Where should an orator begin their tale? How should they set the tone? What words should they use? It is of utmost importance for the audience, serving as their first impression to the tale. A bad introduction makes even the most interested listener turn away and seek other ways to pass the time. An eager audience can dwindle down to a handful of halfhearted participants in a matter of moments. Listening to a story is no small task, after all.
Back in the ages before the novel became a popular form of entertainment, oral storytellers were one of the few sources of entertainment for poor families. In larger cities, where coins were as common as dust, to listen cost a penny, but in the more rural, poorer areas, the tales narrated cost nothing at all. Still, no man can offer a service without some form of compensation. Offerings of food and drink, and sometimes a small collection of coins, were the gifts to these great entertainers, since even the poorest of workers had their pride and would accept nothing for free. With an open invitation, story tellers, called Seanchai in those days, would have hundreds of tired workers gather around them at the noon time meal, and a great story would begin.
Those days were so different from what the future generations would come to know. In the time of the novels, they observed each through the written word. Any reader could pick up and put down the book, which contained one tale, at their leisure, sometimes taking months to finish one and reading it any time of day. No need to hurry. The age of the Seanchai was quite the opposite. The master orators would begin the story and pause when they saw fit. Many tales took several days to narrate, telling each part for an hour at noon. To hear the complete epic, a listener would need to be present each day, from the moment the Seanchai began, to when they paused, and back again the next day when the story continued; otherwise, they would have to hear the abridged version from someone else, who never failed to butcher it from beginning to end. It would only seem fair to step aside and give one such orator the stage, for no one could tell this story like him.
Herodotus was one of the greatest storytellers in his time, or any time. Across the country, there was not a single child who had not grown up thinking on some story that this master of his craft had told once upon a time. Most Seanchai were as the travelling minstrels and priests, traversing the world in search of new audiences to receive them; but there were some that found a permanent stage. In his younger years, Herodotus told a story in a different village every week, but those times were far behind him now. He retired from his life on the road almost thirteen years ago. Now, at the ripe age of seventy-eight, one year past the perfect lifespan, he sat in his little hut, waiting for noon, when he would tell another epic.
His hair, what remained of it, was bright grey, almost glistening when under the sun. Wrinkles covered his entire body. A white cloak, given to him by a priest years prior, covered himself, hiding the worst parts of his aging: buckled knees, stiff arms, and sores, the red sores were awful. They itched like madness and demanded rough scratching for relief, but they oozed if he scratched them too hard, and they would scab over, itching worse than before.
The old man was always in pain, whether he was standing or sitting. Walking was a chore, requiring a cane for one hand, and a gentle, firm shoulder to hold up the other in an ideal situation, but most of the time, he would have to get along on his own. Some of the villagers recommended that a young man or woman stay with him, serving as his helper, but Herodotus had his pride, just like the poor around him. When he had to have help, he would accept, but he would not have someone live to serve him. To him, that was a fate worse than death.
His life felt like death. In the late hours of the night, he would lie with his eyes open, hoping that the aches would go away long enough for sleep to snuggle him into her comforting embrace, but she was always out of his reach. To pass the time, he would pray for the night to end and the sun to rise. When it did, Herodotus would thank Mnemosyne, patron goddess of all orators, for giving him strength to stand. Concluding his prayer, he would request that night would come quick and sleep might take him. To his disappointment, every night was the same and his body grew wearier with each passing day.
He often wondered why he was still alive, as is the custom of those that have lived longer than they believed they should. Seventy-seven was perfect, many of the world's greatest men, and women, had died at that age. King Viron, smiling on his throne, Mother Phyllis, delivering a powerful sermon in the face of her enemies, the historian Leonardo, with pen in hand, finishing his last chronicle, the warrior Cu Leon, battling a hopeless, yet glorious battle; all died at seventy-seven. Why should he be any different from them? Why should he continue lying awake at night with sores he could not relieve while they passed into legend, taking up their place among the heavens?
