The Storyteller's Secrets

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Some secrets are not worth knowing … and some secrets you might already know. But the secrets in this book are special. They are the secrets of wonders, strange enchantments, buried treasure and magical far-off places.

  They are the Storyteller’s secrets and it is a very lucky child who gets to hear them.

  Tony Mitton’s story poems are a rare and special delight. Read them and be amazed.

  To anyone who ever told a story and anyone who ever listened.

  T.M.

  For Osian and Inigo with love.

  P.B.

  NOT SO VERY far from here, nor so very long from now, there were two children. Their names were Toby and Tess and they were twins. They lived with their mother in a cosy cottage beside a village green. In the middle of the green stood a great old chestnut tree, and beneath the tree was a stout wooden bench where Toby and Tess sat when they hadn’t much to do or when there were things they wanted to talk about.

  One day their mother shooed them out of the house. ‘Go out,’ she said. ‘Go and play like children should. I’ve things to do and I can’t be having you under my feet all day. The village is safe, the weather is good. And the fresh air will help you grow healthy and strong. I’ve made you a picnic for your lunch. Go out now and enjoy this fine day that the world has given you.’

  Toby and Tess sat on the bench beneath the chestnut tree, wondering what the day would bring them, wondering where they should go and what they should do. And it was just at that moment that they first saw Teller.

  Toby saw him first and nudged Tess. ‘Look.’

  ‘A stranger!’ gasped Tess.

  At a distance, against the skyline, all they could make out was a rather ragged silhouette. The figure was dressed in an old-fashioned robe, like a character in a story book. He held a staff in his right hand and on his back there was a bundle.

  The stranger paused on the crest of the hill. He looked back the way he had come. Then he gazed all around him, as if surveying the world as far as he could see. Then he peered down into the village and began to take the path that led towards where Toby and Tess sat beneath the great old chestnut tree.

  ‘He’s coming this way!’ said Toby.

  As the stranger drew closer the children could see more and more of him. He was an old man with a weathered face, browned by the sun. His long, tousled hair was greying, as was his straggly beard. On his feet he wore stout leather sandals and in his hand his staff was like a knotty tree branch. Although he was old he seemed sturdy, as if he could walk for miles if need be. And his eyes! How they twinkled with an air of mischief and mystery.

  He was making for the bench as if he meant to sit down. So Toby and Tess got up, partly out of respect for a grown-up, and partly out of uneasiness about such an odd character.

  He flumped down onto the bench and gave a grateful sigh.

  ‘Ah,’ he said wearily, ‘how good to sit down at last.’ He took a swig from a flask that was slung round his neck on a leather strap. ‘Water. The stuff of life, eh? But no lunch for me today. The squirrels took it out of my bundle while I was resting. Cheeky little devils. Still, they have to live, I suppose. So they take what they can get. And today they got my lunch.’

  ‘You can share our picnic,’ said Toby. ‘Our mother has sent us out of the house today. She’s busy. I hate it when she makes us go out. I wanted to play indoors. But she’s made us a picnic so you can have some of that if you like. It’s cheese sandwiches, plums and home-made biscuits. She makes good biscuits.’

  The old man smiled at Toby. ‘What a very kind offer,’ he said warmly. ‘I should like that. But if I’m to share your lunch I must give you something in return. Let me tell you a tale, an old story, a story about a mother who did not love, but hated instead, and about what happened as a result. Now I can see from this fine picnic of yours that you have a mother who loves you, who cares for you. And if she’s turned you out of the house today it’s because she wants to clean and cook and make good so it’s all the more welcoming for you when you go back to it this evening for your tea. But imagine a mother who wanted to cast you out for good and all, who wanted never to see you again and who hoped that you might perish in the woods so she need never be troubled by you more. Now is that not a terrible thought?’

  The children nodded. It was a terrible thought indeed.

  ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself,’ said the old man. ‘If I’m to share your lunch and tell you one of my tales I must introduce myself. And I should find out who I’m talking to as well. That is only good and proper.’ He looked from one child to the other and said quite simply, ‘My name is Teller. I am called that because I tell tales. Good ones. Old ones. From long ago. And you are …?’ he asked.

  The two children seated themselves on the soft grass and Teller began

  ‘Toby and Tess,’ said Toby.

  ‘All beginning with T,’ said Teller. ‘A trio of Ts. How curious. How tidy.’ He settled himself more comfortably on the bench. ‘Sit down, then,’ he said, ‘and I’ll tell. I’ll tell you this tale, and then we’ll have that lunch.’

  The two children seated themselves on the soft grass in front of the bench and Teller began.

  The Woodcutter’s Daughter

  There once was a woodcutter lived in a wood.

  His young daughter Mary was gentle and good.

