"Homeward"

[amelia_petkova]

Title: Homeward
Fandom: The Storyteller
Summary: How the Storyteller and the Dog meet. Storyteller used is the one played by John Hurt, from the fairy tales part of the series.
Disclaimer: All characters from The Storyteller belong to the Jim Henson Company

Written for hammerxsword from the help_haiti auction. I had a lot of fun with this one.


The old man flew out the door, tumbling over and over in perfect somersaults. He landed against the building across the road. He arose and shook out his tattered robes. “And a fine day to you, madam,” he called to the scowling woman standing in the doorway he had just been kicked through. “I hope you shall think of me whenever you lack for a story.” He bowed but the door was already shut.

“Poor woman,” he continued to himself, “if there ever was a person to wake up on the wrong side of the bed, it must be her. All that fuss because some of the day’s baking fell out of the oven and into my pocket! Still, I’ve had worse mornings.” He patted a fold of his clothing, which gave a delicious crackle and smelled like the spring sunshine.

He whistled and strode down the road. Though he saw no other villagers, he heard voices ahead. Where there were voices, there were people. And where there were people, there would be an audience!

The Storyteller walked faster. The sole of one shoe flapped against the road. He stopped momentarily and retied the twine that held the pieces of leather together.

On the outskirts of the village he found a marshy pond, all cattails and mud. Toads croaked and splashed among the reeds. Young boys, village urchins all, crowded at the shallows. Their voices crowed loudly, excited and jeering. Their backs faced the Storyteller.

“Hello, there!” he called out. Children were a less profitable audience than grown folk, but beggars can’t be choosers. And storytellers, for all their rich sense of self-worth, never know how long it may be before the next audience appears. “Might any of you fine lads be interested in a story to start your day properly?”

The children faced him, annoyed by an adult interrupting their fun. A dog shot out from behind the boys. It bolted to the Storyteller and ducked under his robes.

“Get back here!” the tallest boy yelled. The dog stuck his shaggy brown head out from beneath the Storyteller’s robes but moved no farther. The Storyteller realized the dog was wet and covered in mud. He considered shooing the animal away but his own clothing already held a fair bit of travel dust.

“Whatever is the matter?” the Storyteller asked.

“Go away. We don’t want no adults ruining things,” another boy said.

“But what are you doing?”

“Being cruel little monsters,” the dog muttered.

The old man raised his eyebrows. “But you have this talented dog for a friend! How can that put such a group of imaginative boys like yourselves in a bad mood?”

The children had heard the animal speak though they didn’t catch his words.

“Dog won’t shut up,” said another boy, muddy to his knees and his wrists. “Dog’s always talking, even when we don’t care. He won’t play fetch or roll over or keep the mice away.”

“Cat’s work,” the Dog sniffed.

“Ma said she don’t want him in the house anymore,” said the tallest urchin, their leader. “So we want him to play dead.”

The Storyteller tutted. “That doesn’t sound like much fun. What if you were to give your dog to me? I could use some company while I travel.”

“Why’d we want to give him away?” said one boy, his small body full to the brim with scorn. “We’re not done playing yet.”

“True enough,” the Storyteller said. He strode closer to the boys, the Dog leaning against his leg with every step. “Tell me, would you fine fellows consider yourselves to be gambling men?”

“We’re children,” Muddy To His Knees said. “We don’t have money.”

“There are plenty of things you can bet besides money. I bet my own wife once. It didn’t go so well and there was a rabbit involved, but you get the idea.”

The leader asked, “What would we bet?”

The Storyteller took on a professional tone. “I am a storyteller. Tales are my trade.”

“We’ve had storytellers before,” the leader said, unimpressed.

“Poor craftsmanship,” the Storyteller scoffed. “I am of a superior breed. Tell me what you think of this: If I can tell a story that you have never heard before, the Dog leaves with me.”

“And if you lose?”

The Storyteller posed regally. “If I lose, I shall jump into the pond. Do we have a bet?” He held out one hand in its fingerless glove.