To divert his attention from his suffering, he focused on the one thing that made his life tolerable. Stories. In his old age, he divided his daily life into two categories, when he was telling a story and everything else. Storytelling, no matter his age, still held that passion he had when he spun his first yarn. His anticipation would build throughout the day until he would take his stage, and for a few hours, he would feast on what zeal life had left for him. Often, he would sit in front of his hut watching the Sun crawl its way across the sky, until it cleared half its journey and his stories could begin.
When that time comes, people from all across town, young and old, gathered around his hut at the edge of the forest. People feared the woods, telling stories of children entering and never returning. However, at noon, they would face this fear and sit before the hut, leaning forward in anticipation for the story to begin. This always brought a smile to the old man's face. The wonder of the listener. There was no greater thrill than seeing it. After his audience had taken their seats on the rise, Herodotus would join them, with more help from a young lady as he grew older, sitting on a small stool in the center of his stage, his head hanging low. Everyone sat with bated breath; the old man waited for a revelation in his mind. His mind stirred as ripples in a pool. With time, they cleared showing what lay underneath the surface.
Within his mind, he found the place where all Seanchai gathered their stories, at the Great Web. A clever god made it, leaving it in Mnemosyne's care. It rested beneath the surface of a gentle lake, in which he stood knee-deep. Reaching through the water, Herodotus' old hands caught hold of a single spider's thread, which floated into his grasp. Images flashed through his mind in a rush. If anyone other than a Seanchai went there, they would not make sense of it, seeing only a jumbled mess, but he understood and his heart sank.
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Today's story would not be a pleasant one. He looked up, forcing a smile, but he's not looking at them. Instead, he's looking past his audience, viewing into the lens of history, where his story rested. After so long, he would disturb it, making it awake in the minds of the people. Taking a shaky breath, he began. "Time," he declared in a loud voice, "is always moving. History grows. The longer we live, the farther away we are from our past, but it is the job of the Seanchai, the storytellers, to remind us of those long-forgotten days, that we might remember and learn. We must always remember, these are not mere stories, but they are part of our history."
He stood up, neglecting his cane or any assistance, despite his popping, aching bones and the itching sores, which he no longer noticed. With slow, deliberate steps, he walked around his circle in a rhythmic stride, as was his custom. When a story began, he was no longer bound by the limitations of his body, the stage was his, no flaw would hinder his performance. "Kingdoms have risen and fallen, but one was greater than all the others: the civilization of Apollo. Its greatness did not lie in the might of their army, though they could topple their enemies in a single night, or how wealthy its people were, who could lose all they had one day and wake up the next with more than ever, nor how massive their cities were, which were larger than the Isles of Jupiter, far to the south of us." A gasp of surprise rose from the children, who couldn't fathom how large the legendary Isles were. The elderly wore an ear-to-ear grin, knowing that this story would be one to remember.
"While they had everything that made a great people, none of it made them a kingdom unlike any other, no. It was their king who made them the greatest of all. Ehud, Emperor King of Apollo, was unlike any ruler before and there has never been one since. It is said that, instead of a throne, he sat upon a statue carved in his image. The citizens would appeal to him in his stone hands, while he sat on his own head, his council on his shoulders, and judged them, his large eyes observing all. He ruled his people with stern, but just laws. In all of his endeavors, he succeeded. All knowledge was his for the taking. No land was unconquerable. Every foe had to bend the knee. Even inescapable Death had to bow to his might. He had created an eternal paradise on Earth." This last comment made the elderly drop their jaws in amazement. "It was as if wings bore him high into the sky, carrying him to heights that no man could fathom. Many believed that the gods had blessed him with powers beyond human comprehension. Others thought he was a god...but he was a mortal man, like any of us."
