In Times Of Want

by Marie O'Regan

  “And you will, son, don’t worry.” The Storyteller had made his way all the way to the back of the crowd without making a sound, getting behind the children somehow, though Brian couldn’t see how he’d done it so fast, nor so quietly. “There’s a happy ending, don’t you worry. No need to be so scared.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and turned him firmly away from the door. Then he took his hand (he had to work at that, the little boy didn’t want to hold his hand, didn’t want anything to do with him, that was coming across loud and clear) and led him to the front, sat him in the middle right in front of him, where he could see him all the time. The kids already there shuffled aside nervously, eager to make room, to get away from any chance the Storyteller might touch them. As if he were sick, Brian thought. As if they thought they might get infected. All the fight seemed to have gone out of the boy, Brian saw, his eyes were dull and his face was slack with fear. When he sat down he put his thumb in his mouth and started to rock, without even knowing or caring whether anyone could see.

  The Storyteller sat on the edge of the desk once more, and surveyed the children sitting in front of him. They were a subdued bunch now, for the most part, all wide eyes and fidgeting. He waited for them to calm themselves, so he’d have their full attention when he started again. Things were about to get even more interesting.

  The air had quieted a little, but it was still too full of hisses and whispers for the kids to be truly calm. That small boy had been right, Brian thought, there were things in it. He let his mind roam, and tried to keep himself calm, as free of thought as possible so he could just listen. This was a trick he’d learned whilst listening to his mom’s voice every night, as she read to him. Didn’t matter what the story was – Hansel and Gretel, Where The Wild Things Are, We’re Going On A Bear Hunt… it made the stories come alive in a way that just listening never could. When he stilled his mind like that, and let it wash over him, his mom’s voice faded and changed until it was overtaken by all the characters’ voices, their real voices. His bedroom faded and he’d find himself walking through the forest, or sitting in the boat, or running from the bear. He became aware that the air was a little darker where the noises were loudest, and he could see the first signs of shadows, of things moving amongst the children. Here and there a child would flinch then look round, quick, as if trying hard to see who had pinched him, or nipped at him. The air around the Storyteller, though, was clear. The shadows grew clearer, and now Brian could see figures – creatures from his nightmares solidifying as they moved towards him, only to pull back when they got within a few feet. Brian could also see the reason they retreated. There was a glow emanating from the Storyteller. It was a hateful glow, all slimy and greeny-yellow, like radiation in those old sci-fi movies his dad let him watch when his mom was out for the night with her friends, or visiting Grandma, and he came over to babysit. The creatures flinched away from that glow, as if it could hurt them. Or worse.

  Looking round the room, Brian tried to see if anyone else was glowing like that, but no one was. No one could see the shadows, or the figures that lurked within them, either. He was the only one. The shadows roiled around the room, and Brian thought he could hear more than just monstrous howls and screams in it. He thought he could hear sighs, and even tears. He saw the Storyteller looking at him, and fought to appear as upset as the rest of the kids, yet still obviously wanting to hear more.

  The Storyteller examined Brian’s earnest expression for a moment, then nodded. The boy was a little more awake than the others, true, but he didn’t think he could see clearly. Not yet, anyway. He allowed himself to feel a little of what was seeping towards him from the children, and shivered slightly at the surge of energy that even the littlest piece of the whole granted him. This was going to be a feast, by the time he was finished. He wouldn’t need to feed again for quite some time, he was sure. Time enough for the tale of today’s adventure to die down, and be added to his repertoire. He glanced down at the little boy who’d tried to escape, and could see that his spirit was broken. If all went well, then this little fellow was going to be with him for a long time. A long time. The boy his parents would be taking home would be missing something vital. And all they’d know was that he seemed to have withdrawn into himself, though they’d never know why. Doctors and psychiatrists would be called, he was sure – it had happened before. A personality disorder would be diagnosed, then the kid would be classed as ‘special needs’, allowed to be as quiet as he wanted, so as not to upset him further. And the Storyteller would be one soul richer, with no one the wiser, unless they caught sight of him in the shadows that surrounded his tales, and very few could ever do that – the ones that did could be added to his following, easily enough, they tasted the sweetest. He took a deep breath, and the children hushed in an instant.

  “Now, where we? Ah yes, I remember. I was telling you that all the bad stories are true, when our young friend here,” he paused to smile benignly at the lad, who remained unaware of anything outside his own mind, “got scared. Boy, did he, huh?” There was a little ripple of laughter now; they were starting to relax, though not by much. “And I meant it, you should understand that, but perhaps not the way he thought I did. Of course there aren’t vampires outside your window, hanging from the lintel trying to get you to invite them in; and of course there are no werewolves, howling at the moon every time it’s full and looking for fresh meat.” There was no laughter now, nervous or otherwise. “What is true, though, kids,” and here he paused for effect, and searched their faces with all the seriousness of a preacher, “is that fear exists, fear is real and it’s out there even as it walks among us, and that’s where all these stories come from. Do you see the difference?” Again, they all nodded, heads bobbing up and down eagerly as they sought to reassure the Storyteller that yes they did, indeed they did, just tell us how to sleep tonight when we’re alone in the dark and no one can help us.

