Three Simple Stories

A.R. Davies

©2013 Allan Richard Davies

There's this pub, claims to be the highest in England. It perches on a hilltop overlooking one of those regimented Forestry Commission plantations of conifers, and at night you can see the lights of Macclesfield in the valley below. Not a bad place to spend an evening. The beer's good, and they keep a fire roaring in the grate in winter. In front of the fireplace in the public bar there's an old carved chair. It's the best chair in the place, but for some reason hardly anyone ever sits in it.

It was a quiet evening, sometime around late September, when a stranger came into the public bar. Nothing out of the ordinary about him. Middle aged, not particularly handsome, dressed all in shades of brown. He got a pint, and went to the big chair in front of the fire to sit down. He hadn't been sitting there long when he got up again, and moved the chair a little closer to the fire, and off to one side a bit, so that he could watch the night through the window. The Landlord noticed, and called over to him

“There's not many as'll sit in that chair…funny thing, wherever you puts it, it always end up back in the same place”

“Really ?” asked the stranger, “why's that ?”

Seeing as there wasn't anybody else in the place, nor much likelihood of it either, the Landlord pulled himself a pint and came round the bar to join the stranger.

“Folks say there's always been a pub here. Been in my family for as long as anyone can remember. All that time, that chair has always been in the place. When I was just a nipper I asked me old Granda the same question, and this is what he told me…”

In the old days, this was a real farmers pub - straw on the floor, beer in jugs straight from the barrel. Farmers, and the sheep drovers, they kept the place going. That's why it's here, see, 'cos the drove road use'd to run right past the front door. There weren't much trade in winter, though, and it were the custom to close up round the end of autumn. Open, special like, for Christmas day and that, then close again until the spring.

No-one knows how long ago this was, but autumn seemed to hang on forever one year. Long, golden days, mild enough for a fair walk of an evening. The Landlord was beginning to think he'd be open until Christmas, when, overnight, the weather turned. Turned viscous - bitter cold with a lazy wind that would as soon blow through you, as go round. ‘Well’, thinks my man, ‘that's it for the year’. He'd made sure he'd a good woodpile, and all the other stores needful.

He was just standing in the door that evening, having a last, long look down to the lights in the valley below, thinking that he'd not be going that way for a while, when he saw two figures coming up the path. ‘Well,’ he thinks, ‘these'll be my last two customers for this year. I'll make sure they get the best of the house.’ He hurried into the front room, made sure that there was a good fire going, then went back to the door, ready to greet the two of them. As they got closer, he could see that one of the men (they were men) seemed to be leaning on the other. Concerned, he hurried down the path to help them along. The fellow who seemed to be struggling looked to be of middling age. He was supported, half-carried, by a much younger man - hardly more than a youth.

“Soon get you inside, into the warmth. This is no night to be out and about in.”

The youth nodded his thanks, and between them, they got the older man up the rest of the way to the door. As the door slammed shut behind them, a small drift of withered brown leaves blew in and fluttered briefly about in the hall. The Landlord eased the weary man down into the best chair - a big, carved wooden thing, and moved it to the warmest place in front of the fire. The youth found himself a footstool, which he placed beside the chair then sunk gratefully onto. The Landlord noticed that the youth was dressed all in shades of green, whilst his master, or so he thought the older man was, was all in shades of browns and tawny golds.

“Well now, what's your pleasure ? A good mug of ale… or maybe a drop of brandy, to take the cold off. As to food, I've a good roast going over the kitchen fire…”

“Thank you, we've all we need right here,” said the youth. “Oh, there's no charge,” said the Landlord, thinking they might be short of a bob or two, “It's our custom. The last guests of the year is always on the house”

But no matter how much he tried to persuade them to take something, anything, the youth kept shaking his head and repeating, “Thank you, for your kindness, we've all we need right here”

They wouldn't even be persuaded to take a bed, despite his best efforts. Eventually the Landlord gave up, and went off to his own fireside muttering and concerned. He'd a reputation for hospitality, and it hurt him to think that they'd take no more than a seat by the fire.

The older man, sitting in the carved chair in front of the fire, kept his eyes closed, and said not one word.

Try as he might, the youth just could not keep his eyes open. His head kept slumping onto his chest. Then he would wake with a start, and look around warily. At last, as the fire burnt down to embers, his head slumped on to his chest, and stayed there. Master and youth, both slept sound.

