The Storyteller

by Aaron Starmer

  THURSDAY, 11/23/1989 (THANKSGIVING)

  AFTERNOON

  The bird went in at eight a.m., as it always does. Food will hit the table sometime around four p.m., like every year before. I don’t know what the Loomis family has planned. Maybe they’ll escape back to their lake house or wherever it is they go. The Dwyer family will be in the hospital. Bedside, with a phone nearby, hoping for any sliver of good news. While we, the Clearys, will eat our taters and stuffin’ and pretend like nothing ever happened.

  Rub a dub dub, thanks for the grub. Amen!

  Okay, it might be a bit different than that. We’ll sit there silent through most of it, as we have been through all of our meals lately. Mom will pick. Dad will scarf. I will try to make jokes, and Alistair might even smile at a few of them. But he won’t speak. Because that would be helpful, wouldn’t it?

  I’m so glad Grammy and Pops and Nana and Grampa aren’t here. And Uncle Dale and Aunt Mia. They all said they’d come, but I heard Dad on the phone saying that he “didn’t want things to be overwhelming.” Too late, old man.

  Old man. That’s what Alistair calls him. A buddy name, I guess. I call him Dad. But he’s starting to seem like an old man. Sighing a lot. Slumping into chairs as if they’re meant to break a fall from hundreds of feet up. I don’t blame him. I feel it too, the falling. Mom, on the other hand, is staying strong, which looks like staying stiff to me. Hands in the sink washing dishes, stiff. At the computer, playing Solitaire, stiff. Standing by the car, about to leave for another shift at the post office—because the mail only takes holidays and Sundays off—looking out at the neighborhood before opening the door. Stiff.

  When your family isn’t talking much, you watch a bit more TV. At least I’ve been watching more. Mostly stuff I normally wouldn’t watch. Like the news. You know what the big story this morning was? Besides all the tales of pardoned turkeys and all the people going wild back in the USSR?

  The Littlest Knight.

  He’s a boy they found in a lake somewhere in the Middle East. Jordan? Syria? I forget. One of those. He was dead, and his body floated up on shore a few days ago. No one knows who he was, but he was wearing a miniature suit of armor called scale mail. Apparently it’s a type of armor from hundreds of years ago. It’s one of those weird random stories that people love talking and wondering about, but I couldn’t bear to watch much more than a few minutes of the coverage.

  I switched over to the parade instead. The New York City one, obviously. It’s funny; our parades in Thessaly are nothing but Little League twerps and beer-gutty bagpipers. In the big city they get the big floats, the humongous balloons. I started to zone out as I watched it and I imagined that there were balloons of Fiona and Charlie in the mix. Monstrous cartoon versions of them, floating between the skyscrapers.

  Mom sat down next to me and broke me out of the daze. She put her hand on my knee and said, “Maybe next year we can drive down there, get a hotel, and see this thing in person.”

  “That’d be fun,” I said.

  It would be fun. To be a year in the future. To ditch this place and time for a bit. To eat Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant where no one knows who the hell we are, to eat lobster instead of turkey, to gaze out a window and see people you’ll never see again in your whole stupid life.

  THE FINE ART OF FORGETTING

  Many years ago there was a princess named Sigrid, and she lived in a tower made of onyx, which is a type of stone that’s as black as black can be. Sigrid was an only child, destined to inherit a kingdom that stretched from one sea to the next. Every day, she sat on a swing that hung over her balcony at the top of the tower and she watched her subjects work in the market and the fields. Her heart was always bursting with empathy, and whenever she saw someone in turmoil, she called to her trusted advisor, Po, and made a request.

  Make sure that man gets his broken leg fixed.

  Make sure that mother has enough food for herself as well as her children.

  Make sure that family has a warm home in which to live.

  Po would always nod and respond, “Yes, my lady,” but he knew that all requests had to filter through her parents, and her parents, the king and the queen, kept the purse strings mighty tight.

  “She is given to whimsy,” the king said at first. “Indulge her for now, but we cannot afford to do this all the time.”