The leader recognized a good deal when he heard it. They shook hands. “Agreed.”

The Storyteller swirled his colored robes about. “Excellent! Now, where to begin…”

The boys sat on the ground. The Storyteller remained standing and the Dog watched him with dark eyes.

#

“I heard this story from a friend who lives far away. To get to his home you go up many hills and down many slopes until you come to a village much like this one at the edge of a forest. The forest is very dark: you wake up one morning and the trees are closer than they were when you went to bed. And it’s said that wolves lurk there, eager to dig their sharp teeth into anybody who walks by.

“Many years ago, a few people chose to live in the forest for reasons they did not share. One was an old granny who had family in the village. In this family there was a little girl who always wore a red hooded cloak. Her mother had made it especially for her, because the girl always ran off to places she shouldn’t go and the cape allowed her to be found easily.”

#

“She should’ve been a boy.”

“Yeah, she should’ve! But she’s stupid, to wear that bright color when it lets the grown-ups find her.”

“The grown-ups ruin everything.”

The Storyteller scowled at his unruly audience. “Hush!”

#

“Granny never left the forest but she liked visitors. So once a week her granddaughter would skip into the forest to visit. Careless child, she never saw any danger and said if she did find a wolf, she’d make it play fetch like a dog. The girl’s parents worried, but their fluff-head of a daughter had managed to escape danger through all the years of her life so far. The father said she must have been born with an angel watching over her, for the child never had any sense of her own.

“When the next week came around our red-hooded girl bounced away into the forest with a picnic basket for her grandmother.”

#

“What was in the basket?”

“Food, what else?”

“But what kind of food?” one of the children pressed.

“All sorts of things: berries, sandwiches, cheese, bread baked in the morning that had fallen into her basket. It was a feast.”

#

“This girl managed to find the few patches of sunlight in the forest and skipped through them. She stayed on the path, for every week her parents and Granny reminded her not to stray.

“During this walk, a great big wolf stepped onto the path. But because the girl had never seen a wolf before, at first she thought he was a very big dog.

“’Good morning,’ the wolf said. ‘Where are you off to on this fine day?’

“’I’m going to visit my Granny,’ she said.

“’And what is that you have in your hand?’

“’A basket of food for her. We have a picnic every week, you see.’

“’That sounds lovely,’ the wolf said. Oh, he was a very cunning wolf. His pink tongue lolled out of his mouth. ‘Why don’t I carry that heavy basket for you and go ahead? Your Granny and I can have lunch set out by the time you arrive.’

“’It is getting heavy,’ the girl admitted.

“’And you could pick some flowers for decoration. I’m sure Granny would like that. There are some wildflowers just over there.’

“’That would be nice,’ the foolish child agreed. ‘Tell Granny I’ll be there soon.’

“The wolf took the picnic basket in his strong jaws and trotted away.

“Disregarding her parents’ warnings, the girl left the path and soon found a clearing full of flowers. She wandered from one clump to the next and picked as many as she could carry. By this time she had gotten quite out of sight of the path and it took her a while to find it again.

“During this time, the wolf had run ahead to the grandmother’s house. He knocked on the door.

“’Who is it?’ Granny asked.

“’Your granddaughter come to visit,’ he said in a high-pitched voice.

“’Come in, then.’

“Now Granny was an old lady and couldn’t see well, but not so much that she couldn’t tell a wolf and her granddaughter apart. Before she could do anything, the wolf jumped forward and swallowed her whole.”

#

“He ate her?”

“He most certainly did.”

“Did she die?”

“’Course she wasn’t dead, idiot. He didn’t chew her up!”

“You’ll never find out if you don’t let me get on with the story.”

#

“The wolf put on the grandmother’s nightgown and cap, and climbed into bed. He tucked his great big paws underneath the blankets.

“Soon the little girl arrived at the cottage and bounced in with her flowers. ‘Hello, Granny!’ She saw the picnic basket on the table. ‘Is my friend here?’ she asked. ‘He said he would help you to get lunch ready.’