The fire hissed and muttered, the wind rattled the shutters, but apart from that, all was quiet.

In the dead shank of the night, when even the moon has given it up for a bad job, there came a rattling and tapping at the shutters. A little more than the wind could do, perhaps…and the iron latch started to turn. Slowly, slowly, with a harsh, rasping whisper…Then the shutters were slammed back into the room by the wind, and a pale hand snaked in.

First the hand, then a long, thin arm…then, the whole body of a woman.

She was cruel thin, though not old. Her skin was the colour of bleached bones, her long hair silver and fine, and she had icy grey eyes.

She looked around the room slowly, noting that the fire had died. With a small, satisfied nod and a thin smile, she walked over to the chair, stretched out her right hand and laid it on the sleeping man's head. Once…and where her fingers rested, the hair beneath them turned from gold-brown to the glittering white of frost.

Twice…and the frost spread, like a stain, over the head of the sleeping man, down his face, neck, shoulders, arms, getting faster and faster, until the cold flood reached his feet.

Three times …this time, her fist smashed down on the frozen head, and the man was shattered to a thousand fragments of ice that sprayed around the room.

The youth slept on.

The next morning, the Landlord bustled out of his private parlour, utterly determined to send his guests off with a good breakfast inside them. He was so preoccupied with thoughts of bacon, sausage and other good things, that he didn't notice the cold seeping out of the front room…untill…sssht ! The iron latch of the door was so cold it burnt his hand ! He wrapped the other hand in his apron, and fumbled the door open, having to push with all his might. At last it scraped open with a screech that jarred his teeth and froze the marrow in his bones. Everywhere he looked, the room was caked in rime, glistening green and white. Slipping and sliding, he struggled over to the youth on the stool…his lips were blue, and his skin like stone to the touch. Of the older man there was no sign

The Landlord slithered out, fetched a pail of coals from his own fire, threw them in the grate in the frozen room, then kindling, bellows, split logs, more bellows…he didn't stop until there was a good, roaring blaze in that frozen grate. The ice began to melt a little…a spreading, damp pool and the smell of wet wood. The youth started to stir and moan, and the Landlord picked him up, slung him over his shoulder and staggered from the room.

Then he went back to see what had become of the other man…but there was no sign of him anywhere, although there was a pile of old, dried leaves in the seat of the carved chair. Without really thinking about it, the Landlord stuffed them in his pocket and returned to the youth…who had fully woken now, and was trying to join the Landlord in his search of the room for his master.

“No, no, young feller,” protested the Landlord, “you just rest yourself now, come away to my parlour, and we'll get you warm and with a bite inside you…” and he hustled the youth from the room, despite his protests.

As the two of them crossed the threshold into the hall, there came a tremendous blast of wind and the shutters flew open. The fire in the grate billowed out and up, and in no time the wooden mantle was blazing…then the heavy curtains…in less time than it takes to tell the room filled with fire. Gasping and cursing, the Landlord kicked open the front door and half lifted, half dragged the youth outside and laid him down gently on the dry winter grass. Turned back…and stood, and watched. As his home, his fathers home, his grandfather's home before him…his sole place and livelihood…burnt to the ground.

He stood and watched and the tears ran down his face.

It had been a solid stone building, but it seemed like no time until it was just a pile of ashes.

The Landlord stood and watched…and cried…then stirred, like someone waking from sleep, as he heard an impossible noise from that blackened wreck of a building…a baby's wailing cry.

He picked his way through the smoking wreckage, and, in what had been the front room, there was the chair…un-burnt. The Landlord peered over the high back, right into the warmest, bluest eyes he'd ever seen. Nestling in the seat of the chair was a baby with a face fair as sunrise after a stormy night. He picked the child up and it quieted at once, looked up at him and smiled.

He turned and went back to the youth, now back on his feet. Not knowing why, just that it was the right thing to do, the Landlord held out the baby. Smiling, the youth took her in his arms, and turned to go…

Shaking himself like a dog, the Landlord called, “You can't just…” The youth stopped, and turned back to the Landlord. “I mean…I'm just a simple man, and I know that I'll never understand, an I live to be a hundred…but…can you tell me one thing. What's your name, lad ?”

The youth smiled. “Me?…oh, my name is Spring…”

The Landlord looked down at the child and said, “Reckon it'll be a good Summer, then.”

