The Best Place by The Fire

...was kept for the Storyteller.

[mollydobby]

When people told themselves their past with stories, explained their present with stories, foretold the future with stories, the best place by the fire was kept for … The Storyteller. 

~ John Hurt as The Storyteller (Jim Henson’s The Storyteller 1988)

[whatsoeverislovelyandpure]

Jim Henson’s The Storyteller | Sapsorrow While the men were sent out for silk, while tailors cut and needles flew, Sapsorrow remained in her room, never appearing. Only her creatures were seen, flying in, slithering out, busy, busy, scurrying about. Little did anyone know that all the while, in Sapsorrow’s room, another garment was being made — more marvelous, more magical.

[expo63]

[afaerytalelife]

The Prince nodded to the creature to go ahead, and she bent to the floor and in a single gesture slid the slipper easily on to her foot. The Bad Sisters were flabbergasted. “It fits!” they cried. “It can’t do!” ”It does fit,” said the Straggletag, softly. “Will you keep your promise?” The room fell silent. No one moved. Eyes travelled incredulously from the tangled straggle of hair to the gleaming slipper. The Prince swallowed, shook his head, swallowed again, his world in pieces. “Very well,” he muttered forlornly, “I will marry you. I will keep my promise.”  A murmur filled the room, a buzzing, a swell of outrage. Then suddenly, magically, from every quarter, from every nook and cranny, creatures appeared, things that scurried, things which flew, hurrying, flying towards the Straggletag, engulfing her in a cloud of whirring, beating activity. While all looked on, bewildered, an extraordinary transformation took place. For before their very eyes, the hapless, pathetic creature became a beautiful woman, standing radiant in a dress shimmering with gold, as if the sun had burst into the Great Hall. ”Sapsorrow!” exclaimed her two Bad Sisters. ”You!” cried the Prince. “My Princess! It’s you!” And of course it was Sapsorrow, and of course it was his Princess. She walked towards her sweetheart and they embraced, and for all they knew the world had gone away and left only their tummies to ache, their skin to tingle and their hearts to leap over and over and over together. — Sapsorrow, adapted from an early German folktale, retold by Anthony Minghella.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller | Hans My Hedgehog So the hedgehog boy grew up, day following day, week chasing week, and his coat grew thicker and his eyes grew bluer and his nose more pointy and he was the sweetest son to his mother; oh, yes, he was a jewel at throat and wrist for her. Elsewhere the sneers and curses curled him up into a ball, the spite hurt his coat into spikes, the insults teased his quills into sharp protective needles. And if he came into a room, his father would leave it. If he crept up to touch his hand, his father would shudder. This was Hans' life, a world of light and dark. The farm, his home, full of animals who loved him, his mother's snoodling. The world of folk who loathed him, his father's brooding. Village boys would creep up to the farmyard and taunt him with their village-boy taunts, their safety-in-numbers taunts, their anything-strange-is-ugly taunts, with their terrifying normalness, their ordinary apple-red faces, their shirt-out, slow-witted, thick-tongued taunts.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller | The Soldier and Death The shadows lengthened until only the guttering flame of a single candle flickered on the Soldier's face. He gazed at it. Suddenly clocks began a melancholy chime, creaking into life, and with them a scurry and a scamper. A rush of cold air extinguished the candle and all was black. The Devils had arrived. They swarmed to the table and surrounded the Soldier, who continued to sit, unabashed. He began to whistle.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller | A Story Short I found myself in a sorry state, thrown to the ground in front of the court while the beetroot Cook, hand smarting, temper erupting in spits of bile, recounted my mischief to the King. A man with a full stomach can bear a great deal. I wasn't listening to them. I was listening to the sweet gurgles of my digestion. I then realised someone was speaking to me. "What's your trade, fool?" demanded the Cook. "It can be scratched on your gravestone." I didn't much like the sound of this.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson’s The Storyteller | Sapsorrow But Sapsorrow was friends with all the creatures of the forest, those that crawled, those that flew; they lived in her pockets, under her table, perched on her chair, ran through her hair. Whenever she went to her room she would find berries and all kinds of nuts and fruits, delicious things. For kindness repays in kindness, care in care.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller | Hans My Hedgehog For seven days and seven nights the Princess of Sweetness and Cherry Pie locked herself in her bedchamber, sorrowing, and would not come out. And the days passed — sun, then moon, then sun — while she thought and thought a hole in the hearth until she knew what she must do.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller | The Heartless Giant Off they went a grey dash, a day and a night and a morning, until they came at last to a strange garden full of statues. Stone men. Stone women. Stone soldiers.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson's The Storyteller : Greek Myths | Orpheus & Eurydice One day, Orpheus was walking in the wilderness beyond the farms, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees, when there was one sound that drew him: it came from an older tree... It was the wood nymph, Eurydice, and his music had brought her into the world of men.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Jim Henson’s The Storyteller | The Soldier and Death Off he went, the Soldier, a bright skip and a ruby whistle, a light heart and an empty sack, and walked a warm night and a bright day and came to a river. Three fat geese swam here, their proud armada skimming the water. The Soldier took out his sack and loosened the cord at its neck. “Hoy! Geese!” he shouted. “Hoy! Get in my sack!” And with this the geese flapped, scrambled, and flocked to the sack, one after the other. The Soldier was astounded. He was delighted.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

