Toren the Teller's Tale

By Shevi Arnold

Have you ever been swept away by a story? If you have, you know the magic of the storyteller--and you know that magic is real. That is seventeen-year-old Toren's magic . . . but is she brave enough to accept the power that lies within her?

When Toren returns home, her little sister, Noa, is full of questions. Noa demands to know why Toren wakes only at night; what causes her almost constant pain; and above all, why, after completing her apprenticeship, she has decided not to become a wizard.

To answer, Toren weaves a tale about a journey that leads her to discover the greatest source of magic in her world--herself. It is a revelation that comes at a high price. Through her darkest years, Toren finds solace and strength in the stories she tells. But her greatest tale is not yet finished. Together with Noa, she sets out on a new adventure. And in the end, she must choose: will she continue to cling to her dream of an ordinary life, or will she dare to let her own magic shine?

TOREN: THE TELLER’S TALE is more than an inspirational fantasy. It is a philosophical tale about the enchantment of literature, because in Toren's parallel world there is no greater power than the magic of storytelling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shevi Arnold
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781936242146

Shevi Arnold

Until her return to the United States in 2001, Shevi Arnold was the consumer columnist for Israel’s oldest and largest English language daily, The Jerusalem Post. She also worked for that paper as an arts-and-entertainment writer specializing in comedy and children’s entertainment. For four years she edited a comics magazine, and for seven years she was the cartoonist and illustrator of a religious newsweekly. Her educational background includes degrees in English Literature and Theater Studies, as well as a teacher’s certificate. Like Dan and Sandy, she loves to read, but she loves to write, and share her stories with readers, even more. Shevi Arnold now lives in a beautiful little town in New Jersey with her husband and two children. You can find her website at http://www.shevistories.com.

Book preview

Toren changed my life.

I don’t know how old I was when I first became a storyteller, but I do know I was quite young. I remember telling my youngest cousins and my older cousins’ children stories when I was about ten. I loved the excited look on their faces, how my stories drew them in and captured their imaginations and their hearts. I also remember telling stories to the younger children on the van ride to school. I particularly remember one little girl who would ask over and over, What happened next? It was such a delightful question to answer.

As I was growing up, I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I read encyclopedias and science magazines, because I was very curious, and couldn’t read enough about this world. I also read a ton of comic books, particular collections of Peanuts strips. My favorite books were funny, fantasy or science fiction. I loved the works of Peter S. Beagle, Ursula Le Guin, Anne McCaffrey, J.R.R. Tolkien, Gene Wolfe, Harlan Ellison, Douglas Adams, Isaac Asimov, Orson Scott Card, John Barth, Thomas Pynchon, and so many others.

But while I enjoyed these books, I kept looking for one about a girl like me, a girl who loved stories and loved telling them. I knew stories were magical, perhaps even the most magical thing we can experience. I couldn’t possibly be the only one who felt like this, could I? And who better to write about this particular magic than a storyteller? But the more I looked, the more I realized the book I so desperately wanted to read did not exist. No one had written it yet.

When I was seventeen, my family had moved to Jerusalem, and I had just started college. That first year I studied Hebrew and a variety of other subjects, like Advanced Algebra, Political Science, and Computer Programming. My plan was to eventually study filmmaking, because I wanted to be a director.

You see, I didn’t just love storytelling on paper: I loved it in all its forms, and I thought that movies were the best way to tell a story, because they brought so many of those forms together: with and without words, visually, and through music. I studied the movies I enjoyed, and I tried to figure out how they worked. I still read books, but I read them mostly for entertainment. These were books of my choosing, books that made me laugh and cry, think and feel.

This one night, a book had kept me up late. It was sometime after midnight that my head felt heavy, and I laid it down on the open pages. I looked out of the window of my room. The moon was big and full, far above the horizon. I stood up and walked to the window. I leaned on the windowsill and thought again about that book that didn’t exist, the one about a storytelling girl like me. I closed my eyes and made a wish.

