Once upon a time, so long ago that storrytellers remember, there lived a girl called Anya in a land of darkness...
Stories matter. Our whole lives are told in stories, to ourselves and to others, and they are vital to communication.
...One day, as she worked in the fields, she saw a glimmer of light in the distance, and as it drew closer she could see it was a shining bird, so bright that all around it was illuminated...
In stories, everything is simple and obvious. Emotions and attitudes are externalised: transformed into new characters, behaviours or objects. The girl marries a handsome prince, rather than a kind and loving man. Two of the sons go one way and the third another, rather than one son feeling conflicted. The emotions of the characters are not told.
...Anya took a handful of grain and spread it before her, calling
“Bird o’ Light, Bird o’ Light, come and eat!”
And the Bird o’ Light did so, and while it ate Anya could see everything that had before been hidden to her, and when it had finished, it flew away and all was once more in darkness...
In this way, everything in a story can be interpreted symbolically. But caution must be taken to avoid over-interpretation, and it must be remembered that the most important part of the story is the enjoyment of the teller and the listener.
...The next day the same thing happened, and the next, and the next, and so things went on. But Anya was running out of wheat, and though she stinted herself to have more for the Bird o’ Light, a year to the day after it first came to her, she found herself with but a single peck of grain...
It is of great importance to remember that a told story is entirely different to a written one. Written story can afford to be unmemorable, but a forgettable fairytale will find itself ignored very quickly. This simple fact has significantly impacted the different styles of the two genres.
...So on that day Anya took up her peck of grain for the Bird o’ Light and baked three travelling cakes for herself and set out to follow the Bird o’ Light to wherever it might lead her...
A tale is full of cliches and repetitive language. In a novel, this would be a fatal flaw, but it renders a tale memorable. What phrases are better remembered from childhood than “mirror, mirror on the wall...”, “Oh Grandma, what big teeth you have!” or “I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down”? Such things form the backbone of storytelling.
...Anya walked and walked, until she felt she could walk no longer, and there she sat upon the ground and ate the first of her travel cakes. As she ate, she saw a gleam of light in the distance, and so she spread grain before her and called out:
“Bird o’ Light, Bird o’ Light, come and eat!”...
In a tale, things appear in specific amounts, contained. Three bears, or seven brothers, or a year and a day to break the spell. There are never “a few” fruits left on the tree, or “many” who had fallen under the witch’s spell. And if something must be unnumbered, it is extravagantly so – “so many that none could count them, should they live a thousand years”, “more coins there were than the stars in the sky”, “so large that none could see from one side to the other”.
...The bird flew to her and ate, and as it did, she told it her story, and when it had done, it spoke to her:
“I am not the Bird o’ Light you seek; he shines far brighter than me. I am the Bird o’the Morning Star. I know not where he flies, only that I have never seen him rest. But go on as you have done and you shall surely find him. Take this feather of mine, and when you are in need, speak my name and it shall light your way.”
This said, the bird flew away and Anya began once more to walk...
In stories, the supernatural is accepted with ease. If a horse talks to you, you talk back, and politely too, for discourtesy leads into trouble. Should a fairy give you three wishes, there is no confusion about how the wishes will be granted. It simply is so. No novel would leave such a plot device unexplained.
...Anya walked and walked, until she felt she could walk no longer, and there she sat upon the ground and ate the second of her travel cakes. As she ate, she saw a gleam of light in the distance, and so she spread grain before her and called out:
“Bird o’ Light, Bird o’ Light, come and eat!”...
But the most important thing about tales is the interaction between the teller and the listener. The author of a novel is writing an extended letter to the world. The tale-teller is having a conversation with particular people. Unsurprisingly, stories vary from telling to telling, and from teller to teller. It would be ludicrous to say that unless it is perfectly memorised and replicated each time, the teller must not know the tale. The ability to improvise is the true sign of understanding a told story, yet utterly foreign to written narrative.
...The bird flew to her and ate, and as it did, she told it her story, and when it had done, it spoke to her:
“I am not the Bird o’ Light you seek; he shines far brighter than me. I am the Bird o’the Moon. I know not where he flies, only that I have never seen him rest. But go on as you have done and you shall surely find him. Take this feather of mine, and when you are in need, speak my name and it shall light your way.”
This said, the bird flew away and Anya began once more to walk...
Interspersed with variation on the words is variation on the gestures and voice mannerisms of the performer, things that cannot easily be described. Suffice to say that the task of the storyteller is far more complex than it may, at first, appear.
...Anya walked and walked, until she felt she could walk no longer, and there she sat upon the ground and ate the last of her travel cakes. As she ate, she saw a gleam of light in the distance, and so she spread grain before her and called out:
“Bird o’ Light, Bird o’ Light, come and eat!”...
So where does this leave us? So far I have said that tales are unlike novels, and told some ways that they are different; I have said that the teller is far more integral to the success of a story than they seem; and I have put forward the idea that we use stories to shape our perceptions of the world. That last point, however, I should elaborate on.
