It was the boy, Eli, who thought to go to The Storyteller. He had been thinking about it for some time actually, turning the idea over in his head like the tide washing over a stone, over and over until it took on a round, full shape. He had been thinking about it for so long in fact that he was surprised when he said it out loud. But he did. They were standing by the lake, skipping rocks, and he just blurted it out. “We should go to the Storyteller.”

The girl, Gemma, looked up at him, her big blue eyes wide with surprise and worry, her arm still poised in mid air with a skipping stone in-between her fingers. “Why?”

“Because she might be able to tell us what we want to know.” He said, as though she were somehow stupid or thoughtless for not coming to that conclusion on her own. Gemma shook her head mutely, dropping her arm back down to her side. He sighed. “Gemma, if she can help us... do you have any other ideas?”

“No. B-but The Storyteller, Eli? The other kids act like she's a ghost or something.”

“Don't be stupid Gemma. She's not a ghost. You've seen her in town. She goes to the council meetings.”

Gemma shook her head again, stubborn in her fright. “I've only seen her from behind. Anybody can look regular from behind. She might be a ghost when you look at her from the front.”

“A ghost who's only a ghost when you look at her from the front? That's ridiculous. Besides ghosts aren't real Gem. You know that. Don't act like such a kid.” Eli said, his eyebrows drawing together almost fiercely.

“But she's not safe Eli.” Gemma insisted, more softly this time.

His frown darkened even more. “Is anything safe anymore?” She didn't respond, only looked at him sadly. “Exactly.” He stooped and picked up another flat stone, then sent it skimming over the water's surface. “She might be our only chance to find out what really happened.”

“Why would she even know anything about it though?” Gemma protested.

“Because she's The Storyteller. She knows everything.” Eli responded. He turned and faced her, his face suddenly deadly serious. “Don't you want to find out Gemma? Aren't you tired of guessing? Wondering if it was our fault?”

Gemma bit her lip. For a moment she looked near tears. “It wasn't our fault.”

“No,” Eli shoved his hands in his pockets, “it wasn't.”

They stared at eachother for a long minute before Gemma bent and found another flat stone. She flicked her wrist and it bounced over the water. One...two...three...four times. One more than Eli's last try. She smiled. Then she sighed. And then she nodded. “Fine. We'll go tonight.”

 

…............................................

 

The Storyteller's house was dark when they got there. It looked old and dingy, but not oppressive. The street itself was abandoned. Not even a car in sight. For some reason Eli found this comforting. Gemma did not.

“No one will see us go in Eli.” She quivered. “What if we don't come out?”

“We'll come out. Don't be a total twit, Gemma.” Eli grabbed her arm and tugged her towards the door.

“What if she won't see us?” Gemma said as they stood in front of the door. It was painted the same off-white color as the rest of the house, with a slightly tarnished silver knocker in the middle. “What will we do then?”

“Then we'll figure something else out.” Eli raised his hand to the knocker, but Gemma gripped his wrist suddenly, stopping him.

“What if she tells us that he was a traitor?” The statement is phrased like a question, but he knew she was not really asking him. She was warning him, trying to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment and shame.

He yanked his arm away. “She won't, Gemma. He wasn't.” The words came out harsher than he had intended, but she just nodded and looked away. He felt his stomach clench at her uncertainty, but pushed the feeling back down deep inside of him. It was not her fault. She didn't remember him. She was too young. The only thing she remembered was the soldiers. With the guns. Telling them their father was a rebel. Trying to overthrow the government. Betraying his country men. His friends. Even his children.

He grabbed the knocker and slammed it against the wood of the door three times.

“Eli!” Gemma hissed, glancing around. “The soldiers.”

“Let them come.” He said, a little roughly. “We have every right to be here.”

Gemma shook her head. “Maybe so. But we don't exactly have a good reason. At least not from their perspective.”

He shrugged away her concern. “We're fine.”

“Yeah, that's all well and good until a Lieutenant is sticking a gun in your fac- oooh! Eli! It's opening!”

“The door?” Eli said drily. “Yes, I can see that.” But even as he said the words he felt the air catch in his chest. Gemma shrank back, but he stared steadily as the door opened, willing himself not to look away and.... there she was.

She was young. That surprised him. Everytime he had seen her before she had been wrapped up in a gray cloak, even in the summer months, and guarded by a soldier. He had never realized that she looked so... normal.

She looked to be about in her early twenties. Certainly not much older than that to be sure. She had honey colored hair that she wore pulled back in a French braid (which didn't suit her) and bright green eyes. She wore all black clothing, which accentuated her thin frame but also made her skin look too pale, as though she were sick. He could understand now why people thought she looked like a ghost. As real and human as she so obviously was there was something about her. A bright, shimmery quality, as though if you tried too hard to make sure her feet were always on the ground she would start to ripple at the edges, like nothing more than a clever illusion. He gulped. Somehow the fact that she didn't look like much made her more intimidating. He didn't know how that was possible.

“Hello.” He was surprised that Gemma had spoken first. She was still standing behind him, looking guarded, but she no longer looked so petrified with fear.

“Hi.” The Storyteller looked back and forth between them. “Can I help you?”

“W-we need a story.” He hated his voice for cracking. Oh, how he hated it.