When I turned around, a young woman was standing behind me in my room.

Although she was short, there was something about her that seemed larger than life. She was amazingly beautiful, with her long, dark, curly hair, and her olive-colored, almond-shaped eyes. She was wearing a garment the likes of which I had never seen before.

I asked her for her name.

She said something, but it wasn’t in English. I didn’t understand.

I shook my head.

She slowly reached up and touched my forehead with the tips of her fingers. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she gave off a golden glow. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

Thank you, she said, with a voice that reminded me of honey. You have taught me your language. Both of them, in fact.

I felt like I should apologize. I’m still learning Hebrew.

And now so am I. She smiled. I understand you wanted to meet me.

I did?

A girl like you who understands the magic of stories?

I was so stunned and happy and excited I couldn’t speak.

You have taught me your language and about your world, she said. How should I repay you?

Of course, there could only be one answer to that question. Tell me your story.

I can do better than that.

Again she touched my forehead. She closed her eyes, and I closed mine. Her name was Toren, and her story flashed inside my mind. I saw, heard, smelled, tasted, and felt all of it. When she pulled her hand away, I was laughing and crying.

I was in awe.

She smiled at me and bowed her head. She looked out the window, and I followed her gaze. A part of me expected to see something magical on the other side. When I turned around again, however, she was gone.

Her story remained with me, and I treasured it. I re-experienced it whenever I was lonely or bored and wanted to be reminded of the magic of stories.

But, like everyone else, I had my life to live. I couldn’t study film, because the university only offered that as an M.A., so I studied English Literature and Theater instead. By the time I had graduated, I realized I didn’t really want to direct movies. I earned a teacher’s certificate, but I didn’t enjoy teaching. Instead I first became an editorial cartoonist, and a comic-strip magazine editor; and then I became an arts-and-entertainment writer, and a consumer columnist. I got married and had two children. I was very happy.

Unfortunately, I had to leave my job and my old life behind when my family moved to New Jersey in search of a better education for my autistic son. I didn’t know what to do. If I couldn’t write, edit, or illustrate for a newspaper or magazine, who was I? What was I?

A few months passed before I realized the answers to those questions. I was still the little girl who loved telling stories to the other children in the van on the way to school. Toren’s story had given me so much joy over the years. And I had been selfish. Somewhere in the world there had to be someone just like the girl I had been, someone who desperately needed a story about the greatest magic of all. It wasn’t just Toren’s story. It was my story, too, and the story of every storyteller who’s ever lived.

Perhaps it’s your story too.

So here it is, and I apologize for any mistakes I might have made. Alas, I don’t have Toren’s memory, so I’m not sure I’ve remembered every detail exactly right.

I also apologize for any errors I’ve made in translation. The language of Toren’s world is an amazing thing, both very simple and infinitely complex at the same time. A single word with slight variations in the way it’s pronounced can mean a variety of things. This made it particularly difficult to translate the rhymes, as well as many of the jokes. I have done my best with the skills I have.

There are some people I want to thank. First, I want to thank my husband, who has always supported my writing.

I also want to thank my former critique group, the FantasyWeavers, particularly Melinda Cordell, who read a complete early draft of this story and who is probably Toren’s biggest fan.

Last, I want to thank all my Twitter, Facebook, and SCBWI friends. Your friendship and support has meant the world to me.

This book is for all the storytellers: past, present, and future.

May you always let your magic shine!

