wont to hear a story, but send he might right and left, not a jot of tidings about the storyteller could he get.

"Go to the door," said he to his doorkeeper, "and see if a soul is in sight who may tell me something about my storyteller."

The doorkeeper went, and what he saw was a lank grey beggarman, half his sword bared behind his haunch, his two old shoes full of cold road-a-wayish water sousing about him, the tips of his two ears out through his old hat, his two shoulders out through his scant tattered cloak, and in his hand a three-stringed harp.

"What canst thou do?" said the doorkeeper.

"I can play," said the lank grey beggarman.

"Never fear," added he to the storyteller, "thou shalt see all, and not a man shall see thee."

When the king heard a harper was outside, he bade him in.

"It is I that have the best harpers in the five-fifths of Ireland," said he, and he signed them to play. They did so, and if they played, the lank grey beggarman listened.

Heardst thou ever the like?" said the king.

"Did you ever, O king, hear a cat purring over a bowl of broth, or the buzzing of beetles in the twilight, or a shrill tongued old woman scolding your head off?"

"That I have often," said the king.

"More melodious to me," said the lank grey beggarman, "were the worst of these sounds than the sweetest harping of thy harpers."

When the harpers heard this, they drew their swords and rushed at him, but instead of striking him, their blows fell on each other, and soon not a man but was cracking his neighbor’s skull and getting his own cracked in turn.

When the king saw this, he thought it hard the harpers weren't content with murdering their music but must needs murder each other.

"Hang the fellow who began it all," said he; "and if I can't have a story, let me have peace."

Up came the guards, seized the lank grey beggarman, marched him to the gallows and hanged him high and dry. Back they marched to the hall, and who should they see but the lank grey beggarman seated on a bench with his mouth to a flagon of ale.

Never welcome you in," cried the captain of the guard, "didn't we hang you this minute, and what brings you here?"

"Is it me myself, you mean?

"Who else?" said the captain.

"May your hand turn into a pig's foot with you when you think of tying the rope; why should you speak of hanging me?"

Back they scurried to the gallows, and there hung the king's favorite brother. Back they hurried to the king who had fallen fast asleep.

"Please your Majesty," said the captain, "we hanged that strolling vagabond, but here he is back again as well as ever."

"Hang him again," said the king, and off he went to sleep once more.

They did as they were told, but what happened was that they found the king's chief harper hanging where the lank grey beggarman should have been.  The captain of the guard was sorely puzzled.

"Are you wishful to hang me a third time?" said the lank grey beggarman.

"Go where you will;" said the captain, "and as fast as you please if you'll only go far enough. It's trouble enough you've given us already."

"Now you're reasonable," said the beggarman; "and since you've given up trying to hang a stranger because he finds fault with your music, I don't mind telling you that if you go back to the gallows, you'll find your friends sitting on the sward none the worse for what has happened."

As he said these words he vanished; and the storyteller found himself on the spot where they first met, and where his wife still was with the carriage and horses.

"Now," said the lank grey beggarman, "I'll torment you no longer. There's your carriage and your horses, and your money and your wife; do what you please with them."

"For my carriage and my horses and my hounds," said the storyteller, "I thank you; but my wife and my money you may keep."

"No," said the other. "I want neither, and as for your wife, don't think ill of her for what she did, she couldn't help it."

"Not help it! Not help kicking me into the mouth of my own hounds! Not help casting me off for the sake of a beggarly old ——-"

"I'm not as beggarly or as old as ye think. I am Angus of the Bruff; many a good turn you've done me with the King of Leinster. This morning my magic told me the difficulty you were in, and I made up my mind to get you out of it. As for your wife there, the power that changed your body changed her mind. Forget and forgive as man and wife should do, and now you have a story for the King of Leinster when he calls for one;" and with that he disappeared.

It's true enough he now had a story fit for a king. From first to last he told all that had befallen him; so long and loud laughed the king that he couldn't go to sleep at all. And he told the storyteller never to trouble for fresh stories, but every night as long as he lived he listened again and he laughed afresh at the tale of the lank grey beggarman.

Celtic Fairy Tales, by Joseph Jacobs, [1892], at sacred-texts.com.

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As a storyteller, I love this tale. First, there is a king who loves hearing stories so much that he rewards his favorite teller with a lovely estate (one could only wish!). In return, the storyteller must tell the king a new story every night. In doing so, the king can sleep peacefully, no matter what trials have occurred during the day. Imagine for just a minute how the telling of a story, could eliminate any worries that interrupt our sleep. I imagine a story that catches you from the start but over time grows more complex and slow moving. Perhaps the story is filled with such delightful imagery that you just want to close your eyes to envision it.   And once done, you are fast asleep.

But trouble comes because eventually the teller runs out of tales. The storyteller promises the king a new story every night until his death. This could go on for many years, so I can see why this is the king’s favorite teller.  Actually, I’m not sure if I could come up with that many new stories.  So, I challenged myself to the task. What type of stories would I tell? Mythos, certainly, that is the remarkable stories from mythology, religion, and sacred texts. For me, that would be stories from Greek mythology - Demeter and Persephone, the Fates, Medusa.  It would be stories from the world’s wisdom traditions: stories of how Prince Siddhartha became the Buddha, and the Hindu tale of the birth of the world. (Spoiler alert, the world opens from a lotus flower growing from the belly of Vishnu!)  It would also include stories from the Bible - Samson, Naomi, Daniel, or the parables Jesus told himself.