  All the time is what Sigrid wanted, however. She was a humanitarian, and a humanitarian’s work never ends. She kept passing her requests through Po, and her parents kept growing more and more annoyed.

  “I fear we must turn to the Dorgon,” the queen finally said, a shocking but inevitable decision.

  The Dorgon was neither man nor woman. It was a vile beast made of mud that lived in a bog not far from the tower. It possessed one talent, the construction of potions, and while the potions always worked, they came at a steep price. Payment was always in blood.

  “I agree with the queen,” the king told Po. “Give the Dorgon our kingdom’s lowliest citizen in exchange for a potion that will cure young Sigrid of her constant do-goodery.”

  “And what sort of potion might that be?” Po asked.

  “We do not want to silence her kind heart,” the queen said. “We simply want to make the kindness temporary. A potion of forgetting should do the trick.”

  Po was a loyal subject and did not ask any other questions. That night, he went to a tavern, where he sat down next to a man named Tom Rondrigal. Rondrigal was a known liar and cheat, a thief and a scoundrel who would cut the throats of his own children if there were a gold coin in it for him. Po challenged Rondrigal to a drinking contest, something Rondrigal would never pass up, and the two proceeded to throw back flagon after flagon of mead.

  Rondrigal was a legendary drinker who had never been bested, but Po had a trick up his sleeve—or, to be more specific, under his shirt. He had the ability to untie his belly button and tap into his stomach. Using the tentacle of an octopus, he created a spout that led from his stomach to a hole in the floor. The mead went in and the mead went out and Po didn’t get the least bit drunk.

  Rondrigal certainly did. So drunk, in fact, that he passed out in his chair and Po was able to drag him out of the tavern and put him under a blanket on Rondrigal’s horse-drawn cart. Po had the king’s blessing, of course, but even if he didn’t, he feared no punishment for kidnapping this horrid man whom everyone in the kingdom despised.

  “You’d be wise to toss him off a cliff,” the tavern keeper called out as Po pulled away. The tavern erupted with laughter.

  The Dorgon was brisk with his business. As soon as the cart pulled up to the bog, the creature emerged and croaked, “You’ll be wanting a potion?”

  “I will,” Po said. “A potion of forgetting. A girl is too careless with her kindness. She does not need such a burden.”

  “It is understood,” the Dorgon said as it pulled Rondrigal from the cart and down into the bog. It was only a few moments later that the Dorgon surfaced with a flask of colorless liquid, tossing it at Po. “She will not forget what she already knows, but this will steal her ability to make new memories,” the Dorgon said. “She’ll need to drink a drop every day.”

  “I will make sure that she does,” Po said.

  The Dorgon burped and replied, “Next time, bring me one who doesn’t taste so sour.”

  Back in the onyx tower, Po put a drop of the potion into Princess Sigrid’s evening stew. It must have been flavorless, because she didn’t notice it. She simply bid Po a good night and went to bed.

  The next day, when Po arrived, Sigrid was out on her swing, looking over the land. In the center of the market below, a woman sat on a stump crying.

  “Please see what ails that poor soul,” Sigrid said, her voice as full of empathy as ever. “And make sure her life is set right.”

  Surprised, because the Dorgon’s potions were legendary for their effectiveness, Po asked, “What was that, my lady?”

  Sigrid turned from her swing, sh
ook her head for a moment, as if it were full of dust, and replied, “I seem to have forgotten.”

  Po smiled. “Come inside then and rest a bit. No need to look out onto the world all morning.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Sigrid said in a resigned tone. She came inside for the remainder of the day.

  Every day went like this. Po would arrive in the morning and Sigrid would be on her swing, asking about the unfortunate people below. Po would reply, “What was that, my lady?” She would turn, instantly forget her worries, and go back to her room. In the evening, she’d have a bowl of her stew, which always contained a drop of the potion, because Po gave it to the cook with explicit orders.

  “This is medicine for Princess Sigrid. If it does not flavor her stew, then she will become very ill and you will be to blame. Understood?”

  “Understood,” the cook said, and the cook was always true to his word.