“’Oh, he left already,’ the wolf said in a squeaky voice. ‘He said that he was very sorry but he just couldn’t stay.’

“The child stepped close to the bed and peered into the shadows. ‘Granny, what big eyes you have.’

“’All the better to see you with.’ The wolf kept his voice sugar-sweet.

“The girl leaned closer, when she should have run out the door. ‘Granny, what big ears you have!’

“’All the better to hear you with, my dear.’

“’Granny, what big teeth you have!’

“’All the better to eat you with!’ And with that, the wolf jumped out of bed and gobbled her up!”

#

The Storyteller folded his arms. “The end.”

The children stared at him. The Dog’s tail thumped against his worn shoe. Only the toads continued their noise.

“The wolf ate both of them?” one of the boys asked.

The Storyteller nodded, his face solemn. “Oh yes. He thought the little girl and her grandmother were delicious. If the girl had been only a little wiser she could have tricked the wolf, and everybody would have been safe.” He paused. “Dogs are related to wolves, you know.”

The Dog crept out into the open. The dried mud made his fur stick out and he widened his eyes until the whites showed all around. The children shrank back, though they would deny it later.

“You should always be careful with a dog,” the Storyteller said as the Dog began to growl, “because you never know when he might be…a wolf!”

The Dog barked. The children shrieked and ran back to the village.

Once the last urchin was gone, the Storyteller laughed. “The looks on their faces! I’ll remember that for a long time.”

“That was fun.” The Dog scratched at a thick patch of mud behind one ear.

“You could have bitten one of them,” the Storyteller suggested.

“Then I would’ve had the taste of unwashed boy stuck in my mouth. Blech. Worse than a bone with no flavor left.” The Dog shook himself vigorously. “What shall we do now?”

The Storyteller folded his arms. “I will continue traveling and telling stories. What makes you think we will do anything?”

“You told the children you wanted me.”

“It was just an excuse! I didn’t have any plans beyond that.”

“Travelling sounds nice, though. I’ve never been anywhere else.”

“And why would I want a companion?”

The Dog wagged his tail. “It would be fun. You never know when a dog can come in handy. And what about when there’s no audience? You’ll want somebody to talk to.”

“There’s always an audience.” The Storyteller squinted up at the sky. “Still, I suppose we could try it. Just a trial run, nothing more.”

“Good.” The Dog’s tail wagged harder. “Where to next?”

“This road is as good as any. With any luck, we’ll find an audience by lunchtime.” The toads continued to ribbit-ribbit as they walked away. “Did you ever hear the one about a frog who turned into a prince? It all happened because a princess dropped her golden ball into a pond…”

#

No audience that could have provided lunch was found but they still had the roll from that morning’s baking. Other people eager for stories appeared in the following weeks. Sometimes there was only one person, another traveler or a hermit who preferred the trees to paved roads; other times they found towns just beginning celebrations, eager for new stories and with a feast already prepared. They did very well those times, so long as the Storyteller did not step on anybody’s toes.

“I can still smell the dungeon,” the Dog said mournfully as they walked away from a castle. He whimpered. “I think I have fleas.”

“You do not. Don’t be such a baby,” the Storyteller said cheerfully.

“It’s all your fault we ended up in there,” the Dog continued. “You should have known the King would get upset at the smallest bit of bad news in that card trick. And after all that fuss, his daughter still had to marry that hedgehog.”

“Yes, but it turned out all right in the end,” the Storyteller reminded him.

“But don’t you wonder how the rooster got that big?”

#

That autumn was a poor one for storytellers. Several weeks of rain spoiled the harvest and the farmers kept much of the remaining food for themselves. On nights that no hosts were willing to open their doors, the Storyteller and the Dog snuck into barns for shelter.

“Wet dog is such a memorable fragrance,” the Storyteller remarked on one of those nights. “Have you considered finding a way to dry your hair?”

The Dog sniffed. “I have; it’s called ‘sunlight.’ If you can find some I’ll be happy to dry off.”