Shevi

~~~~~~~~~~

ho are you?" Every frozen breath clawed at Noa’s lungs. Every word ached. A hand reached out in the darkness and wiped the perspiration from her forehead, but no answer came. Although it pained her to do so, Noa asked again.

Who… are you?

I helped bring you into this world, a gentle voice replied. And I want to make sure you stay in it. Promise to let me?

Noa nodded and relaxed. Before she lost consciousness again, she saw a strange, blue glow rise from her body. For a moment it hovered in the air. She felt there was something wrong with this light, something vile and sickening, something she would be glad to be rid of. The voice sang sweetly in an unfamiliar language. The blue light twisted and turned before it sped away, taking Noa’s pain with it. But the battle for her life had left her exhausted.

As the days passed, she drifted in and out of sleep. She had forgotten that she had been too weak to climb the stone stairs, and she was startled to find herself on the wood and leather couch in the sitting room. Across from her lay a stranger, a young woman in an old cedar trundle bed. Noa guessed this was her healer. Each time Noa opened her eyes, she saw the stranger sleeping, and it was only the changing lengths of the shadows on the pale stone floors and walls that marked the passing of days.

On the fourth evening Noa woke to the scent of squab, sweet onions, and dried fruits. The smell made her stomach growl and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in for what seems like an eternity. She struggled to rise, but once she stood she soon regained her balance. Carefully she crossed the shiny, almost white floor. With a quivering hand, she took a ceramic dish off the mantle and helped herself to a few spoonfuls from the iron caldron in the hearth. A jug of water waited for her on the pine table in the middle of the room. That was good. It meant she didn’t have to go into the yard to fetch water from the well behind the house. A silver plate with olive flatbread had been placed beside the jug. Noa sat, drank, ate, and felt a bit stronger. The cool of the evening air made her shiver. She folded her legs under her dress, her eyes glued to the stranger. Who was she? Noa tried once again to unravel the riddle that was her healer.

Noa guessed her to be about sixteen or seventeen. Long hair, as dark as Noa’s but not as curly, framed her pale face. The stranger rolled her slender body into a ball and pressed her eyes and mouth tightly shut. From time to time she whimpered, clutched her right leg under her blue dress, and trembled. A wooden staff, topped by something that sparkled like silver, leaned against the wall at her side.

The stranger’s leg seemed to hurt her a great deal, and she used a staff. She was probably lame. Noa always found the young woman asleep, but there must have been times when the stranger awoke, times she prepared food, probably at night. It had been night when the stranger had saved Noa’s life. Most likely, it had been night when the stranger climbed the steep, winding path up the mountainside alone. No one ever came to this house by chance. Noa’s healer must have known she was needed. But how?

A black cloak and a full sackcloth pack with leather straps rested at the stranger’s feet. Only wizards and witches wore black cloaks. Witches were expert healers, and the stranger had sung… was it a healing spell? Witches were also midwives, and what was it the stranger had said? I helped bring you into this world . . .

Noa was ten, so the young woman would have been six or seven on the day Noa was born, barely an apprentice. But no apprenticeship lasts more than eight or nine years. The healer would have to be a witch by now, and witches wore only black: black cloaks, black robes, black dresses. But the stranger’s dress was blue . . .

Noa’s jaw dropped, and her eyes widened. She shook her head. It can’t be . . .

I’m only seeing what I want to see, she thought. Yet the lines of the stranger’s face--the long nose, delicate chin and deep-set eyes with thick, dark lashes--seemed right. If only those eyes were open, then I could be certain. They’re olive green, I know they are! They have to be.

The following day Noa slept as much as she could to conserve her strength. In the late afternoon she sat down to the meal of fish and vegetables that waited for her in the caldron. And as darkness fell she lit candles. She sat on the cool stone floor on a small, wine-colored woolen carpet at the head of the trundle bed. She sat and waited and watched. The stranger cringed and whimpered, as she had before. A few hours passed before her body uncurled. Eventually the stranger stretched and sat up. She flinched when she opened her eyes and found Noa’s face almost touching hers.

Are you my Little Mother? Noa asked breathlessly. Are you my sister, Toren?

Slowly, the stranger nodded with a smile. Her eyes shined olive green in the candlelight, exactly as Noa remembered. The two held each other for a long time in silence, and tears fell down their cheeks.

You were only three when I left, Toren said softly, gently rocking Noa from side to side. I’m surprised you remember me.

How could I forget? Noa said. I cried for days when you didn’t come back. Amder told me a wizard took you away and I would never see you again.