The Princess made her home high in the hollow of an old dead tree and was silent while weeks and weeks went by. Then one day, a young Prince, far from home and wandering in the forest, stumbled across a stream. He bent down into the flowing brook to quench his thirst and, as he cupped his hands in the sparkling water, a delicate handkerchief of finest lace swept past him. The Prince reached and caught it, then craned his head upstream to seek its owner. He could see no one from where he was and, curious, he set off following the sinuous course. Eventually, he came to a place where the stream widened into a small pond, and there, washing her clothes, was the Princess. The Prince called out to her, waving her handkerchief. At this the Princess, startled and confused, hurried away into the thick of the forest. The Prince pursued her until he came to the tree into which she had disappeared. He thought she must be a spirit or a fairy or enchanted. Her bright eyes flashed at him but she would not reply as he questioned her. At length, settling on the ground beside her, he took out his food and offered it to her and she was famished and had some and soon he set off talking again: of his past, his present, and his plans; and all the while he was thinking: what eyes! All the while he was thinking: to kiss that mouth! So taken was he that he quite forgot what he was saying and blushed and laughed and blushed and the Princess smiled, her first smile in months, a smile that wrapped all the way around her heart and his heart and squeezed them tight together. And the handsome young Prince came back every day for a week and they practised the smile until it was ready for him before he arrived, and soon he gave up speaking too and they were content simply to sit and hug on that smile. Until one day he could not contain his thoughts and said them all: ‘Love,’ he said, and ‘Marriage’ and ‘Always’ and ‘Ever,’ and the Princess came out from the tree and they kissed and that was that. — The Three Ravens, based on the German folktale ‘The Six Swans’ by The Grimm Brothers, retold by Anthony Minghella.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Hans found the Princess sitting at the window of her chamber, hair streaming down, coiling through the open shutters, as if her soul were contained in the auburn tresses and sought to escape. He walked into the room and she jumped up. Jumped up before her betrothed. Her father had not exaggerated. She was promised to a monster. And yet, when the creature spoke, his voice was the voice she had always imagined her husband would possess, a voice of woodwind, of dark notes, a true voice. “Do you know of me, Princess?” the voice asked. “I do, sir,” she replied. “You saved my father and he owes you his life.” Hans nodded. “But do you know of his promise to me?” he demanded. “He promised you the first thing to greet him on his return.” She looked at the blue, blue eyes, the pointy nose, the carpet of quills. “I am yours, sir, to do with what you will.” The quills bristled, the blue eyes sparked and flinted. “Then, I claim you for my bride,” he said. “I want you to come and live with me in the forest. I want you for my Princess of Sweetness and Cherry Pie. I want to catch you up and sing to you and snoodle you and hug you to bits. I want you to love me.” A single tear crept down the Princess’s sweet cheek. “Then, so be it,” she whispered. “Do you find me very ugly?” asked her husband-to-be. “Not so ugly as going back on a promise,” she declared and felt the tear slide from her face to the floor. — Hans My Hedgehog, by The Grimm Brothers, retold by Anthony Minghella. Artwork by Darcy May.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

