How evil came into the world. It was witch people, long before, when witch people were able to fly freely. Witches, were simply witches, they didn’t look like anyone, or sound like us, they were made of pure magic. Witches from all over the world, came together for a witches’ conference, hidden amongst the trees, in the forest, during the warmest of summer nights. Where they were able to dance and sing and change into their favourite creatures freely. When one of the witches suggested a contest, to see who could come up with the scariest thing. Some of them brewed up potions in pots, that bubbled and oozed. Potions that were red, green, and gold and smelled like nightmares, and fears. Some of them jumped in and out of animal skins, changing into lions with elephants bodies and wolfs with shark heads. Some of them thought up charms and spells, that rhymed and took over your mind.
They all laughed in glee as they watched each other.
Until finally a witch no one had seen before, nor knew where they came from, stepped forward and gathered everyone around and all they had was a story.
The story this witch told was worse than anything any of the others had done, it was an awful thing full of fear and slaughter, disease and blood. A story of murderous mischief. And when the telling was done, the other witches quickly agreed that this witch had won the prize.
“You win,” said the witches that had heard the story. “But what you said just now — it isn’t so funny. It doesn’t sound so good. We are doing okay without it. We can get along without that kind of thing. Take it back. Call that story back.”
But, of course, it was too late. For once a story is told, it cannot be called back. Once told, it is loose in the world.
So you have to be careful with the stories you tell. And you have to watch out for the stories that you are told.
When I was making the changes to the story, I did so with my two young cousins in mind, who are five and two year old. I think my fear of scarring them too much, or the questions the five year old may have, insured that once I told them the tale, I played more with the “fun” concepts and to be fully honest I left out the “murderous” part of “murderous mischief.” However the over all experience was one of pure joy. As I tried to move with the story, showing how the witches may have danced and walking like the Frankenstein animals, while interacting with the boys, in hopes of laughter. The story managed to occupy their attention for longer than what is normal for the boys, and that also added to my enthusiasm and energy level. I noticed the change in my voice from the beginning to the end of the story. Specially the moral of the story which was delivered with a softer and even tone, allowing for us all to calm down, and to take a moment to reflect. The primarily reason I chose to tell the boys the story was due to the fact that I believed they could benefit from the moral lesson, though I’m sure the two year old was not fully paying attention to what was happening. The boys impacted the delivery of the story greatly, they made the experience and the story lively. Their interruptions added to the experience, and allowed for me to relax as the strange additions provided by the five year old to the story. Telling the story with the boys in mind changed the over all experience, and felt very similar to theatre.
King, Thomas. The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative. Peterbough: Anansi Press. 2003. Print.