Then, I’d move on to sharing folktales with the king.  These would be the stories of my ancestors – Celtic tales and stories from the Brothers Grimm. Most of them, you might imagine, are about a wise crone. Some of them are fairy tales filled with magical elements, beings, and the otherworld. These are the stories that make my heart sing. There are 50 stories, more or less. especially if I dig down to the stories I was told as a child. 

But as a storyteller, I’m always thinking of the telling.  Which ones are “good” stories to tell?  Which ones will fit the time, place, and the audience?  Which ones impart the meaning that is needed today? Then there are the stories I know that are not mine to tell. They are the stories of other cultures and peoples. They are also stories that are “medicine” told by shamans and elders skilled in healing. Still, they are beyond my knowledge and skill to tell.

Certainly, there are other stories. Stories of our culture and stories of our country.  Stories that make us feel uncomfortable and stories that make us feel proud. Some are legends and some are historical. All these stories deserve remembering – the legends of Johnny Appleseed and John Henry, or of George Washington cutting down the cherry tree and Benjamin Franklin flying a kite. It’s the stories that show triumph after adversity that are most important to remember.  I envision the Wright Brothers, Helen Keller, and Rosa Parks. Stories of the underground railroad, yes, and of suffragettes on hunger strikes, Japanese internment camps, and Rosie the Riveter. In telling these stories we remember who we are and who we can be. In doing so, there is less chance we will forget Lady Liberty when she welcomes new immigrants to our shores.  There are broken stories, fragmented stories, stories still being made sense of and excavated from history. Stories we were never taught in school and are needing rediscovery.   

That leaves the stories each of us keep within our hearts and memories - times when we learned and grew. I tell only a few of those to audiences - stories about my dad and growing up during the cold war.  To be honest, I feel more comfortable telling traditional tales than stories about me. Yet, these stories are important too – to my children and sometimes to history when we live through notable events. Often these memories do not rise to stories and remain as anecdotes.  Sometimes they are simple characterizations of the crones in my life. These are the memories of my grandmother that I’d like to pass on. 

This is the one that comes to mind today. Alice was my material grandmother. She grew up poor in rural North Carolina.  Her husband was off logging while she was left with six children.  Alice worked the fields.  She grew produce, cared for chickens and cows, cooked, cleaned, cut hair and made clothes for the family.  She became "MawMaw" when my sister was born. This woman, who had a 6^th grade education, ended each day by reading the Bible.  She made beautiful clothes and hats.  Her pound cakes were legendary and sold for the most at church raffles. She loved to watch Gorgeous George “wraslin.” Her entertainment was to pick up the party line telephone and listen to her neighbor’s conversations!  She went to church for as long as she could, always with perfectly coifed hair, costume jewelry, hat, and gloves. Oh, yes!  And she always voted!

She had six grandchildren. My cousins and I always migrated to her house and her laissez-faire style of child raising. I was not her favorite but that was always fine with me. It’s much better to be feral that fussed over. When she was feeling kind, she would take out her false teeth and we’d all laugh together at the sight.  When she was irritated, she would threaten to smack us “chaps” with her fly swatter.  She had a mean streak that sometimes focused on my mother and father. Mostly, she was quirky, nosy, and upsetting.  I remember that she once wanted me to explain birth control to her.  I refused! She was supported by her children yet lived in great fear of being sent to the “poor house.” She painted one oil painting of an oak tree that I now have hanging in my den.

That is not a story, I know.  It’s more of a portrait tied up with summers in the south: stars, lightening bugs, humidity, the sound of trains on the track, and the smell of an old, old house that was all hers. It was a house she wanted to take with her. There isn’t much meaning there for anyone but me, the memory of a poor, uneducated woman living off the land.  It’s the kind of story not worthy of telling even though this teller wishes she could impart a bit of a time and a place that exists no more.  It’s a story she is glad to have lived.

So how many stories is that? If I totaled them up it is certainly less than what’s needed to fill the lifetime of the king. The storyteller in our story required a wild and perilous journey to jump start his muse. But is this what I need?  Is there ever a chance that I might be story-less, that any of us are truly story-less?  Do we really need a story prompt: "there was once a king who had three sons" or "one day the king of all Ireland" did this or that? Nah, all I need is to close my eyes and share what is written upon my heart. That’s all you need to do too. I know someone would love to hear your story and I’m pretty sure that at least one of those tales would put even a king to sleep. If not, it would at least be written on the listener's heart.

"I come from the outmost stream of earth,
From the glens where the white swans glide,
A night in Islay, a night in Man,
A night on the cold hillside."

A good story, well told, is certainly worth hearing again and again.

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[i] Bocough or Buckaugh is the name given to a singular class of Irish mendicants, whose character bears some resemblance to that of the Gaberlunzie man of Scotland.

[ii] The red-eared hound is a creature in the otherworld (a magical, liminal place in Celtic mythology).