Prologue - The Storyteller

The rumors stem from one man: a trader of stories. He whispers of vanished nobles and towns charred into ruins, letters sent in the dead of night, and flames erupting in towns across the moor. Whispers the girl has seen confirmed in the growing lines on her father’s face, and letters she has found hidden in office drawers.

The Storyteller asks nothing for his wares, only that his audience listens. They flock to him, the old and the young, and sit reverently before him on dry rugs laid out across damp cobblestone. His words have the power to weave tapestries of not-so-distant worlds where bravery and cowardice converge, and stories are the currency for those who have nothing. Every night, he waits between alleys, huddled within the city center. No one is ever sure on which street he will appear. The girl wonders if this is intended as a means to hide or if it is merely a game.

The girl pulls her cloak tight around herself as she makes her way through city grime and back alleys. Her shoes soak wet with the afternoon’s rainwater pooling in the streets and splashing beneath carriage wheels. Two men shout across the street at one another. A bottle arcs over her head and smashes beside the other man, glass glinting in the lamplight. The shouting grows louder. The girl ducks her head and wills herself invisible, scurrying on and leaving the drunken men behind her. 

At this time of night the lanterns float like stars above the city and lights spill into the street behind drawn curtains. The girl spots a crowd of giggling children racing past into an adjacent alley. A strange sight for the late hour. She draws her hood closer and follows them. Posters, worn down by the afternoon's rain, ripple in the breeze along the alley wall. The image of the recent upstart inventor, Adler Layze, has been torn down the middle. The wind twists and distorts his face, crinkled by drying water. The words “WANTED for crimes against the crown” drip ink down the page, mimicking the vision of blood falling into the inventor’s eyes.

Brushing off the thrill of mystery that the poster sends pounding through her head, the girl peers around the corner and there he sits—the Storyteller. 

He’s younger than she had imagined, appearing to be in his early twenties, with brown hair falling in gentle curls around his eyes. Faint lines of stubble encase his mouth, which moves as he speaks to a little boy, his hands sweeping through the air with rapture. 

The wall behind him flickers with orange and shadow cast by floating lanterns bobbing aimlessly through the air. The moon hangs low against the rooftops, dimly peering at the Storyteller’s gathering crowd. A woman knocks into the girl’s shoulder and offers a quiet apology as she moves into the alley, settling herself on one of the empty mats. The girl brushes her hands along the folds of her skirts to steady herself and follows the woman into the alley. She doesn’t sit, but remains pressed against the wall. On the mats are all sorts of townsfolk; a mother and her baby talk to an aging woman sitting beside a man whose beard has turned mostly grey. Children race in circles around the Storyteller, giggling and prodding one another with sticks. People in rags converse and laugh with people in finer clothes. Though one thing is missing, the girl sees no one dressed in noble attire. 

“Where are you taking us tonight?” A young child bounds up and asks the Storyteller. 

“Tonight,” the Storyteller says, a fond smile softening his face, “We sail on the wings of birds along the river to a trading town hunkered down beside the bank. The nobles and their guard have all been slain, and enemy soldiers have taken everything.” A thrill runs down the girl’s spine. This is the type of story she wanted to hear. The kind that dug the roots for rumors to grow.

“They are searching for someone,” the Storyteller says, “And they’ll imprison or kill anyone who stands in their way. But sometimes, the soldiers miss something. Amid the chaos of fleeing civilians and crackling fire, two children are left huddled in the flame.” The Storyteller’s hands dance through the air, and as he moves, the shadows along the alley walls begin to twist and jump. The girl gasps with the crowd at the animations that are drawn to life from his hands. She has never seen magic wielded like this. His hands flutter, and a corporeal shadow-bird materializes against the alley wall. It flits over the silhouette of mountains, fields, and streams. The shadow-river twists and winds between the townsfolk’s mats into a pool of water left over from the morning drizzle. The girl stands on tiptoe to peer above the audience’s heads. With a flick of the Storyteller’s hand, the shadow-bird dives into the puddle. The children giggle and squeal as water splashes across their faces. 

The shadow-bird lands atop a tree on the crest of a shadow-hill. The Storyteller raises a hand, and huddled against a curve in the river, shadow-ruins rise before the bird, silhouetted by swirling clouds of smoke. 

“A line of soldiers waited below the shadow-bird’s tree. The town below was silent save for the crackle of flames and an occasional crash of falling rubble.” A rock falls beside the Storyteller. A child screams before the shadow-rock dissipates into smoke and begins to fill the alleyway, blocking out the stars from above. “Smoke from the ruined town funneled into the night sky like talons of hell grasping up towards the heavens.”

