Telling Tales

by James Washburn

Chapter One - Foreshadowing's a Hell of a Thing

Chapter One

Foreshadowing's a Hell of a Thing

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Tall Tales was in the park, having a rest on a bench when things were set in motion. He’d come a long way, and had a long way to go yet, but he was determined to walk the distance. Walking was tiring business though, so he'd lain down on the bench, tugged his bowler hat over his eyes and had settled down for a doze. Storytelling wasn’t a way to get rich, so he had plenty of experience sleeping outside. And anyway, this far south it was quite warm, so sleeping out was quite pleasant, really.

Well, it would have been if somepony hadn’t woken him up.

"Heya!” she’d said. She was cheery, to be sure. And pink, very pink. She looked like candyfloss given life.

“Hullo,” said Tales, slightly bemused and blinking sleep out of his eyes.

“You new here?” she was still beaming and leaning in just slightly too close.

“Ye-es, yes, just travelling through, though.”

“Oh? Where are you ‘just travelling’ from?”

“From up north.” he’d replied. “I’m on my way to a big get-together in Connemara.”

“Oh?” said the other pony, tilting her head to one side. “Family or friends?”

Tales had to think about that. The kind of people he worked alongside couldn’t really be considered family. Or friends, when you thought about it, but there was a kind of twisted camaraderie to it. Usually, anyway.

"No, not as such. There’s a big gathering of storytellers there.”

The pony’s face lit up even brighter, which Tales wouldn’t have credited as being possible. “So you tell stories?”

She had him bang to rights there. “Ye-es.”

She... well, the best onomatopoeia for it was probably 'squeed'.

“What kind of stories do you tell?” She asked, breathlessly.

Now, that question he really hadn’t been ready for. It wasn’t the kind of question you were asked up north. If you walked into a pub in Stalliongrad, or a dive bar in Grimesby, or a long hall in Pasturekhan and announced that you were a storyteller, everyone knew what that meant and what to expect. ‘What kind’ didn’t come into it.

He floundered. “Oh, er, all sorts.”

The pony was insistent. “Yeah? What kind of sorts?”

“The kind of stories you hear, y’know?”

“What, so, not like stories you'd find written down?”

“Well... no. Just, stories that exist,” Tales said, fully aware he was clutching at straws. He flailed for a good explanation. “Like... Like Hearth’s Warming eve, you know that?”

She looked puzzled. “So you go around telling ponies stories they already know?”

“No, it’s... well, sort of, but not really.”

“So what is it, then?”

Tales opened and shut his mouth while his mind spun like a cog cut loose. He knew the rough shape of the idea of what he wanted to say, but it didn’t fit into words.

“Don’t you know what kind?” said she of the pink frizz, frowning.

Tales took a moment to compose himself. “I know exactly what kind, it’s just hard to explain, is all.”

That cut no ice. “Sounds like an excuse to me.”

“Well, it’s not. I know exactly what I mean,” said Tales, a mite defensively.

“Well that’s no help,” she said, sitting back and folding her front legs. Then, she grinned again. “Hey! I know! Why don’t you show me what kind? You’re a storyteller, why not tell stories?”

Tales panicked. “What, now?”

“No, of course not now, silly, I’ve got things to do now,” she said, rolling her eyes. “What about later? What about here, at sevenish? You’re not doing anything today, are you?”

He was about to say ‘well I was going to head to Connemara’, but something stopped him. This was a challenge. Here was a pony who didn’t know storytelling, here was a pony who didn’t know her history. Well, okay, she knew her history, but she didn’t know his history, history like they told north of Manechester, where the summers were short and frantic and the winters long and harsh.

So instead of telling her to get stuffed, he’d said, “No, not doing anything. I’ll see you here at seven.”

And in all likelihood, that had been his big mistake, but it was too late by then.

The pink pony nodded and trotted off, saying, “See you then!”

* * *

That was then, and this was now. Seven o’clock, to be precise, and Tall Tales had the distinct feeling he’d been Had. He’d assumed, perhaps naively, it’d be a private performance, just him telling to one pony, but no, she’d invited the whole town it seemed. Fifty or so ponies sat around the fountain, chatting amiably among themselves. The Pink Devil moved between them, greasing the social axles which all sought to grind Tales down.

They didn’t see him approaching, so his first thought had been to leg it. If she wasn’t going to play fair, neither was he. She had him on false pretences, he wasn’t prepared for a full audience (certainly not unpaid) but he knew those excuses wouldn’t work. Not on her, and certainly not on him. He couldn’t let her get the better of him, not now. What would his old mentors say?

He took a deep breath and walked over through the crowd. He tried to calm himself by taking some deep breaths and ignoring the audience. He stepped out in front of the crowd, and a hush descended. Not a reverential hush, you understand, but more a confrontational sort of hush. It was a hush that said ‘come on then, show us what you’ve got’.

Tales took a good look at his audience, which was a pretty mixed bag. There were young ponies (he was particularly worried about the three fillies up front), old ponies (well, two, as far as he could tell), ponies in between, and what looked like a small dragon. It was a mostly female audience, though (so lay off the Murmanesk sailor routine, eh?), mostly about his age, really.

But best not to think about that. The Terror from Twenty-Thousand Leagues under the Candy Store was grinning at him from the second row. So, what story to tell? Well, best start off with a couple of funny ones, a couple to appeal, then we go out on a bang, show these southerners what’s what, then we head off for Connemara. No problem.

He cleared his throat. “Hullo, all.”

There was a murmur back. Good start.

“Pardon?”

“HELLO,” came the reply.

“Heh, you alright?”

Another murmured reply. Well, fair enough.

“Okay, everyone, I’ll assume you’re alright. Well, have I got stories for you! I’ve got stories new, stories old, stories from near and stories from far. How does that sound?”

Murmurings continued.

“Alright, alright, if you’re going to be like that. Now, I don’t know about you, but I reckon it’s good to start at the beginning, so we’ll start with a story from the garden at the beginning of everything...”

Comments

[j-grizz]

These are definitely worth reading, you should check them out

[Rarityshy]

I can't wait to see where this goes. I've always been a fan of mythology, I can't wait to see your Equestiran version