  The king and queen were thrilled that the plan had worked, but Po found himself disturbed. Because every morning, before Sigrid’s forgetfulness set in, she fixed her eyes on the same place: the stump at the center of the market. And every morning, that same old woman was there, crying. Sigrid would always forget about the woman moments after taking her eyes off of her, but every morning she’d witness that pain anew.

  Guilt started to pile up on Po. In the past, Sigrid would have used her power to ease this woman’s suffering, but now her forgetfulness made that impossible. The woman suffered on, and Sigrid was compelled to watch every morning. It wouldn’t have bothered Po if Sigrid watched a different person every morning. It was the infinite nature of this one woman’s suffering that bothered him.

  Po had a bit of gold saved and figured he could fix the problem on his own. So one morning, he lingered in the market until the old woman arrived and sat on the stump. She was a fragile person, with rosy cheeks and thin lips. Her eyes were so tiny that a single teardrop could cover one of them, and when she cried it was almost like a stream of eyeballs pelting the ground.

  “What ails you?” Po asked her as he approached. “And how may I help?”

  Wiping her face, the woman looked up at him and said, “Find my son. He’s been missing quite a while.”

  “Who is your son?” Po asked.

  “Tom Rondrigal,” the woman said.

  Po paused. He considered his options. “I think I can help you,” he finally said.

  “You can?” she asked. “Because I love him so much. I know he can be boorish, but I am—”

  “Not to worry,” Po said. “I will help you. I know where he is. I’d like to take you there.” Then he led her to Rondrigal’s horse-drawn cart that he had kept for himself since Rondrigal’s death. He asked that she climb aboard.

  She recognized the cart as her son’s, and was duly suspicious, but she had little to lose. She was quite old and didn’t have much time left in the world. Po guided the horse through the forest and directly to the bog where the Dorgon lived. The Dorgon emerged, but it did not frighten the woman. She had lived in the kingdom her entire life. She knew of its dark corners.

  “So,” the woman said with a sigh, “the Dorgon took my son?”

  “He did,” Po admitted.

  “And now you intend to feed me to the Dorgon as well?”

  Po didn’t answer. He simply climbed down from the cart and looked the Dorgon in the eye. “You made me a fine potion,” Po said. “I’d like you to make more of the same.”

  “The one you brought me isn’t too sour?” the Dorgon asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Po said. “But see for yourself.”

  Po threw himself upon the Dorgon, and the Dorgon pulled Po into the bog.

  When the Dorgon emerged minutes later with the potion, the old woman was still there. “What is it?” she asked as she took it from the creature.

  “You are to drink it every day, when sadness visits you,” the Dorgon said with a burp. “But it’s best that you not know exactly what it does.”

  The old woman nodded, climbed onto the cart and, as she guided the horse through the forest, she sipped the potion. She kept her eyes fixed on the shiny onyx tower poking up through the trees.

  FRIDAY, 11/24/1989

  MORNING

  There’s an early memory I have of Alistair. He was a tiny kid, nothing but a rib cage and a noggin. Probably four years old. We were in the backyard, playing TV tag or freeze tag or some other version of tag. The sun was getting low and Mom and Dad were inside making dinner when I heard yelping out in the swamp.

  “What was that?” Alistair asked.

  I’d heard it before with Dad and he told me what it was, but I wasn’t sure if I should tell Alistair. He was a real fraidycat. Even the most harmless things could inspire his nightmares back then. I’m only a year and a half older than him, but when you’re little that’s a huge difference. Huge.

  “Nothing,” I said to him.

  “Sounds like sad kittens,” Alistair replied. Not that we ever had sad kittens. Not that we ever had kittens at all.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “They sound hurt,” Alistair said, moving toward the swamp.

  I grabbed him by the shirt. “They’re fine. It’s dinnertime. Let’s go inside.”

  “We should bring the kitties inside. They probably need milk.”

  “They’re fine.” I pulled him to the door, but he broke away and started running toward the swamp.

  “Kitties, kitties, kitties,” he cooed as he went.

  I was forced to tackle him.

  “What are you doing?” he cried as he squirmed in my arms.

  “Coyotes,” I whispered.

