Between the Darkness and the Dawn

Once upon a time a miller and his wife had a child they named
Armonk. His mother thought him remarkable (as all mothers do), but it is true that even as a baby
the door to the stories in Armonk’s mind was open. At first his stories made sense only to himself:
they most often had a beginning, or a middle, or an end, but rarely all three. Each year his
stories grew fuller, as if his storyteller’s eye was adjusting to a hazy light in his mind.
By the time he was twelve he could make up stories about anything you could name. He could
make them as sad as thwarted love (though he had never experienced it), as happy as a rich harvest
(though his father was a miller and not a farmer), or as beautiful as a sunrise over an ocean
(though he had never seen one.) More than one friend remarked that his stories were fit for royalty.

His father was not among them.

“Why do you waste your time?” he demanded. “Stories are for the evening hearth not for the work day.
The men in our family have always been millers and you will be a miller, too, and there’s an end to it.”

“But, Father,” Armonk said. “The flour dust fills my lungs until I cannot speak and the rumble of
the millstone makes my head ache!” This argument was repeated more often than the rain. It never changed.
Armonk and his father grew as rigid as trees.

On his sixteenth birthday Armonk stared glumly out the window of the mill. He scratched his small,
not always white dog, Freesa. His dream from the night before clung to him like a spider’s web. The
millstone continued its incessant turning just as it had in the dream. Only then, it was Armonk and not
grain that surrendered to the stone. It had not killed or even bloodied him, but crushed him flat until
he was as insubstantial as a rag. “What will I do?” he asked the dog. Freesa tilted her head and gave
a sympathetic whimper. “I wish I could live one of the stories I tell, but I have only the telling and
Father’s mill. I would leave the village today, if I knew where to go.”

The innkeeper’s son burst through the door of the mill. “Armonk! There is a storyteller in town!”
the boy exclaimed. “He calls himself Lutan and claims he is the finest storyteller in the country!”

“I must hear him!” Armonk said.

“Not just hear him, Armonk, my father is wagering that you will best him! You are to compete this evening!”

“What do you think, Freesa?” She barked and leaped trying to reach Armonk’s face. He caught
her on her third attempt and let her cover his face with licks. “That’s what I think, too,”
Armonk laughed. His laughter died away when his father entered the mill dragging a sack of
grain, but he could not keep his excitement to himself. “Father, I am to compete in a storytelling contest this evening!”

“And what prize awaits the winner?”

“I don’t know,” Armonk admitted. “It would be prize enough just to compete. Will you come tonight?”

“We have ale enough at home: I see no need to spend good money on someone else’s.”

“But wouldn’t you like to hear me tell my story?”

“You waste enough time for the both of us with your stories.”

The whole village tried to crowd into the inn that evening: even Armonk’s mother squeezed into
a corner. The latecomers spilled over into the square and listened at the windows. At the appointed
time, Lutan, the stranger, who was to speak first, climbed onto a table at the front of the room
so that all could see. His face was gently lined; his eyes a rich brown flecked with gold.
Once thick dark hair hinted at gray and seemed a bit thin at the temples. He ran his fingers
through it, pushing it back over his shoulders. For a moment he stood, silent. Then his gaze
swept over the audience meeting Armonk’s eyes for a fraction of a second. It was as if a lamp
had been lit in a dark room.

“Long before yesterday and nearer than tomorrow . . .” he began. The words silenced all
voices but that of Lutan. The story seemed to be a simple one, one that sounded a bit familiar
as it drew in the audience. But the story changed as it unfolded and so did its teller. The
tale expanded in the glowing silence: it grew and flowered. Lutan’s face, his hands, his posture,
every hair on his head enhanced and enriched the tale until the villagers were bewitched.

Armonk tried to watch carefully, to learn from this master, despite the cold knot of nerves in his
belly. But it was like trying to count the drops of water in a river as it carries you along. He soon
forgot even to try. And when the final words were spoken, Armonk’s cheers could be heard among the
clapping and howling and banging of tankards.

And then it was Armonk’s turn.

He took his time climbing onto the table top. Suddenly he felt gawky.
His dark hair had refused to capitulate to his comb. It hung round his ears
and neck not so much in curls as in rumples. Still, if the story was good
enough perhaps no one would notice. Armonk discarded the story he had meant to tell.
It would not do. He needed something special or he would look a fool before the
village. He searched his mind for some scrap that would make a story. Finally he found
it and he began. It was a story he had never told before and he did not try to shape
it: he simply let himself be carried away. It filled his being and made his hands dance.
The story flowed and, though he could not tell afterward what the story had been, at
the end the applause was deafening. The villagers declared Armonk winner though
Lutan was honored with food and drink and a bed for the night.

When the stranger made ready to leave the next morning he found Armonk and Freesa waiting at the door.
Lutan smiled at him. “You have a great talent,” he told the boy.

“But not so great as yours,” Armonk replied. “I performed better than I ever have and still,
despite what my neighbors said, you should rightly have won.”

Lutan’s smile broadened. “You have the mark of a truly great storyteller,” he said. “And you
are right: were we both among strangers, I would, most likely have won. That story you told
last night was new to you, was it not?” Armonk blushed as he nodded. “I thought as much,
though I doubt anyone else would have known. It is a powerful beginning and, someday, may blossom
into . . . something more. Talent is only the seed of the apple tree. You must nurture it, and
train it, and prune it, to bear the sweetest apples of all.”

“Would you take me on as an apprentice?” Armonk asked. Freesa yipped.

“Tell me, why do you tell stories?” Lutan asked. He reached down and rubbed the little dog’s muzzle. Freesa
was overcome by a frenzy of wagging that started at her tail and continued to the tips of her whiskers.

“There are so many stories inside of me that I think I would explode if I had to keep them to myself.”

“But why choose a profession with so few rewards when you could continue on here, in your
own village? Storytelling is more often paid in friendship than in gold.”

“Because I have to,” Armonk replied. “I need to learn to do what you do.”

Lutan laughed gently. “And what is that?”

“Magic. You make whole worlds appear with a few words. If I could learn to do that, I would not care about anything else.”

“You are welcome to join me,” the older man said. “We will see if the stories are enough. Come we will
see what your parents think of your decision.”

Armonk’s father scowled when his son told him. “And what will this foolishness get you?” he asked. “You
will travel the roads earning barely enough to eat. There are few villages rich enough to keep a storyteller.”

“I have heard of castles and manors where story-spinners are revered,” replied Armonk. “I will earn a place among the wealthy.”

“Big words,” his father scoffed and turned away. “Storytelling is not work for a man. When the day is done,
what will you have to show for your labors? Empty air! Leave the weaving of pretty lies to the women.” Armonk’s
face burned as he, too, turned away.

His mother merely wept and hugged him. “I have always believed that you are special,” she said.

To find out what happens next
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Between the Darkness and the Dawn by
Lisa Wright

© 2000