  But the little girl’s mother was buried and dead,

  and a stepmother stood in her place now, instead.

  The stepmother came with a child of her own,

  whose heart, like her mother’s, was cold as the stone.

  When the woodcutter took up his axe and went out,

  the mother and daughter would grumble and shout,

  ‘Oh, Mary, come quickly, and clean up the sink.

  Now, stitch up my stockings and fetch me a drink.

  Then clean out the fireplace and sweep up the floor,

  and wash all the windows and polish the door.’

  They’d boss and they’d bully. They’d rant and they’d moan.

  And Mary felt miserable, sad and alone.

  But Mary grew pretty and graceful and tall,

  and the woodcutter loved her the best of them all.

  Now this made the others hate Mary the worse,

  so the stepmother gritted her teeth in a curse:

  ‘I’ll set her a task in the depths of the wood,

  a task that will rid us of Mary for good!’

  It was deep in the winter, with snow all around,

  and everything frozen, yes, even the ground.

  The stepmother led Mary out to the gate,

  then she uttered these words in a mouthful of hate:

  ‘Gather me strawberries, juicy red strawberries,

  out in the wilderness, deep in the snow.

  Never come back till you’ve gathered such strawberries.

  Pick up your basket and go!’

  Poor Mary went quietly, off on her way.

  She could not resist, so she had to obey.

  She knew that no berries could grow in that cold,

  but her stepmother’s hate made her do as was told.

  She walked through the wilderness, chilly and white,

  as the day drained away to the darkness of night.

  She thought that her life would be lost in that dark,

  whe
n suddenly Hope lighted up like a spark!

  For there, through the trees, she saw orange and gold.

  ‘A fire,’ she murmured, ‘to keep out the cold.’

  There were folk round the fire, all warming themselves,

  and to Mary’s surprise it was twelve little elves!

  ‘Now, Mary,’ said one, ‘don’t be shy, never fear.

  Our fire will warm you. Be bold and draw near.

  We’re the elves of the months, and we know who you are.

  If it’s berries you seek, then you need not go far.

  ‘My brother July will soon fill up your basket …

  You see – it is done! You had barely to ask it.

  Your basket is brimful of strawberries red.

  Now my brother will lead you straight back to your bed.’

  July chose a fire-coal, glowing and bright,

  then he led Mary back through the depths of the night.

  And when they returned, though her stepmother smiled,

  her eyes seemed to glitter so bitter and wild.

  So the next time the woodcutter went on his way,

  Mary’s stepmother called her to smile and to say,

  ‘Go out through the snow, Mary. Take a long ramble.

  And find us some blackberries, ripe on the bramble:

  ‘Gather me blackberries, purple, plump blackberries,

  out in the wilderness, far in the snow.

  Never come back till you’ve gathered such blackberries.

  Pick up your basket and go!’

  Well, Mary went quickly, for this time she knew

  just where she could go, and indeed what to do.

  For she knew that the elves would assist in her task.

  She had only to go to their fire and ask.

  She walked till she spied the bright glow of the fire,

  and this time the flames seemed to crackle yet higher.

  Then up got the leader with, ‘Mary, my dear,

  you’ve come for your blackberries. Look. They are here.’

  October said, ‘Truly. Believe it, my child.’

  And Mary’s big basket was instantly piled.

  The blackberries glistened, so plump and so fine,

  and the juice trickled out of them darkly as wine.

  October then picked out a coal, big and bright,

  and led Mary home by the glow of its light.

  But when Mary’s stepmother saw her return,

  the hate in her heart made her bristle and burn.

  ‘Now, tell me your secret, for fruit will not grow

  in the wintery wastes of the ice and the snow.’

  So Mary then spoke of the twelve little elves

  who sat round their fire, all warming themselves.

  ‘You foolish young wastrel! Those twelve little men

  are told of in stories again and again.

  You could have had rubies as red as ripe cherries!

  You could have brought jewels. And yet you’ve brought berries.

  ‘Now, show us the way, and my daughter and I

  will seek out the place where that fire leaps high.

  We’ll wish from those elf-men a pile of treasure,

  and then we’ll return to a life full of pleasure.’

  So Mary then pointed, and watched them both go,

  like little black beetles across the white snow.

  And away they both went to that fire so bright,

  where the flames seemed to whip at the edge of the night.

  The leader approached from the rim of the fire.

  ‘Now, what is your wish?’ he began to enquire.

  ‘We wish to have silver. We wish to have gold.

  As much as our baskets can possibly hold.’

  The leader could hear the greed in her voice.

  ‘And so,’ he commanded, ‘you shall have your choice.’

  He called out to March, and said, ‘Take them to where

  the gold of the sunset bleeds over the air.