“Reckon it will, at that.” agreed the young man, then he turned and walked down the path. The Landlord watched them til they were out of sight. Then he turned back to the ruins of his home with a sigh, stuck his hands in his pockets…and pulled out handful after handful of gold.

“Least ways, that what I was told, there was enough to rebuild the place, and more. Ever since, that chair always ends up in front of the fire, no matter how or where you move it.”

The stranger smiled at the Landlord, “Thank you for a fine story…and a fine pint”

“You’ll have another ?” asked the Landlord.

“No, thank you. I've a way to go yet before winter sets in” said the stranger, getting up and stretching. On his way out, he paused at the bar, leaned over and tapped the pumps. “A very fine pint”, he said, and went out…and just for a minute or two, the whole room was filled with the scent of apples, bonfires and crisp mornings.

Everyone says that the Autumn Ale was particularly fine that year.

Cheers !

The young Princess was always full of questions. Sometimes she received a satisfying answer, but often she felt people were just humoring her. One day, she was seized with a powerful desire to know what lies above the sky. It was such an important question, she though it best to go right to the top. So she asked her father, the King.

“What foolish notions you have my dear,” he replied, “ I have no idea. You need to go and ask the poets about airy things like that”

She found the court poets gathered in the shade of a mulberry tree, discussing everything and nothing. Bowing respectfully, she asked them,

“Honoured sages, masters of poetry, surely you can tell me — what lies above the sky?”

After some moments of profound silence, the oldest poet began to speak. The others nodded their heads, appreciating the beauty of his words. Although the Princess listened carefully, after the first few stanzas she grew confused. Soon she was hopelessly lost in a maze of allusions, piled upon images, piled upon quotations. She tried hard to understand, but when she realised that the same man had been speaking for half an hour she'd had enough. ‘Minds like butterflies, all of them’ she thought as she slipped away. She didn't hear the sound of soft wings beating.

She went to the temple, thinking that if anyone would know it would be the priests.

“Honoured sirs, masters of many mysteries, surely you can tell me — what lies above the sky?”

A priest stepped forward to answer, but hardly had he got two words out of his mouth when another stepped forward to argue with him. The Princess tried her best to follow the arguments, but she found them harder to understand than the poets. After a quarter of an hour, despite her best efforts and the opinions of virtually every priest in the temple, she was no wiser. ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz, all noise and no result’, she thought to herself, leaving by the back door. She didn't notice the sudden smell of honey.

Next she went to the training fields, thinking that the generals might know.

“Oh honoured ones, masters of every conflict, surely you can tell me — what lies above the sky?”

The senior general stepped forward to answer…using, realised the Princess who was paying close attention, many words to say… nothing at all. All the other generals agreed, adding yet more words about… nothing at all. ‘Words like grains of sand, I'll be buried soon’, thought the Princess. Thanking them kindly, she left whilst she still could, and never heard the quiet sound of grain slipping over grain.

Finally, thinking there was no—one else left to ask, she asked her Nurse.

“I'm sure I don't know, but if I wanted to know something about the sky I would ask the Kite Maker”

“Of course, why didn't I think of that?”

Thanking her Nurse, the Princess ran out of the palace and all the way down to the artisans quarter in the town below. The Kite Maker's shop was easy to find — it was covered with brightly coloured paper birds, butterflies and dragons.

‘Now I will surely find out,’ thought the Princess, but the old Kite Maker answered her question with another of his own,

“Why do you want to know?”

“None of your business, I'm the Princess,” she answered rudely. “If you're not going to tell me, you might at least give me a kite so I can send something up there to find out for myself. I&pos;ll take that one, thank you.” She pointed to the largest, most splendid kite in the shop, a magnificent purple dragon. Bowing low, he presented the kite to her. The Princess swept regally out of the shop with the splendid kite.

It wasn't long before she was back.

“That kite must have been defective, it crashed. Give me another one. I still want to know what lies above the sky, you know”.

Handing her a lovely butterfly kite, the Kite Maker asked again,

“Why do you want to know?”

The Princess didn't bother to reply, and left with the new kite.

A little later she was back again. “You're obviously not very good at making kites, that one got stuck in a tree. I'll give you one last chance to give me a kite that flies properly… and to tell me what lies above the sky.” The Kite Maker reached up and took down a simple bird—shaped kite, asking,

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why do you want to know, HIGHNESS!...”The Princess ground her teeth in frustration,“ Oh, I don't know, I just do. Please, I've asked everyone else, won't you help me?”