You shouldn’t believe everything Amder says.

Noa pulled herself away from her sister’s embrace, and wiped her cheeks. But it’s true, isn’t it?You were a wizard’s apprentice, weren’t you?

Toren took a deep breath before replying. I’m not anymore. I’ve completed my seven years, and I’m glad of it.

So you’re a wizard now? Noa asked, her voice full of delight and admiration.

No," Toren replied. The word echoed off the walls and left silence in its wake.

The hope on Noa’s face quickly gave way to a frown and then close-lipped anger.But you’ve completed your apprenticeship! she cried. That means you’re now--

Toren raised her hand to stop Noa in mid-sentence. That means I’m now free to make my own choices. I don’t want to be a wizard. I never have.

But why? Noa cried. I can’t imagine anything I would want more!

Toren shook her head and let out a long sigh. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re a girl, and girls are not meant to be wizards. Or wizards’ apprentices for that matter.

Then are you a witch now? Noa asked. A girl can be a witch.

Toren shook her head again. It’s a different kind of magic, and I don’t have the training. But it doesn’t matter, because I don’t want to be a witch.

But why? Noa cried once again.

Noa, honestly . . . Toren sighed. I’ve been gone for seven years, and I’ve just brought you back from the . . . from death’s door. Do you really want to argue?

What I want, Noa said, is an explanation. What happened? Why did you decide not to become a wizard?

Toren shifted her body, reached for the staff behind her, and stood. Noa also stood and was surprised to discover her much older sister was only a little taller than her. Toren steadied her body and hobbled to the table. She kept her weight on her left side. The staff hit the stone floor with loud thuds. The sound echoed off the walls and overpowered Noa’s words. What happened to your leg?

Toren sat and ate, ignoring the question. Noa repeated it.

It’s a long story, Toren finally replied. You’ve been ill for days, and it’s late. You need your rest.

But Noa didn’t want to rest. She wanted answers, and she raised her voice in frustration. If I go to bed now, you’ll be asleep when I wake up!You always sleep during the day, don’t you? And you’re always in pain, aren’t you? I don’t care if it’s a long story; I want to know why. Tell me!

Toren mumbled something and ran her fingers through her long hair. Very well, if you must have it. I’ll tell part of my tale . . . Noa cheered and clapped. . . . but only if you agree that the moment you yawn or show any sign of tiring, we stop.

Noa nodded. She hugged and kissed her sister and then sat on the couch. Toren finished her meal, pulled a cedar and leather chair closer, and sat. She glanced through the parchment window. Her finger rose to make a little circle in the air, as if she were trying to trace the waxing moon in the starry sky. In another night or two, it would be full. She blinked twice. What was the look on her face? Was it sadness? Pain? Fear? Noa could not tell.

Toren closed her eyes. So, you want to know who I am, she said. "It seems a simple question: ‘Who are you?’And we always give it such simple answers. ‘Who am I?I’m Toren. I’m Noa. I’m the eldest daughter of Omri the vintner. I’m the youngest…’Of course, these answers aren’t true. They are simple, quick and easy, while the truth is none of those things. Even a mouse has a story as grand as the sky.

You want to know why I’m not a wizard. The simple answer is I do not wish to be. But you want the truth: you want to hear my tale. Where should I begin?On top of a pile of empty crates in Pardessia’s central square is as good a place as any…

-*-

Fantastic riches! I shouted down from my wobbly perch, my hands cupped around my mouth. Eternal life! The love of the most beautiful maid in the world! Come taste what I have to sell! I guarantee you’ll like what you see!

The people stopped what they were doing and gathered around, but there was one whose attention I desired above the rest. The storyteller stood off to the side in his traditional uniform, a cloak of patches with each patch representing one of his tales. He pretended to look at some leather goods on a stand. Yet I could tell I had the foreigner’s sunburnt ear, and that was enough.

See here, girl, one merchant shouted back. What are you going on about?

I’m talking about the most tantalizing offer ever made in this market! I replied. Not ‘onions, two for a copper!’Not ‘best baked bread in all the land!’A man stood on this very spot not so long ago and shouted, ‘Wealth beyond compare! Love! Life!What would you be willing to pay to make your dreams come true?’

A farmer standing below me turned his head and licked his lips.

And this was not any man, I sat down on the top crate and continued. This was a wizard. He was dressed all in darkness like the night. He opened his coat, and on his tunic was a mirror, sparkling with the promises of wishes that had never been fulfilled. One man saw a woman he had loved who had married another. An old hag saw herself young and beautiful. A peasant saw himself rich and powerful beyond belief.And all this was offered by one who seemed to have the power to breathe life into their grandest fantasies!