  He froze. “What?”

  “They’re coyotes. Pups. But they have parents. Or a momma at least. Something that feeds them.”

  “What do they eat?”

  “Deer. Squirrels. Whatever their momma can catch.”

  Without taking a breath, Alistair whispered a question through his teeth. “Kids?”

  My arms wrapped around my brother, I looked into the dark swamp. At the edge was a big rock shaped like a frog. “Frog Rock,” I said. “It protects us from them. But don’t go past it. You promise?”

  Teeth still clenched, Alistair nodded.

  For at least a few years, Alistair kept that promise. He climbed that rock, played around it, but never went past it. Fiona used to come over when she was little and she’d go past it, but she was always braver than my brother.

  Years later—come to think of it, only a few months ago, actually—I saw her bury something out by that rock. Which was weird. Alistair dug it up. At least I assume he did, because a few weeks ago, after I told him about what I saw, I noticed a mound of dirt out there, like a fresh grave. With all the rain and snow we’ve been having, it’s flattened out now. When Fiona learned that I told Alistair, she said that it was a love letter to him that she buried. Could be, but I suspect it was more than that.

  EVENING

  Love letters. I don’t get those.

  Okay, that’s a lie. I got one. Once. Last year. Seventh grade. Valentine’s Day. A secret admirer. No joke. It was signed Your Secret Admirer.

  Someone slipped it into my locker. I don’t remember the exact words, but I think it said my eyes were “an azure sky” and my hair was “amber waves of grain.” Azure is blue, I think. My eyes are brown, for the record. And amber waves of grain? That’s in … well, not “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but one of those patriotic songs. So it appeared that Uncle Sam had a crush on me. Don’t get me wrong, I love a top hat, but …

  Anyway, the letter ended with a plea to meet the guy behind the maintenance shed after school, which is more than a little creepy. I suppose he didn’t think it was creepy. Probably thought it was a private place where we could talk and no one would bother us. I didn’t go, of course, but I’m actually pretty sure I know who sent it. The Looney Tunes stationery gave it away.

  Glen Maple. He’s harmless, I guess. No top hat either, as far as I k
now. And not really the sort of guy who murders you behind maintenance sheds. At least I don’t think he is. But then, it’s always the ones you least suspect, right?

  Actually, no. Not Glen. He’s fine.

  But he’s annoying. Like, man, I hope he loses his voice annoying, because he’s always doing these terrible impressions of cartoon characters and he answers every question every teacher asks and is wrong more often than he’s right and there’s a point when he’s wrong so much that he doesn’t seem to care about being wrong. I know that’s mean to say, but it’s the truth.

  Anyway, I saw Glen today, when Mom and I went to the grocery store. He was with his dad at the bakery counter, and they were ordering a cake. I overheard him saying, “Mom likes angel food,” and I snorted a chuckle because that’s funny when heard out of context, and he looked at me, but it wasn’t with that oh my god, I want to kiss you all over the face look that I’m used to from him.

  It was an I feel sorry for you look.

  I didn’t say anything to him. I walked over to Mom, grabbed her elbow, led her to the cereal aisle, and told her, “I’m buying Lucky Charms and you’re not gonna say a darn thing about it.”

  It made her laugh.

  SATURDAY, 11/25/1989

  MORNING

  You’re at breakfast, okay? Your mom is cutting the grapefruit with one of those weird bent and jagged knives, right? It’s squirting all over the place, including your dad’s shirt, and he’s saying, “Hey now, watch the fine poly blend.” And you’re looking at the paper, and of course there are stories with the names Loomis and Dwyer all over the thing, and you push it away before you give in to the temptation to see if any of them have the name Cleary in them, and you take a sip of pineapple juice and a bite of your Lucky Charms, which you’re almost never allowed to have, and you announce, “I’ve been writing a few stories in my diary and I’m going to write one today about a girl made out of candy canes, but someday I’m going to write one about a wombat with glowing fur,” and your brother, who hasn’t said a thing in close to a week, looks up from his bowl of Life—what can I say, the kid loves Life—and he says, “You’re writing about what?”