“Perhaps I could remind you of some of the finer points of kite flying, highness,” the Kite Maker said, tactfully.

“It would be a start, I suppose...“ the Princess replied, “Thank you”

The Kite Maker followed the Princess to the palace gardens, and patiently showed her the best place to stand. How to launch the kite, how to stop it immediately crashing back down to earth again…It took several tries, but eventually the Princess had worked the bird kite up to a good height, well above the tops of the trees.

“Hold the line between your finger tips, feel the life of the kite on the wind through the line,” instructed the Kite Maker. Frowning with concentration, the Princess let out more and more line, a little at a time, and the kite climbed higher. It wasn't long before she was almost at the end of the line on her reel.

“That's no good,” she said, “It's nowhere near the top of the sky”

“I will bring you some more line at once, highness.” The Kite Maker bowed and returned to his shop. Soon a boy came running back with a whole basket full of balls of line. The Princess was delighted, surely this would be enough to get to the top of the sky, and above. She gave the boy a purse of money, telling him to take it back to the Kite Maker, with her thanks.

She reached into the basket for a ball of line. It was difficult to tie it on to the end of the line already attached to the kite, but after some thought and a little juggling she finally managed it, and started to let out the new line. The bird kite was now so high in the sky she could only just make it out, but still she kept feeding out the line, tugging from time to time to make sure it kept climbing.

All through the afternoon she flew the kite, adding ball after ball of line…three, four…five balls of line, and the kite was so high she could no longer see it at all. She could feel it through the line though, tugging and dancing in the wind. Her hands were aching, and the line threatened to cut into her fingers, it was pulling so hard. She slipped her scarf off and wrapped it around her hand, and kept on flying the kite.

When the Princess did not return for her evening meal the King grew concerned, and he sent servants scurrying this way and that, seeking her. Soon enough, one returned to report that the Princess was flying a kite in the palace gardens, and she refused to come in. The King sighed,

“Perhaps she will come in when she grows hungry, perhaps not. There's no talking to her when she has an idea lodged in her head, and little harm can come to her in our gardens…leave her be, leave her be” and he went off to bed, shaking his head.

Outside in the garden, the Princess was scarcely aware of the time passing. Her hands were cold and tired, but she clung to the kite line, thrilled by the feel of the life of the kite transmitted down the line to her finger—tips. She imagined the kite somewhere high above her, dancing across the dark sky. As well as the low thrumming of the wind across the line, now she thought she could hear another, much higher note. She brought the line close to her ear…and heard a wild, keening sound, as if the kite were singing to her through the line…but she couldn't quite make out the words. She was coming to the end of the eighth ball of line so she reached down into the basket…and found there was only one ball left. Her numb fingers made her clumsy, but finally she tied it on. Hoping more line might make the words sound more clearly, she started to let the line out again, stopping every so often to hold the line to her ear. Nearly, she could nearly make out the words…just a little higher.

Then she saw she was nearly out of line. The kite could go no higher. She was so tired and frustrated, she almost let go of the line and left the kite to the sky, but something made her hang on. She refused to be beaten by a thing that was little more than a sheet of paper and some bamboo. She would just have to haul it back down. So she started to wind the kite down, and it was hard, hard work. At first the pull of the kite was so strong she could barely get anything back at all. Little by little, she clawed the line down out of the sky, coiling in in the basket at her feet. She found a rhythm, and it grew easier, although she was very tired, and it seemed to be a never—ending task. Arm's length by arm's length, the coil of line in the basket grew and finally she realised she could just make out the kite…a tiny dot, high in the sky.

She had been flying all night, and now, as dawn drained the dark away, her kite was nearly home…but then, as often happens at sunrise, the wind dropped almost to nothing. The kite plummeted. Determined to bring it back safe to her hand, the Princess hauled the line in hand over hand. Faster and faster, despite the protests from her tired arms, she hauled and hauled…and just as the kite was about to dip out of sight behind the palace roof, she caught it! The kite bobbed back upwards a little…but then sunk some more, she pulled and pulled. It was like playing a fish. She nearly lost it more than once, but eventually she brought it safely back to her.

The kite was damp from the night air, and her hands and arms were so tired they shook, but she held the precious bird close to her ear…and finally, she understood, she heard the words the paper bird was singing to her. She finally knew what lay above the sky.