A donkey ceased its braying and cocked its ears. The voices of nearby sellers and workers slowly quieted. Eager faces of every size and shade, from creamy pink to cinnamon brown, gathered around. Here was a man with a handsomely curled, dark mustache. There was a ginger-haired boy and holding him was a woman with straight, gray locks gathered into a tight bun under a white lace scarf. Peasants and their children in homespun linens and woolens in the browns, greens and dull oranges of the earth mixed with merchants and aristocrats in rich, colorful silks, velvets, and brocades glittering with gold. Two black and red lacey fans stopped fluttering, like butterflies holding their breath. A group of soldiers clad in leather armor and with quivers on their backs stopped their conversation. They all leaned in a bit closer. I had them on my hook, and I only needed to pull them ever so gently in.

My heart raced with such excitement the sound of it drowned out the grumblings of my empty stomach. It was a little over seven years ago, and I still remember every detail. Yet the child I was then seems a stranger to me now. I was ten years old, little sister, the same age you are now. And I was desperate. Our parents were dead. The grapes Shennen, Din and I had worked so hard to grow were destroyed by summer storms. Our family was on the verge of ruin.

It was our eldest brother Amder’s idea to take me to Pardessia to sell some of our family’s belongings and help him find an apprenticeship at the autumnal fair. He wanted an apprenticeship that would take him as far from the rest of us as possible. As the eldest boy, he was the head of our family, but Amder never wanted to grow grapes or make wine. The life of a vintner’s son was not for him.

I remember when he was little, how he would pick up branches and pretend they were swords. He wanted to be a soldier, to fight battles and find glory in war. He did not want to be the eldest son in charge of three younger sisters, a younger brother, and a vineyard. He never did a drop of work here, not if he could help it. The only person Amder ever wanted to care for was himself. But Amder was the eldest and a boy, and so--after father died--I had to obey him. He told me he wanted me to help him find an apprenticeship, and so I did my best.

After summer had passed, merchants waited as always for the first full moon of autumn for the fair. They came from great distances to sell their wares and taste the best the vineyards of our region had to offer. Amder was excited to meet so many men from distant lands, the farther away the better. He approached every soldier, every foreign merchant, every sailor. He begged them to please take him as an apprentice, and I did my best to point out the reasons they should. They were all lies, of course. Amder was lazy and worthless, and I knew it. But it didn’t matter. No one was willing to take him because of his age.Amder was twelve, about five years too old for any apprenticeship.

A few said they would be willing to take him . . . if they were paid. Amder tried to convince me it was a good idea, but we didn’t have the money. Money for an apprenticeship, can you imagine? We didn’t even have money for food. I tried to get him to approach the local craftsmen--the tanners, masons, and the like--but he would have none of that. He didn’t like anything about our home and family, and Pardessia was too close. He wanted an apprenticeship that would take him so far away he would never see any of us again.

When he showed interest in the unsuccessful storyteller, I devised a plan. Amder couldn’t tell a story if he needed one to save himself from a whipping, but I could. As a girl, I could not become a storyteller’s apprentice. Storytellers--real storytellers--are all men, and men are only allowed to have boy apprentices, not girls. A girl could be an apprentice to a woman, like a seamstress for example, but Amder was the one who wanted an apprenticeship, not I. All I had to do was tell a story well and then convince the storyteller that Amder could do it just as well if not better. I asked Amder what he thought, and he liked the idea.

Our father used to delight us with the most wonderful stories, and this one, I thought, would be perfect for our purpose. I went over it in my mind. It originally dealt with a potter, but I could see the potter’s shop across the way. If he heard me, he might dispute it, and the illusion would be ruined. I therefore changed the main character to a wine merchant.

Now I heard this tale from a vintner who stood right where you are standing, yes, you. I pointed at one young man, who smiled and pointed at himself, proud to have been included in my tale. "He looked in the mirror and saw only himself and his family. For what else was for there for him to see?He had everything he wanted: a beautiful, loving wife and healthy, clever children; a grand home; a vineyard of his own; and a thriving business. As far as he knew, he lacked nothing.

"But he was curious. Surely, the price for such grand commodities must be enormous. And how could the wizard grant eternal life?What if the buyer died and proved to be mortal after all?Would he get his money back?

"The curious vintner shouted back at the wizard, ‘How much?’

"The wizard replied, ‘That depends on what item is purchased and by whom.’

