The Last Storyteller

Joan slipped through the corridors, her soft soles a mere whisper against the flagstones. The stifled spark of a closed lantern offered the barest of light. She didn't dare open it here. If the king's men found her sneaking out, they would not even wait until dawn to execute her. But she had seen the message written in the storyteller's blood: t-e-l-l.

The kingdom was utterly silent. Servants never spoke unless asked a direct question. The mass of workers simply drifted with lowered heads, seeing no more than their feet. Only members of the royal household were allowed to speak freely. As the king's scribe, Joan held royal privileges. She was the one person who could read and write. It was far too dangerous a craft to allow anyone else to possess.

Joan once believed what she had been taught: stories were falsehoods told by miscreants in order to destroy the kingdom. She had been shocked when they dragged the listener into the royal hall. They had captured him when he dared look a guard in the eye. But the man had not appeared dangerous; he resembled a tattered blanket. So when the search for the elusive storyteller commenced, Joan became curious. She had never heard a story. Why would someone risk death for it?

She originally discovered the hidden grotto by following a servant into the woods. Her imagination had painted these people as depraved criminals with angry, twisted faces, but what she found was nothing of the sort. The listeners cautiously invited her into their circle where she met the storyteller. His voice was soothing, not sneering like the ones familiar to her. He told stories deep into the night. Joan was nervous at first. These stories were made up, but they didn't seem like lies. There was a truth in them she could not easily identify—a human truth not bound to time or place. How could falsehoods feel so real?

The storyteller presented her with a rare gift: a book. The only book she ever used was for accounting and levying taxes, so she was stunned to find so many words in one place. The spine fit perfectly in her palm.

When they captured the storyteller, they brought him into the hall and cut out his tongue. Joan looked away. After they dragged him to his execution, she saw his message written in the gore: Tell. It had been clearly intended for her. She would deliver the sad news to his listeners.

At the grotto, she lit candles and waited. The listeners gathered gradually, like falling autumn leaves, and sat in silence, waiting for a breath of air to stir them.

Tell.

But the listeners already knew what happened to him. What was left to tell? They all studied her now; their eyes sparkled in the flickering light. Joan sat up straight and looked back at each one of them. She knew what they needed. Taking in a deep breath, Joan began:

"Once upon a time..."