Forgetting her tiredness, she ran through the gardens back into the palace. She was so excited, she couldn't wait to tell someone… but it was awfully quiet. Where were all the servants? She ran to her father's rooms, but there was no—one there, his great canopied bed was empty and no—one answered her calls.

She went back out into the gardens. No poets gathered beneath the mulberrry tree, just a great cloud of butterflies fluttering around and around.

She went to the temple, past the great bell in the entrance and into the cool hall. No priests came to greet her, but heard instead the buzzing of so many bees it made the boards beneath her feet vibrate.

No generals, no soldiers marching across the training fields, just great drifts of sand, blowing in the wind.

Not knowing where else to go, she walked slowly the hill from the palace, through the empty streets of the town, until she came at last to the Kite Maker's shop. He was standing in the doorway, waiting for her. As she approached he bowed, and ushered her into the shop. Gesturing to a stool, he said,

“Please sit, Princess. I have some bad news.”

“I know,” said the Princess quietly, “Something dreadful has happened to everyone”

“No, this time it really is just you. Everyone else is fine, but you have died, so you can no longer see them”

She did not believe him, but “ Shhh…listen” he hushed her. Far off and faint, as though coming from a great distance, she heard the great temple bell tolling slowly. She heard the priests chanting prayers, and the slow shuffle of many feet.

“You cannot see it, but your funeral procession is passing through the town even now. I am sorry, Princess, but that's how it is”

“Why can I see you, are you dead too?” The Princess looked hard at the old man, “ You don't look dead”

“I am like the kite, suspended between the heavens and earth, neither one nor the other. My job is to guide those who pass through. Most souls move on easily, but a few linger…from fear, or love, or sometimes they're just plain stubborn.” He looked hard at the Princess. “ Did you find the answer to your question?”

“Yes, the kite told me, it's…” she stopped. “Oh no, it's gone, I can't remember,” she wailed, “My hands are all cut to ribbons, my arms feel like lead…what a waste of effort, I can't remember”

The Kite Maker patted her hand, “ Nothing is every truly forgotten. Perhaps it will come back to you in another life” He told the Princess that she could go back and live again, if she chose to, or go on to the next world, “ It's up to you, but it may be many lives until you are a Princess again. I could send you back as a beetle, if you're in a hurry to get started”

“Can I think about it?”

The old man smiled. “Take as long as you like”

The Princess looked through the open door, up into the wide sky.

“It's a lovely day, there's a good breeze — have you seen my kite?”

In the middle of a great plain of dry grass there stood a small hut. In the hut lived a man and a woman, scratching a hard living from the grey earth. At that time there was no sun or moon, just the stars, glittering bitter and distant in the sky.

The man roamed far and wide across the plain, searching for something, anything, that was different. Always he would return home, tired and dispirited, and always the answer was the same “Nothing today.”

The woman spent her time tending their garden, hoeing and watering. The plants were weak and grew slowly and they were often hungry. When she tired of the garden the woman would watch the stars dancing. Sometimes, when the wind dropped, she could hear them singing, far off and faint. As time passed she came to learn fragments of their song, which she would sing quietly to herself.

Returning from another fruitless search, the man heard the woman singing.

“What's that you're singing ?” he asked.

“Just the song of the stars” she replied.

“Sing it again”.

She did, and often after that she would sing to him the song of the stars. He grew to love the strange, flowing music.

One time, when the woman was singing, the man lay gazing up at the stars. He noticed that some of the stars seemed bigger, closer.

“Sing a little louder” he asked the woman. She sang a little louder, he looked carefully — the stars were definitely swooping lower.

“Sing louder !” The stars came lower.

“Look — when you sing the stars dip down to listen. If only we could catch one, we would have a light of our own, the plants would grow and things would be better.”

The woman thought for a while. “What we need is a net to catch the stars” she told the man.

Next time the man was away searching she worked, weaving a net out of the dry grasses that surrounded her. Her fingers were bruised and blistered by the hard stems, and her neck and back ached from bending over the work. She was laying the net out on the ground, and wondering how to raise it into the sky to catch the stars, when the man came back, carrying something over his shoulder.

“Look what I found — just what we need”, and he laid down a pile of long, straight bamboos at her feet.