"’I’d like to buy that,’ said a poor farmer in a dirty tunic and leggings. He pointed at the vision he perceived in the mirror and licked his lips.

"‘Then step inside,’ said the wizard. He closed his coat and lifted the flap to his tent with a flourish of his hand. The farmer walked, no, he skipped inside. The enchanter followed him and tied the flap shut.

"But the vintner wasn’t the only one who was curious. Every man and woman pushed and jostled to hear what was happening inside. But no one could. Then someone shoved the wine merchant a little too hard, and he found himself inside the tent on the ground at the wizard’s feet.

"The wizard looked down at him. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.

"‘I don’t want anything,’ the vintner replied, standing up and wiping the dust from his jacket.

"‘Then you may go.’

The wizard opened the flap once more. The would-be customers on the other side, who had pressed their ears to it, suddenly fell on top of one another without the flap to steady their balance. Still they each pretended as if they had not been listening.

"‘Wait!’ cried the vintner. ‘There is one thing I want.’

"The wizard closed the flap again.

"‘Well, what is it?’

"‘I was first,’ the farmer called out from a low stool by a small table in the middle of the tent.

"‘I want to know how you are going to give this man what he wants, if at all,’ said the vintner, ‘and how much it will cost him.’

"The wizard stroked his long, white beard and thought. ‘We have agreed to the price of one chicken. As for the rest, you will have to pay me.’

‘How much?’ the vintner asked.

Here I stopped and reminded Amder to pass his cap around. Several people put in no money at all, so I placed my hands on my hips and called out to them. "If you don’t really want to know the answer, then I see there is no point in my continuing. We are talking about a wizard’s secret, after all. Surely, you would be willing to pay something for that?"

Only after most of the crowd had dropped at least one coin into the cap, did I continue.

"The wizard considered the question for a moment.

"‘It will cost you some time,’ he replied, ‘plus whatever you deem to be fair once you have learned what it is you wish to know.’

"The vintner agreed.

"The wizard told him to stand by the entrance of the tent and remain silent until the wizard had finished with his patron.Then the wizard sat by the table and lit a candle. He asked the farmer to look into the flickering flame.

"The wizard continued to talk in a soft, melodic voice until the farmer fell under a trance. The wizard told the farmer to close his eyes, and the farmer obeyed. The wizard asked the farmer questions about his life. The farmer answered honestly. The farmer’s wife was deformed. His children were stupid and sickly. They complained all the time. He hated farming and could never grow enough. His cramped house was as hot as an oven in the summer, and cold and damp all winter long. He had bought out his plot of land from his lord and deeply regretted that decision.

"The wizard told the farmer that from that day onward, he would see everything in his life differently. The farmer would look at his wife, children, home, and work with love and hope. The farmer’s wife was the most beautiful woman in the world, and she loved him dearly, whether she told him so or not. His children were handsome and clever, and the farmer would do his best to make sure they knew that and to bring joy into their lives. Working on his plot of land would be his greatest pleasure. The soil would feel like gold in his fingers, and it would thrive under his skillful hand. He would marvel at the snow in the winter, the rain in the spring and autumn, and the sunshine in the summer. Never again would heat or cold be a bother to him. Finally, the wizard told him the moment the farmer returned home he was to forget everything that had taken place. The farmer would forget the tent, forget the wizard, and forget the deal they had made. Nevertheless, the farmer would continue to see his family and his world with love for the rest of his days.

When the farmer awoke from his trance, he was all smiles. He thanked the wizard profusely and continued to thank him as he skipped outside. The wizard closed the flap after him and held out his hand for payment from the wine merchant. But the vintner was angry--

As well he should be! shouted one of my listeners. The wizard tricked him!

Others agreed.

That is exactly what the wine merchant thought, I replied.

"’This whole thing has been a lie,’ said the vintner. ‘That man didn’t get anything. You tricked him!’

"The wizard didn’t like the vintner’s tone.

"‘The farmer got exactly what he wanted,’ the wizard said.

"‘Riches?’ scoffed the vintner. ‘A beautiful wife?’

‘No,’ answered the wizard. Happiness. People only think they want wealth and love, but all they ever truly want is happiness. The more wealth a man gets, the more he wants and the worse he feels. The more desirable his wife, the more suspicious of other men he becomes. It eats away at him. Happiness is all a person truly wants.’

"‘But that man’s happiness is based on a lie!’ the vintner cried.

"‘No, it’s not,’ the wizard replied. ‘It is based on a new perception of the truth. Who are you to say his new truth is not better than his old one?It brings him happiness, so it is better.’