The children huddle close, nervous in the dim light. The girl finds herself sitting down on an empty mat, excited shivers trailing down her spine as the shadows grow and all else fades except the Storyteller. His shadows fill the space around them, fully encompassing everyone within the alleyway into his tale and drawing them to a shaded figure who appears beneath the shadow-bird’s tree.

 “From behind, his silhouette blocked the carnage, leaving only a glimpse of red against his shoulders, trailing down his arms like twin streaks of crimson rain staining his hands in blood.

“The General’s eyes raked across his soldier's boots, their soles darkened by mud and soot, until they landed on the man kneeling in the dirt. Metal clacked against the prisoner’s wrists as he lifted his head off of hunched shoulders to meet the general’s eyes. 

 “Scuffling boots squelched their way back up the hill, mercifully drawing the general's attention away, as a lone soldier came stumbling into view, his unkempt hair set aglow by firelight. In his hands, he clutched a crumpled paper, tinged at the edges by smoke. He came to a stop at the General’s feet. 

“‘Flores,’ The General greeted.

“Flores dipped into a bow, his grip tightening infinitesimally around the page. The General waved his hand dismissively, and Flores straightened. His eyes raised to meet the twisted grin of the man towering above him.

“‘Sir.’ Flores hesitated, glancing once at the paper in his hands and wondering if he was making a mistake. Then, the paper was in the general’s hand. His heart twinged at its loss, a traitorous warning that he quickly brushed away. The General’s eyes scanned the page greedily, a smirk spreading across his face. 

“‘Well done, Flores, you may return to your unit.’

“Flores wiped any disappointment from his face. 

“‘And Flores,’ the general called, halting his dismal retreat. 

“‘Sir?’

“‘We will be discussing this further.’

“Flores hid a smile below a deep bow. ‘Yes, Sir.’

“The light from the dying fire blinded the lone soldier as he dissolved back into line. A gust of wind whipped the red hair across his face.” The shadow-soldiers along the wall blurred together in the breeze, drawing the girl away from the burning town and back into the alley where the shadow-bird takes flight above the audience’s heads. 

She followed the arc of the shadow-bird as it flew into the crumbling shadow-ruins, bits of shadowy-rock falling harmlessly above the children’s heads.

“Down in the ash-covered streets, rain had begun to fall. Salvation had come too late.” The Storyteller drums his lap, mimicking the patter of rain. 

“Droplets punctured holes in the paper fisted in the General’s hand.” The shadow-page flutters as if caught in a breeze and then falls to the ground, soaking into the puddle that had splashed the kids before. It settles into the water and then disappears completely in a puff of steam. 

“The General moved away from the town, back towards camp. The soldiers marched into place behind him, leaving behind the smell of death and rain, unaware of the boy and girl they had left behind amongst the carnage, huddled beneath the ash.” 

The Storyteller weaves together a tale of a fear-ridden night spent curled beneath an ashen sky. He speaks of a boy and a girl who hold each other close as their world falls apart. He tells them of a lord and lady who try to do what is right, but in doing so, lose everything. 

Every word confirms the whispers the girl has heard. The stories of the strange alley-man have done their job. The people repeated them until they spread through the city and scaled palace walls to reach someone with power. Though many brushed them off as idle gossip and prattling entertainment, the girl knew now with certainty that there was something more to the Storyteller. Something she was determined to uncover. 

About the Author

I began writing one day on a whim. I was home sick with a cold, and I needed an outlet to put my embarrassing obsession with Warrior Cats at ease. This outlet ended up being a sixty-page fanfiction. Not my finest work, but it did lead me towards a passion for writing that eventually led me to write this piece. "The Storyteller" is the prologue of what is planned to be a much larger piece, but which currently consists of a mere two chapters. While I fight my way through convoluted world-building, disheartening plot holes, and the all too present imposter syndrome, I am also searching for ways to reconnect with the parts of writing that are not so much of a fight. Such as, what inspired me to write this piece in the first place. "The Storyteller," much like my aforementioned fanfiction, came from humble origins: a horribly written middle school attempt at a horror story. Several plot renditions and genre changes later, it is now entirely unrecognizable to all but me, but this story, for one reason or another, has stuck with me for years. The theme has changed several times over the years as I have matured and grown, but in its current form (which should hopefully be the last), this is a story about the importance of stories. It explores the impact that storytelling can have on individuals as well as society. Over the course of the novel history is rewritten, lives are saved, and great power is amassed all through the common thread of storytelling. 

Instagram: @rileytshell

Cover design made using Canva design tools.