Together, they pulled more grasses, and twisted them together to make ropes. With the ropes they bound the bamboos together into a kind of tower, with some poles sticking out, like the fingers of an open hand, at the top, to support the net. Gingerly, because the tower wasn't very strong, the man climbed up to the top. The women stretched up and handed him the net. He draped it over the top of the thing they had made, and then carefully climbed down again. They looked up.

“Will it work ?” the man asked.

“It must,” answered the women firmly, and started to sing the song of the stars.

She sang and sang, head thrown back. Music poured from her throat; up and away into the sky, high, pure and lonely. It made the man shiver to hear it. As she sang, not daring to look, the dancing, shimmering stars dipped further and further down in the sky. Curious and excited, darting, skipping around the sky, they bobbed lower and lower.

“It's working !” the man cried. The woman didn't answer, she just sung louder and stronger and sweeter, until the man thought that his heart would burst from the beauty and pain of her song.

One of the boldest (or perhaps the most curious) of the stars strayed too low and was caught in the very top of the net. It hung, swaying a little in the wind. It glittered, seeming to dance in one place. It's silver light bathed the up—turned faces of the man and women. Still the woman sang on. Finally another, golden, star was snared to hang, shining and singing in the very middle of the net.

With a gasp the woman stopped singing and fell to the ground, exhausted. For a while she and the man lay together, cradled in each other's arms, looking up at the lights pouring out of their captive stars, listening to their song, lost in wonder. Eventually they slept.

When they awoke, stiff from lying on the ground, they looked at each other and smiled. Then they looked at the stars. The silver star burned dimly, and they feared that it would go out all together. The golden light burned brightly, throwing warmth down over them like a blanket.

They moved through this wonderful new, golden, light like two dreamers,doing those things that they always did. Every so often, though, one or the other of them would stop, and gaze at some familiar thing. A wooden bowl, a clay cup, the face of the other — as though they had never seen them before. The warm light made everything seem made anew, and they rejoiced in it.

At length, it seemed that the golden star grew tired of shining. Its song grew quiet and its light burnt low, and the man and women grew afraid. But, as the golden star grew dim, the silver star seemed to wake up, shining its soft, cool light and singing a quieter, mysterious song. The man and women were tired, and they went into their hut, lay down upon their bed of grasses and slept.

A new rhythm came into their lives, as the gold and silver star shone turn and turn—about. They came to take great satisfaction in this fresh pattern, realising that before it they had lived a shapeless existence. Now they had night and day.

Each morning the man set out with fresh determination, and often he would return with some small, new thing. A stone, some pleasingly coloured earth — that he had not noticed before in the old, dim light. The woman, too, found herself noticing things that had been over—looked before. Tiny flowers and mosses that grew amongst the grasses and in the cracks and hollows of stones.

Time passed in the excitement of small discoveries, and they were content.

The woman had always dreamed, and she would sometimes tell them to the man. Now she began to have a new dream. Each night, she saw a great ocean of green, spreading from the base of their star—trap — only this too had changed, grown strong, it's branches covered with leaves and heavy with fruits. Creatures lived amongst the leaves. Things with wings darted and danced, small creatures ran on four feet or two through the lush grass. Sometimes she would glimpse larger beasts , making the grasses sway in the distance.

The woman tried hard to explain all this to the man, but he would frown, look puzzled, or look away, without answering. The truth was, her dream made no sense to him. He had started to dream his own dream — full of smoky lights dancing across the night, teeming with people and things that dug into the earth, drank the oceans and crawled across the sky. This dream troubled him, and he did not understand it, or himself for dreaming it. He tried to escape from it, but he could no more do that than he could escape from himself. He could not explain this to the woman, any more than she could explain to him, and so they grew apart, and were silent with each other.

Both of them stood on the dusty earth, and looked over the endless grass and felt an emptiness. The woman yearned and reached towards her dream. The man tried to run from his, but could not.

The woman came to realise what was happening, and it made her sad. She could not seem to reach the man in his headlong flight. So she came to live more and more in the world of her dream. Often she would awaken in the night, wrenched from her dream by the man's tossing and turning. Then she would sit and weep, rocking gently to and fro. Even her tears became part of the dream, growing into great, glistening spheres floating gently around the first tree they had made together. She thought that if she could only catch one, then she could truly enter the world of her dream.

This longing became the most important thing in her life. Every night she would chase her wishes, arm out—stretched and reaching, calling to them. Every morning she would awake exhausted from running so far, so fruitlessly. She grew tired and thin. The man became worried about her, but there seemed to be nothing he could do.