"‘But it isn’t the truth!’ the vintner protested. He shook his head. Then he removed two copper coins from his pouch and held them out.

But the wizard refused to take them. "‘I will not be paid until I know the customer is satisfied,’ he said.

"The vintner shrugged, returned the coins to his pouch, and was about to leave when the wizard asked, ‘Don’t you think it odd that you were the only one who didn’t see anything in my magic mirror?’

"‘No,’ the vintner replied. ‘I have everything any man could possibly want.’

"‘Or at least you think you do.’

"The vintner had started to leave, but he stopped, slowly turned around, and stared at the wizard.

"‘What if I were to tell you,’ said the wizard, ‘that you were in my tent before. And all the contentment you find in your life today you owe to me?’

"The vintner laughed at the suggestion and hurried out of the tent on his way home.

‘Surely,’ he told himself, ‘if I had seen that wizard before, I would have remembered!

"But then he recalled how the wizard had told the farmer that after he returned home he would forget. Could the wizard have spoken the truth?Could the vintner have bought the illusion of happiness and not remembered it?

"Upon his return, the vintner looked at his home and saw how fine it was. It seemed to glow with warmth in the light of the setting sun. His wife and daughter greeted him with hugs, while his infant son sat on the bed and smiled at them.

"Are they really as beautiful as I think they are? he wondered.

"He looked into his wife’s face and tried to find some ugliness. Was that a wrinkle?Was there a vein sticking out of her forehead?Were her freckles unattractive?

"Doubts so plagued him, he couldn’t sleep. Midnight had already passed when he returned to this spot . . . but the tent he looked for wasn’t here. He sat on the potter’s doorstep and began to weep. Eventually he cried himself to sleep. It was a little before daybreak when an old, wrinkled hand on his shoulder awakened him. It was the wizard.

"‘Please,’ the vintner begged. ‘Please, tell me. Is it true what you said?Is my wife really beautiful, or have I been living a lie?’

"‘Do you want to know the truth . . .’ asked the wizard ‘… or the lie?’

"The merchant raised his open palms and shrugged.

"‘I told you,’ the wizard said, ‘I never leave a customer unsatisfied.’

"The wizard sat on the doorstep at the vintner’s side and put his arm around him.

"‘Your wife is beautiful,’ the wizard whispered. ‘Your children are bright and healthy. Your home is magnificent, and nothing could give you more satisfaction than to taste your sweet wine and know you are the one who made it.’

The vintner smiled behind his tears, reached into his pouch with a shaking hand, and pulled out two silver coins. And since that day he has been a happy man. Although sometimes he wonders--and often he wishes--he had never asked to know . . . the wizard’s secret.

The audience greeted the end of the story with sighs of pleasure, smiles, and applause. I smiled, too, stood, and took a bow, careful not to lose my balance. A few of my listeners tossed more coins into the cap in Amder’s greedy hands. One man, however, said he didn’t understand the ending, and I could hear a friend try to explain it to him as they walked away.

The professional storyteller remained stuck to the place where he had stood during my entire performance. I climbed down and asked him what he thought. He said he was impressed, so I continued to the next part of my plan.

My brother here, I said, pulling Amder over, is twice the storyteller I am. He happens to be looking for an apprenticeship. I’m sure if you were to take him on, he could help make you a small fortune in no time.

The teller looked inside Amder’s cap, and his mouth watered at the sight of all the copper there. Amder jingled the coins for added effect, a wide grin on his face. The teller, however, shook his head.

I have no need for an apprentice, he said. And I can’t afford to keep one. Besides, you may have convinced me you know how to spin a tale, but I don’t know about him.

What do you mean? asked Amder. "Of course I can!She’s only a girl. I can do anything better than a girl can."

The teller’s eyes narrowed. I don’t know about that. If there are two things I know girls are good at, they are spinning thread and telling tales. You ask them the simplest question in the world and out pops this long yarn. Trying to get the truth out of a woman is nearly impossible, but they tell tales as easily as they breathe.

I thought to protest, to say it wasn’t true. But how could I? He was right, at least about me at that moment. I was trying to deceive him. What choice did I have? Amder wanted an apprenticeship, and I could not think of any other way to help him get one. We did our best to change the storyteller’s mind, but he remained unconvinced. Amder was still talking to him, when I noticed a shadow that almost covered the three of us. I looked to see where it came from.

A giant of a man with wide shoulders, reddish-blond hair, and a neatly trimmed beard stood in front of the sun. He wore a black robe covered by a black cloak with a hood. His low voice rumbled like an approaching thunderstorm.

Do I understand, he said, that you wish to sell an apprenticeship?