She looked confused, then mildly amused. “A story? Well I know an interesting one about the Three Billy Goats Gruff...”

“We need a story about our father.” Gemma spoke up again. She sounded oddly desperate, and it suddenly occurred to Eli that this meant just as much to her as it did to him. That reassured him somehow. Gave him the courage to speak up.

Her brow furrowed. “I'm not sure I know who your father is. Are you su-”

“He was a Wordsmith.” The words were out before Eli could stop them.

The Storyteller's eyes widened. She glanced around quickly, then lowered her voice, speaking suddenly in a rushed, urgent tone. “Tell me. What was his name?”

Eli felt his chest tighten. “Maximus. Maximus Osley.”

“Max?” She swallowed. Hard. Then she grabbed their hands. “Come inside. Now.”

 

 

…............................................

 

“Please, don't mind the mess. I just don't usually have... guests.” The Storyteller moved aside a pile of papers, and gestured for Eli and Gemma to sit on the faded loveseat in her living room.
“What is all this?” Gemma asked. She picked up a piece of paper at random and began to read from it. “'That day on the cliffs was one of the happiest of my life. I was so high up, high above anything bad that had ever happened to me. And he was there. His smile shining brighter than the sun over our heads. When we stood on the edge of the bluff and looked out over the world, our world, I could see everything. A thousand stories intermingled in the landscape, like the lifeblood of the universe, coming and going from every corner of every galaxy, spelling out the truth of who we were and what I wanted and when he kissed me-'”

“That is private.” The Storyteller said shortly, taking the paper from her.

“Is that one of your stories?” Gemma didn't wait for an answer. “You're good.”

She laughed wryly. “Thanks.”

Gemma quirked an eyebrow. “How do you do it?”

Eli stared at his sister. Who would have thought not fifteen minutes ago Gemma was terrified to even set eyes on this woman. “Gemma, hush.”

“No it's alright.” The Storyteller paused. “I guess it's, uh, life experience. Life experience makes for better stories. Even if the experiences aren't always pleasant while you're having them.”

She laughed again, a tad less bitterly this time. “Or at least, that's what someone once told me.”

“My father-” Eli interrupted, without meaning to. He couldn't help it. He was close now. He could feel it. He was one story away from knowing the truth.

The Storyteller's smile faded. “Right.” She walked around the room a couple of times, continuing to straighten things. Then she looked at them for a moment, rubbing her palms on her pants as though they were sweating. The action surprised Eli. He had expected The Storyteller to be many things, but nervous was not among them.

Finally, she came and sat down across from them in an equally faded armchair. “I don't know your Father's story. Or at least, not all of it.”

“That's alright.” Eli rushed to reassure her. “Anything you know would be helpful.”

She held up a hand to stop him. “First, how old are you? And what are your names? Before I tell you this story we should probably at least be on a first name basis.”

Gemma answered first. “I'm Gemma. I'm twelve.”

“Eli.” Eli said shortly. “I'm fourteen.”

“Gemma and Eli.” She said thoughtfully. “You're young.”

“So are you.” Eli said before he thought.

The Storyteller looked surprised, then laughed. “True. But I was older than you when... during this story I'm about to tell you.” She leaned forward, and they did the same. “Before I begin you should know a couple of things. Number one. This is a dangerous story. Once you know the details of it there are people out there who will wish you were dead.”

Gemma made a small noise. Eli turned to look at her, but she was nodding. Her face was very pale, but she was nodding. He reached over and squeezed her hand.

The Storyteller watched them carefully as if gauging their reactions. “Number two. After tonight, we will never speak directly of this again. I would like for everything go on as if this night never happened. You will hear things tonight that you will not forget, but you must pretend that you do not know them. It will make your lives easier. Some day, when you are older, you may be able to act on what you hear tonight. But not now. Not while you're so young. Do you understand me?” Her eyes bored into Eli's. He felt his palms begin to sweat. He nodded.

“Number 3,” she continued, “I will not tell you your father's story.” Eli began to protest, but she shook her head. “I have no right to that story. There are too many details that I do not know. It would not be fair to him to tell you a shortened version of his story. He deserved a full story. But I will tell you my story. And hidden beneath my story is your father's. And the rebel's story. And... your story.” She took a deep breath. “I won't lie to you. This is not a pretty tale. You will have to hear about some things that no child should have to...” she trailed off suddenly, her voice choked with emotion.

“Then why are you telling us?” Eli asked.

The Storyteller met his gaze. Her eyes, shiny with unshed tears, were such a dazzling shade of green he had to catch his breath. “Because this story is your air. And the blood in your veins. And your inheritance. And your future. I won't deprive you of that.”

Silence fell. The Storyteller took a deep breath. So did Gemma. But not Eli. There was not enough air in the room for him. He needed an ocean of air to combat the weight pressing on his chest. He needed endless space and time and a thousand hurricanes to fill his lungs in that moment. He felt so breathless he didn't even feel alive.

Finally, she spoke again. “The story begins when I...,”

But Gemma stopped her. “Wait. You never told us your name.”

The Storyteller paused. She bit her lip. For a moment Eli thought she wasn't going to answer, but she surprised him yet again. “...my name is Quaye.”

 

And then she began to tell her story.