One night, so tired that she couldn't run, even in dreams, she just stood under the tree, her head hanging down. One of the glimmering spheres drifted up to her, and nudged her arm gently. She raised her head, and stared at it. At first she could see only her own face, reflected in the opalescent surface, but as she looked, there seemed to be other faces. Young, old, men, women, all different, all looking at her. She opened her arms wide and embraced the multitude of faces, shining in front of her. As she did so, she felt a great lightness come over her, and she was lifted up and carried way on a gentle breeze, drifting, rolling and tumbling.

The man woke up, cold and alone. At first could not think what was wrong. But, as he peered around blearily, he saw the women, drifting slowly through the window of their hut, arms open wide and smiling. He leapt up and tried to catch her, but it was like chasing a grass seed dancing on the breeze. He followed her out—side, leaping, running and crying out, but she rose higher and the man despaired of ever catching her. He gathered himself for a final leap, and sprang up, arms stretched out to grasp her…and his reaching fingers closed around her left ankle. The instant her touched her, he too was filled with a great lightness. The woman reached down and pulled her up to him.

Clinging together, hardly daring to breath, they floated back down to earth. As they touched the earth, the grasses beneath their feet writhed, growing soft and green. Like a spreading stain, a thousand shades of green flowed out from them, washing over the dry, brown plain. Flowers sprang up. The air filled with darting, dancing, singing flying things and the grass bustled with life; creatures running, hopping, crawling and slithering all around them. They turned, and saw that their star—net had become a tree, the centre of an expanding grove of vegetable giants.

The man turned to the women and said

“Now I understand. Forgive me, I was haunted by my own dream, that I did not understand. I will pursue it no longer, for I see that your dream is far richer and more wonderful.”

The woman said nothing, but smiled, and took his hand.

They went together and sat beneath their Wishing Tree, resting their backs against its rough bark. In her heart, the woman knew that the man would never entirely escape his dream, but for now she looked out over a world full of colour, life and movement, and she was content.

Notes

I've been working as a performance storyteller for over a decade, and all three of these stories were originally created as structured improvisations via oral performance. As a storyteller, I work almost exclusively with traditional material. The repertoire is enormous — and endlessly varied —and I can count the situations when I haven't been able to find something suitable on the fingers of one hand. Quite literally, as it's happened only five times. Three of those stories are collected here.

I know these stories work orally. I'm also very conscious that getting something to work on paper (or screen) presents rather different challenges. I have tried to retain something of the simplicity of oral language in these written versions, in the hopes that I've left enough space between the words for the reader's imagination.

Even though I've now written them down, I can't completely shake off the habits of an oral teller. I tend not to preface stories with long intros — I’d rather the tale stand or falls on it’s own merits — but I’m always ready to fill in some background info after—wards, if anyone wants to know. These notes stand in a similar relation to the stories. By no means necessary, but available for anyone that would like to know a little more.

Winter's Touch

All sorts of things can spark off a story. In this case, it was a pub, and a sense of frustration.

As the story says, there is a pub on one of the roads into Macclesfield. It's called The Cat and Fiddle, and the road it stands on (The A537 from Buxton to Macclesfield) has been known locally as ‘the Cat & Fiddle road’ for years. It’s also often cited as being the most dangerous road in England, due largely to its popularity with motorcyclists. A distressingly large number of them have come fatally unstuck on one or another of its many tight bends.

It's certainly a challenging drive. After you leave the outskirts of Buxton there’s a long sequence of very tight (and mostly blind) hairpin bends that climb rapidly up to the moorland, then a tempting, almost straight run of over a mile to the summit (and the pub) at 1,690 ft. Beyond the pub is a hair—raising sequence of more than 20 tight bends that drop you precipitously down into Macclesfield.

It's one of my very favorite roads to drive (in a car, I’d be scared stupid of doing it on a Motorbike), and as my parents live 10 miles down the road from Macclesfield, I’ve come to know it very well over many years of going home to visit. The views from the summit across the hills or the Manchester plain are rightly famed. The pub, on the other hand, has always struck me as being a bit of a disappointment, given the spectacular setting. It’s not a bad place by any means, they keep their beer well, but it’s a bit of a barn without much character.