  ‘And then take them up to the dark, hollow night,

  where the needle-like stars prick their silvery light.

  There’s an endless supply of both silver and gold,

  much more than their baskets can possibly hold.’

  So March raised his wind and it whirled them away

  to gather the gold from the end of the day,

  then up to the darkness, so high and so far,

  to sift out the silver from star upon star.

  So March raised his wind and it whirled them away

  But, whether they ever completed their task,

  they never came back, so it’s fruitless to ask.

  Perhaps they still grasp at the glittering air,

  with the cold in their hearts and the wind in their hair.

  While the humble old woodcutter, here in the wood,

  with Mary, his daughter, so gentle and good,

  live simply and happily, ever and after,

  warming their cottage with love and with laughter.

  And what of the blaze with the twelve little men?

  They’re out in the forest till needed again.

  ‘I’M SO GLAD it all worked out for Mary in the end,’ said Tess.

  ‘And that she got to be happy in her nice, cosy cottage, too,’ added Toby.

  ‘Ah, yes, we all need a home to go back to,’ said Teller. ‘Even an old wanderer like me. Is that your home over there?’ he asked, pointing.

  ‘Why, yes,’ said Tess.

  ‘How did you guess?’ asked Toby.

  ‘Oh, just a hunch,’ said Teller. ‘It looks well looked-after and loved and lived-in. The kind of cottage where a good mother makes a picnic like this,’ he said, looking down at the basket that held their lunch.

  And as the three of them shared the food, Toby and Tess pointed out some of the other cottages that stood around the green. They told Teller who lived there and what they did and what they were like. The blacksmith, the carpenter, the weaver and so forth.

  ‘I must be on my way soon,’ said Teller, as they finished the last of the biscuits. ‘But let me leave you with one more short tale. We’ve talked of homes, and this tale is about someone who needed a home for herself and her people. And how it required a bit of a miracle to get that home sorted out and settled. Will you hear it?’

  ‘Oh, yes please,’ said Tess.

  St Brigid’s Cloak

  St Brigid, she went to the court

  of the king

  and she knelt on her bended knee.

  ‘Please grant me,’ she said,

  ‘but an acre of land

  for Our Lord and my sisters and me.’

  But the king he was stubborn,

  the king he was stern,

  there was stone in his heart and his eye.

  ‘You can have as much land,’

  he said to the saint,

  ‘as you and your sisters can buy.’

  For she and her sisters,

  the king well knew,

  lived light in the lap of the Lord.

  ‘You can have as much land,’

  he cunningly crooned,

  ‘as the pence in your purse

  can afford.’

  ‘The way for the rich into heaven,’ said the saint,

  ‘may show, if you succour the poor.

  If you give but a little, a token at least,

  it may serve you to loosen the door.’

  St Brigid fell silent and stared at the ground,

  then these were the words that she spoke:

  ‘Could you find in your heart to willingly part

  with such land as I drape with my cloak?’

  The king gave a gesture of sudden impatience.

  ‘Now, sister,’ he cried, ‘let it be!

  The land you can clothe in your tattered old cloak,

  such land you may have without fee.

  ‘But when you have claimed it, begone from my sight

  and never come asking me
more.

  The land you can see, it belongs but to me,

  for the land is the king’s, by God’s Law.’

  St Brigid said nothing, but loosened her cloak,

  which four sisters came forward to hold.

  They made as to spread it upon the small ground,

  when a miracle seemed to unfold.

  For, as at the corners they started to pull,

  the cloak seemed to stretch and to spread.

  The faster they tautened, the faster it grew,

  till across the broad meadows they sped.

  The four sisters rose on the wings of the wind

  and it blew them across the wide land,

  till all of the lea, from the hills to the sea,

  was by Brigid’s broad mantle full spanned.

  The four sisters rose on the wings of the wind

  ‘Enough!’ cried the king.

  ‘You have shamed me today

  with the play of your miracle cloak.

  You have taken my land from the

  hills to the strand.

  You have stripped me of all

  at a stroke.’

  But Brigid said, ‘Only so much

  do we ask as to harbour our house

  and our living.

  The land lies before you and

  you are the king.

  The gift is still yours for the giving.’

  So the king gave them gratefully

  all that they asked.

  He marked out the plot with his sword.

  Then he cried, ‘All who stand

  in the bounds of this land

  are under the cape of the Lord.’

  And Brigid said, ‘Any who come to this place

  after this blessing today,

  whether they come bringing hunger or grief,

  shall never go empty away.’

  AS THE LAST words died on the air, the three of them sat silent, their heads still full of the story that had just been. Then Teller reached into the bundle that lay at his feet on the grass. From it he took a leather pouch tied up with a leather lace. He untied the lace, reached inside, felt about for a moment, then took out two small scraps of something.