There was a time when I myself was forced to beg. A bad time, a cold time, when a great hunger was on the land and only the rich had bellies. And so it was that one morning I found myself in sight of a palace and in smell of a kitchen, drawn there by the sweet, sweet aroma of roasting. I came to a door and stood deciphering each strand of scent… Duck, goose, lamb. Mmmmm. And just about to knock was I when a raggedy character came flying through the air, launched by the boot of a round, red Cook. “Out!” bellowed the Cook to the bewildered Beggar. “And stay out of my kitchen!” Then his hot face swiveled and noticed me, no Prince myself, in my torn green cloak of patches and my cheeks sucked in with hunger. Before he could bring his boot to my own threadbare pants, I introduced myself with a flourish. “I have boiled men for wasting my time” was the Cook’s inhospitable reply. I thought on this and then remarked on the wisdom of such a measure. I did not want to waste his time, I told him humbly. I simply wanted a little water to make myself some soup. And with that I scratched a stone free from the snow-covered ground and held it up. Stone soup, I explained, polishing it on my cloak. The Cook puffed out his cheeks. “You can’t make soup out of a stone,” he scoffed. “Oh, yes, I can,” I said, smiling, and winked at the poor Beggar on the ground beside me. Then, bowing and scraping, I plunged into the steamy delights of the kitchen, the Beggar slipping in with me, and while the Cook filled a large pot with cold water, I beamed to the old Beggar. “Master Cook is a fool,” I whispered. “He cuts the meat and others eat,” and we watched as the pot of water was placed over the scorching flames. “Now!” boomed the Cook, his face shining like an apple, his head wobbling pompously. “Let’s see this stone soup.” With great ceremony, I dropped the stone into the water and put my ear to it, listening carefully, the Cook watching my every move with a suspicious glare. Then, satisfied, I straightened up and folded my arms. “How long is this going to take?” demanded the Cook. “Not long,” I assured him. “About an hour.” With that, I stuck a finger into the pot and sucked on the liquid. “Marvelous water,” I pronounced it. And so it was that our friend the Cook stood over me for an hour as the soup boiled, while one by one all the kitchen boys gathered around us to see this marvelous recipe, a simple stone in bubbling water. “Well?” the Cook bellowed as the hour was up. I stirred the water with a ladle and sipped. “Mmmmmmmm,” I murmured, wearing my best smile, and “Oh, yes!” The Cook wanted a taste. “Do you have a little salt?” I inquired politely. “Salt!” roared the Cook to his minions, who scattered, then returned with a dish. In went the salt, in went my ladle. “Mmmmmmmmm!” I reported, licking my lips. “Almost perfect.” Then I allowed the smallest flicker of misgiving to cross my eyes, sharing my doubts, one cook to the other, as he waited for a sip. “Is there any stock? The tiniest drop?” “Stock!” and the minions were off again, and back with the juices in a jiff. And after stock I needed greens, and after greens I needed potatoes, then a carrot, then an onion. In they all went, stirred ‘round, bubbling up, my eyes darting from pot to Cook, then from Cook to Beggar, who looked on, his wise eyes twinkling with merriment. Finally came lamb, beef, a platter of best meat. The Cook shoveled it in, until I stopped him with a warning hand. “Careful!” I said gravely. “You’ll drown the soup,” and ate the last piece to prevent him from doing so. The stone soup was ready. I carried the pot to the table and ladled out three bowls, the whole kitchen following behind me. We sat, Cook, Beggar, your man, and drank it down. “Good,” pronounced the Cook, “very good!” and had a second bowl, then a third, the Beggar and I matching him spoon for spoon. “Stone soup!” he muttered between each gulp, his head shaking in disbelief. “Marvelous.” — A Story Short, from an early Celtic folktale, retold by Anthony Minghella.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

The next morning, the Troll woke Anya before the birds had begun or the light had appeared. “Arise and wakey!” he growled, shaking her, “I’m having another job for you.” And while Anya struggled to open her eyes, he set about locking a chain to her ankle, licking the two teeth which protruded from his lower lip. He dragged the sleepy girl from the house, yanking on the chain so that she could barely keep her balance, but must hop and jump behind him, the clasp biting into her flesh. “Come on, come on!” the Troll roared. “Haven’t got all daylight,” and pulled her to a pond at the back of his garden. “Observe this pond,” said the Troll, observing it. “Deep, you’d say, and you’d be right. Depth a-plenty.” He pulled out a spoon from his pocket and thrust it into her hand. “Drain it,” he ordered, his little legs rocking under the weight of his head. “Drain it with this spoon.” Anya looked at the little spoon then at the deep pond. “If I be returning back and forth and find a single drop of water… if I so much as gets my foots wet…” The Troll stabbed one of his three fingers at her, menacingly, “then heaven help me!” With that, he tied Anya’s chain to a tree and skipped off with a cruel giggle. Alone, Anya bent to the pond and dipped in the spoon. As she retrieved it, the water poured through a hundred tiny holes. For the Troll had given her a sieve for the task. Impossible! Impossible! She tried and tried and cried and cried until her tears raised the level of the pond more quickly than the sieved spoon could reduce it. She slumped back on the bank in despair, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. When she opened them, she was face-to-face with the great white Lion. “Oh, Lion!” she cried, “My spoon is full of holes, my tears increase the water.” “You’re tired, my little,” whispered the Lion. “Lie down and sleep a while.” Anya shook her head. “I dare not,” she told him, “for my lord, the Troll, will beat me with his terrible stick.” But even as she spoke, she felt so drowsy, so heavy, so pillow and blanket, that she lay back in the grass and in a moment was asleep. And in her dream the Lion pad-padded to the pond and drank and drank and drank his fill until he had drunk it dry. When she woke, Anya saw a hole where once there had been water and she could not believe it. “Oh, Lion!” she cried, but again he had disappeared. — The True Bride, based on the German fairytale by The Grimm Brothers, retold by Anthony Minghella. Artwork by Darcy May.

[the-storytellers-inglenook]

Fearnot ~ The Boy Who Set Out to Find Out What Fear Was.

[prissnukem]