“Unfortunately, I seem to have left the sun in my other coat.” He scratched the Dog at the base of his tail. “Winter will be here soon but we haven’t found a patron yet.”

“What’s a patron?”

“A person who feeds and shelters you for a time in exchange for stories. I’ve always been able to find one who wanted stories to entertain him throughout the winter.”

“You better find one soon,” the Dog advised. “I don’t want to have to put up with cows and sheep until the spring.”

“I shall look for one under every stone in the road,” the Storyteller promised.

The two friends curled up in the scratchy but warm hay. There they slept until morning, when the farmer’s wife came to collect eggs and chased them out of the barn with a pitchfork.

“You still have straw in your hair,” the Dog said as they walked down the road.

The Storyteller picked out the bits of straw and tossed them away upon the wind. “At least there’s no rain today,” he said.

“But there’s no more people. And no people means no supper.”

The Storyteller adjusted his shabby gloves. “Something will come along. It always does.”

At midday they stopped to rest their feet and paws. The elusive sun had begun to peer out but they heard no other voices in the soggy world around them.

“I wonder where that leads,” the Storyteller said. A barely visible path cut across the meadow before them. As far as they could see, it led into the distant forest.

“Probably nowhere,” the Dog said.

“But it might be somewhere.”

“You can barely see it. Nobody’s gone that way in a long time.”

“Still, we might find someone. And that someone is probably hungry for stories, living all alone in that forest.”

The Dog whimpered. “Only if they aren’t hungry for anything else. If they live in a cottage made of candy, I’m turning back.”

“I’m sure the candy would taste delicious.”

“I didn’t like that story.”

By now they had arrived at the trees. No wolves or candy houses were immediately visible.

“What do you think?” the Storyteller asked.

“I don’t hear anybody. And trees aren’t a good audience.”

“Well, that’s all right. We might come across somebody farther in.”

The Dog looked scornfully at the Storyteller but walked alongside him.

In that forest the ground sloped upward, so gently that several hours passed before the Storyteller and the Dog realized that they were surrounded by hills. The path never disappeared, although sometimes it was hard to follow. Though empty of humans, wolves, or candy-covered houses, birds sang as they ought to and other ordinary forest animals made appearances.

“Maybe we should turn back,” the Dog suggested.

“Just a little farther,” the Storyteller said. He paused to shake a pebble out of his worn-out shoe. “You never know what we might find.”

“You mean, like a castle?”

“That’s one possibility,” he agreed. “What makes you think of something like that?”

“I think we found one.”

The Storyteller looked up. Ahead of them on the path there stood a castle, screened by trees. It appeared shabby, though not yet fallen down. “What an amazing thing. I wonder if anybody lives here.”

“I don’t smell anybody,” the Dog said.

“Pity.” The Storyteller’s mood lightened as it so easily did. “But that also means there are no ill-tempered people to toss us in the dungeon.” He still straightened his tattered but colorful robes, and ran a hand through his hair.

There was no need to knock, for the front door hung ajar. Some windows let in the air and leaves; others still held panes of stained glass. The Dog and the Storyteller entered every room of the castle but didn’t find any inhabitants: neither a troll in the basement nor a sleeping princess in the tower.

Evening arrived and the red light of sunset cut across the floor of the main hall. They made a blaze in the fireplace using wood from a table that had cracked in half. The heat spread throughout the room; for the first time in weeks, they felt warm all the way through to their bones.

The Storyteller pulled a chair up to the fire and sat down. “This is easily better than the barn.”

The Dog scratched one ear. “No noisy chickens. It’s too late to leave the forest today.”

“Why go back at all? We’ve been in far worse places than this and stayed longer.”

“And did you think of what we’re going to do for supper?”

“I’m sure we’ll find something,” the Storyteller said.

The Dog curled up on the hearth. “’Something’ had better come along sooner rather than later.”

“It usually does,” the Storyteller assured him.

“Do you at least have a story to last us until morning?”

“Always.”