I always try and stop in the lay—by opposite the pub to enjoy the views. I might even get out of the car (if it's not absolutely pelting down) and stretch my legs. I've been there at all times of the day and night, in all sorts of weathers; from the rare (and thus precious) brilliantly clear light you get up here when it's sunny to near—blizzard conditions. Although I'm always passing through, it's an important place to me. It should have at least one story associated with it.

The sense of the importance of very specific places is one that crops up frequently in the traditional repertoire, and it's something that’s always fascinated me. I've always had a thing about crossing places and borderlands as well. The place where one thing becomes another is often where the most interesting things happen. Despite which, I rarely tell geographically specific traditional stories myself. Not having the relationship with the place of the story I don't think I have the right.

All of which hopefully goes some way to explaining where this story came from. Something about place, something about transitions, and something about wishing that it was a better pub. I've told it a few times over the years, and it's the only one of my original stories that I know for sure has been told by other storytellers — to whom, my grateful thanks.

Above the Sky

This one is unique for several reasons. I've only told it live once, it's the only time I've felt the need to create a story deliberately evoking a culture foreign to me and it’s been with me (in one form or another) for by far the longest time — over two decades now.

It has its origins sometime in the mid—eighties. I was living in bohemian squalor in South Manchester at the time, studying on the (at the time) only Community Arts course in the country, at Manchester Polytechnic. I mention this because the course included practical units in a variety of arts disciplines. I was very excited to be doing visual art, dance and writing classes. It was a period of great expansion, and I was soaking up stuff like crazy…including a book about Noh theatre (‘Noh Theatre: Principles and perspective’ by Kunio Komparu the book, I subsequently discovered) that I came across in the college library. I was also discovering a talent for designing, making and flying kites — partly influenced by a fascination with all things Japanese.

All of this initially came together in an assignment for my writing class, in fulfillment of which I came up with a sequence of nine very short poems. I doubt if they included more than a couple of hundred words all together. I can't be sure, as I lost the originals years ago. The whole object of the excercise was to strive for maximum economy of expression with minimum means. I also wanted to try and make something that had a degree of recursion in it as well. Obsessed as I was with Japan, a culture apparently deeply rooted in understatement and compression, this seemed like a natural context to try and write in.

Perhaps not entirely un—coincidently, the only telling of the story occurred during another very expansive phase of my life, in the early 90s. I'd just been introduced to the notion of oral storytelling as a distinct art—form via a memorable weekend workshop with the legendary Ben Haggarty. A small group of us decided we wanted to try and take things further, and would meet regularly to practice and share stories. Fired with the fervour of the newly converted, we all experimented like crazy. This story was probably my boldest effort, conceptually, linguistically and structurally. It got a mixed reception at the time, I remember. In retrospect, I suspect I just wasn't good enough technically to do it justice.

I've included it here, partly in the hopes that it will fare better this time around in a different guise, but mainly because it continues to haunt me after all these years.

The Wishing Tree

This is the only story that I have been commissioned to create. It was made in 1993 for an exhibition at Milton Keynes Exhibition Gallery to celebrate the 20th Anniversary of community arts pioneers InterAction MK. I’d been working off and on for them ever since 1988, and they asked me to come up with something people could participate in for the show.

I can't now remember which came first — the story or the sculptural idea — both were built around the notion of the ‘Wishing Tree’. I made a bare—bones structure from 10ft long bamboo poles in the centre of the gallery. During the workshops that followed, the story was told as the starting point, then people were invited to use the rich variety of scrap materials we’d assembled to make something to hang on the tree. Hundreds of people of all ages set to with a will. It worked very well, and once there was enough hanging on the tree for the idea to be clear, quite a few passers—by pitched in and made things as well, which was very satisfying. It's hard to make a participative work that carries as much meaning for casual viewers as for those involved with the original creation, but this one really succeeded. I wish I still had some of the photos, people made some lovely things.

I've told the story a fair few time subsequently, most memorably at The Crick Crack club in London. I've also made several smaller Wishing Trees since — it seems to work well as a simple, striking framework for inviting people to contribute.

Get in touch

I'd love to hear any feedback or comment you might have - you can email me here, visit my website here or tweet me @allanrdavies

Pass it on…

Finally, although these written versions of the stories are under my copyright, I'd be delighted if anyone were to pass them on by telling them orally…in your own way, to your own audience, with my blessings.

Allan Davies. September 2013, Towcester, Northamptonshire.

Table of Contents

Winter's Touch

Above the Sky

The Wishing Tree

Notes