No one dared to interrupt the old man's tale. Even crying babes were silent when his story began. Herodotus' head swayed from side to side as his story continued. "Sometimes, man forgets his weakness, his humanity, and believes himself to be a god. It is the folly of the mortal to delude himself into being immortal. Of the seven abominations, it is one of the chief three. Once committed, he will not believe his lie long. The gods will remind him of his true insignificance in their eyes."
A gasp from the women, a nervous gulp from the men. "After fifteen years of prosperity, the king saw a vision. A terrible one. He awoke in a cold sweat, the images burned into his mind. What would frighten a king so? He saw destruction and how his kingdom was at the center. Incurable sickness, bleeding sores, would weaken them. Their enemies, long defeated, would rise, fire in their eyes, overrunning them and overthrowing their unquestionable reign." A stunned silence took hold of the crowd. "Those that survived would have little food or water. Greed and hatred would consume those few and they would drive themselves to extinction. The king would be the only survivor, doomed to wander as a pariah, knowing who he was and that he lost everything, with his former pride as his only friend."
Herodotus stopped walking with a sudden jerk, allowing this moment to hold the audience's attention, while allowing a deeper revelation to come to mind. He turned, a knowing smile on his face. "But Ehud would not accept his fate. Man does not welcome his doom with a peaceful ease. Desperate, in the chambers of his forges, he had his blacksmiths make a great sword. Melted into its core were the golden horns of the Minotaur, said to tear open the heavens in its rage, with a steely tooth of the Great Snake, its eyes ever watchful of the surface from its watery prison, and the tears of goddess Niobe, lamenting the death of her children. The king took up his sword, named Heaven Shaker, and abandoned his kingdom to search the four corners of the world for some way to avert fate."
He walked again, the flat ground of his stage crunching beneath him. "His journey took him to the peak of the highest mountain, where the great birds nest, to the lowest cave, where the foul demons hide. He fought countless beasts in search for his answer, solved the unsolvable riddles, and fetched the lost treasures for their masters, hoping to divert his tragedy, all the while praying that the gods would withhold their punishment for a little longer. After ten years of searching, he found his answer at last."
"I bet he did," a lad of seventeen grunted in disgust from his vantage point at the back of the crowd. He sat with his head resting on his hands, a bored expression on his face, masking the more disrespectful tone of his voice. Around him, some of the listeners glared at him, a silent warning to quiet his wagging tongue. "Oh come on," he exclaimed in a far-from-hushed tone, looking around. "Are you going to keep listening to this?" Their blazing eyes told him that that was what they would do, and a few seemed ready to make the younger man quiet by any means necessary. A disgusted, but not surprised, look overtook the lad's face.
"Tristan," a boy of ten whispered to him, pulling at his arm. "He's about to get to the best part. I know it. You're interrupting."
"Sorry Ur," Tristan replied with a huff, wrenching himself from the child's grip as he stood up. With a quick pat of his rear, he stormed off, hands in his pockets. "I'm too old to listen to this foolishness," he announced in a louder voice.
"Wait," the boy called, hopping up to chase after him.
He waved the child aside, not looking back. "No need for you to follow a grouch like me. Stay. Enjoy the story. You are a child. I don't expect you to know any better." Ur stopped following, watching him saunter off under his dark blonde hair, not knowing if he should listen to the story or follow his friend.
In the following unsettling quiet, the story awaited for Herodotus to continue, but he remained within the wake of this interruption. Looking off in the lad's direction, a frown formed at the corners of his lips, the look of a man knowing that in the audience, there was one untouched by the tale. If it were only himself and Tristan standing at the edge of the trees, the old man would have abandoned his oral tradition and focused on why this one boy, on the verge of manhood, acted in such a manner.
To his own disappointment, Herodotus must entertain his audience. They waited for him, and a good Seanchai did not keep them in perpetual suspense. Forcing a smile to cover his frown, he continued his tale. "But how would a mere man accomplish such a feat? The gods reign on high," but Tristan did not hear a word, and when he would, it would be under very different circumstances.