~~~~~~~~~~

’ll give you five gold coins," said the man cloaked in shadow.

I could not believe my ears. Why, it was enough to buy cartloads of food, plus the carts, and even a team of the finest horses and a stable or two to keep them in! Five gold coins, he said. Not five silver. Not five gold pieces, but five whole, gold coins! And for what? For an apprenticeship from Amder, possibly the most worthless person I have ever known. It was incredible. I stood there with my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open. Amder, on the other hand, didn’t seem the least surprised. He grinned, crossed his arms, and turned to the storyteller for a counter offer.

Too rich for my blood, said the latter as he darted away.

The man in black remained and waited for our answer. Unsure of how to address him, I asked, What does Sir do for a living?

Sir? he scoffed. I’m not a knight or a baronet. I’m a wizard, of course. Haven’t you ever seen a wizard?

I shook my head and blushed, embarrassed by my lack of knowledge. Before that day I had thought of wizards as thin, wizened, old men. It had never occurred to me that one could be as young as our father had been and built as strong as a fortress.

But Amder did not share my uneasiness. He stepped right in front of the wizard and asked, Do wizards travel?

The wizard bent close to our brother’s face and spoke quietly, as if to let Amder in on a precious secret.

I do, the wizard said. "There are some wizards who are employed by royalty or noblemen in castles, but I’m not one of them. I work only for myself and go wherever I please. I’ve worked for princes