...The bird flew to her and ate, and as it did, she told it her story, and when it had done, it spoke to her:
“I am not the Bird o’ Light you seek; he shines far brighter than me. I am the Bird o’the Sun. The bird o’ light you seek flies unceasingly, but to eat and sleep, and if you have not grain to give him, he will not come to you.”
“Is there not a way to free him from his unending journey?”
“That there is, but it is not easy.”...
Stories are frameworks in which to place our experience. We can tell the story of the battler who succeeds against the odds, or the misunderstood genius whose talents are realised after years of being undervalued. We tell our own stories to other people when we are trying to explain who we are. We imagine stories around what we know of other people’s lives. When questioned as to why we hold a belief, we often tell a story about how we came to believe it, or about why it is right.
...”You must go from here to the Cave of Eternal Darkness, where the Bird o’ Light sleeps each night. There you will find three cages, one of iron, one of silver and one of gold, each inside the other, and each locked with a lock made of shadow. To free the Bird o’ Light, you must break those locks, and to do that you must light each one as bright as he ever lit your home. Take this feather of mine, and when you are in need, speak my name and it shall light your way.”
This said, the bird flew away and Anya began once more to walk...
I feel that it is important to recognise the power of told story in the face of the innovations in communications technology of the last two decades, especially the ebook. The discussion of the possible “death of books” because of the new presence of electronic media raises the question of the “death of story” at the hands of books. I inwardly rebel against the disappearance of books, because I believe there is something more to them than the text itself. The same is true of tale-telling. But is it lost?
...Soon she reached the Cave of Eternal Darkness, a place more black than any she had seen. She walked inside, but could not see her way, and so called out:
“Bird o’ the Morning Star, shine for me!”
The feather she had been given shone as bright as the bird itself, and she could instantly see all within the cave. There before her were three cages, one of iron, one of siver, and one of gold, each within the other, and each locked with a lock made of shadow...
Storytelling is not a dying art, but an enduring one. Despite the challenges to its supremacy, there is not one of us who cannot remember hearing stories as a child and telling them as an adult. Just as the rise of recorded music has not ended concerts or improvisation, so the rise of books, and ebooks in their turn, has kept a place for the tale. The ability to communicate a series of events in a meaningful sequence in conversation is one that will never be lost, because it is fundamental. It is not storytelling, but it is close.
...Anya saw at once that the feather she held was not enough to break the locks, so she called out:
“Bird o’ the Moon, shine for me!”
The feather she had been given shone as bright as the bird itself, and straightway the lock on the cage of iron broke in two, and the cage was opened...
Storytelling will survive a long time, and if it does not, then we must accept it. But I believe that through our own efforts we can aid story. By telling stories, listening to stories, asking for stories, we help them be remembered, and by remembering stories, we keep them alive.
...But though the iron cage was open, Anya could see that the feather she held was not enough to break the next lock, so she called out:
“Bird o’ the Sun, shine for me!”
The feather she had been given shone as bright as the bird itself, and straightway the lock on the cage of silver broke in two, and the cage was opened....
I wrote this story about friendship, but that meaning is hidden now to all but me (and maybe a very astute listener). Instead, it sounds like just another fairytale, following the structure of East of the Sun, West of the Moon, perhaps. I wrote it as I walked, telling it over to myself until I was happy with it. I have not yet told this story, so perhaps it is not quite fully-fledged yet, but it is something.
...But though the silver cage was open, Anya could see that the feather she held was not enough to break the next lock, and she despaired. Then, through the entrance of the cave, she caught sight of a gleam of light in the distance. She poured grain before her, and called out:
“Bird o’ Light, Bird o’ Light, come and eat!”
and lo and behold, the Bird o’ Light came. It’s light was as bright as she remembered, and the third shadow lock seemed to weaken, but it would not break. She called out:
“Bird o’ Light, Bird o’ Light, shine for me!”
and suddenly the feathers of the Bird o’ Light blazed brighter than ever before and the last lock was broken and the last cage was opened...
I believe that everyone has the ability to tell stories, at least a little, and to forget that skill would be a sad thing. Stories matter. They help tell us who we are and where we’re coming from, and if we don’t know that, how do expect to know where we’re going or how to get there?
...As suddenly as the light, darkness came.
Then, through the entrance of the cave, Anya saw, not a gleam of light, but a soft glow. She stepped outside and saw, for the first time in her life, that the sun was rising. She looked to her other side and could see the low-hung moon and a fading morning star. And she looked behind her and saw that the Bird o’ Light had transformed into a young man, who said:
“As long as I was imprisoned by the locks on those cages, all the light in the world was trapped in the feathers of the Birds o’ Light. But the spell is broken now, and all can see clearly what once was hidden to them.”
Well, the pair of them lived together for ever after, and if they’re not dead now, they’re living so still.