  Brian risked a look around him, keeping his head low so that the Storyteller might not notice. Might not. The words he’d just heard had crystallised everything that had been running around in his head since this tale started – he knew what was going on now. He sensed one or two of the shadows in the room coalescing near him, while others – further away from him – stepped up their activities, forcing little yelps of fear from the children even as the shadows cringed themselves in fear of the Storyteller. Some of the kids were crying for their mothers now, very quietly, almost under their breath. They understood not to let the Storyteller hear too much, even though they didn’t know why or how they knew. Brian tried to focus on the shadow nearest to him, and thought he saw teeth that were far too long in a thin, bony face with eyes like coal. A voice rumbled inside his head. ‘Do not try to see us too clearly, my friend. We do not wish to be made to harm you.’

  “Harm me?” The words were out before he could stop them, and even though he’d tried so hard to whisper he felt the Storyteller’s rhythm falter as he sought to locate the source of this interruption. Tension built, and Brian held his breath as he fought to escape detection. Children started to grow restless, sensing something new, something changing, and the Storyteller turned his attention to them once more. He couldn’t lose them now, so near the pay-off of his tale. The rhythm strengthened as he went back to telling the children how it was fear itself that made them afraid – that fear was a real thing, not just imagination. And it had teeth. He wasn’t telling the whole truth, Brian knew. It wasn’t fear that had teeth, it was him. Fear just held you prisoner, kept you in its grip, ready for him to feed.

  ‘Silence, boy. He’ll hear you. There is no need for words spoken out loud, you know. We are creatures of the mind; we can hear what you want to say without you saying it out loud for all to hear.’

  The boy closed his eyes and tried again. ‘Who…who are you?’

  The creature sighed, a sound so full of loss and desperation that Brian felt tears start to form and had to fight not to shed them. ‘We are…for want of
a better term…what your films have called creatures of the night. We are the stuff of myth and legend, vampires and werewolves, shapeshifters and ghouls. Your…Storyteller, as he styles himself, has kidnapped us, and we want to go home.’

  ‘Home?’ Brian wondered where home would be for such creatures. Graveyards? Hell?

  The vampire – that had to be what he was, Brian thought – smiled sadly, and shook his head. ‘No, child. Our home is here,’ he tapped his head. ‘We belong in the imagination, not in the real world, forced to hurt those who dream us best so that the Storyteller’s lust for pain might be sated.’ He leaned closer to Brian, and became, as he did so, a little clearer.

  All of a sudden Brian was scared – right down to the base of his spine, with the little hairs at the back of his neck all prickly, like when he watched scary movies – and he shrank back from the apparition before him.

  The vampire smiled. ‘You see? That is where we are supposed to live, in your imagination. That chill down your spine, that clenching of your gut, that is what feeds us. And we are happy with this, we need no more. Not for us the tastes of the flesh.’ He smiled again, a crueller expression this time. ‘Or even the taste of flesh.’

  Brian sought to calm his mind, and tried his best to keep the fear out of it. He thought he made a pretty good job of it, considering he seemed to be in the middle of a conversation with an honest to God vampire. Even if they weren’t actually talking. Not out loud, anyway. ‘So what happened? What changed?’

  Another voice spoke this time (it was easier to think of it as speaking, Brian found, it troubled him less than the alternative), and the vampire fell silent – content to leave this part of the tale for someone else. The newcomer was far more powerful, to look at him. He was tall, and broad, and muscles seemed to almost burst out of his shirt, along with hair. His voice was rough inside Brian’s head, as though his throat was so sore from howling that speech of any kind, even imagined, was painful for him. ‘He did. The Storyteller, as he calls himself.’ He virtually spat the name, and Brian understood a little of the pain these creatures had been forced to feel – and wanted rid of. ‘He was as we are, once, a creature of imagination, no more.’

  ‘Not real?’

  ‘Not as you would understand it, no. Think of the fairy tales – the Storyteller started as one of these, much as the Pied Piper, or Rumpelstiltskin. He was…made up…by one of your human storytellers. For a while, he lived in tales and was happy with that – a device used to tell, and frame, a story.’ He paused and stared bleakly at the Storyteller, who appeared distracted. ‘Time grows short boy. You must listen well now, before we have to go. Before he makes us…’

  ‘He cannot, if we are quick. Hurry!’ The vampire was decidedly edgy, baring his teeth in a vague gesture of warning, though at what, Brian couldn’t see.

  ‘The point, child, is that he grew greedy…’

  Brian felt as if his mind had split in two somehow. On one side, he was watching the Storyteller sniff the air, searching for the cause of his distraction – and he had a feeling he was narrowing in on them. And then? He didn’t want to know what then. On the other side, he was listening intently to these creatures that seemed to want to help him, and – by helping him – all the other children.

  ‘As a species, we are singular. We do not need food, as you understand it. We are content to live in the imagination, to hide there, in the shadows and recesses of the mind.’ He sniffed the air, and licked his lips as if savouring the freshest meat before continuing. ‘And the spaces in between what is, and what is not.’ Again he sniffed the air, and Brian’s nerves got the better of him.

  ‘And then?’

  The wolf/man – who seemed to be growing more wolfish by the second and far less human – lowered his gaze and stared into Brian’s eyes. The boy couldn’t look away from that pinprick gaze of baleful yellow. ‘And then he learnt the trick we’ve worked hard to forget. The trick we thought we’d been successful in banning.’

  ‘We? I thought you were all stories. Aren’t you as old as each other?’

  ‘No. Tales spawn tales; one word can give birth to a million, if it’s the right word. Can you understand that?’

  Brian nodded, sensing the rightness of what he was hearing. It felt true, even if he didn’t completely understand how it worked.

  ‘We…’ he gestured to his companion, the vampire, himself, and a wraith-like figure of a sobbing woman that hovered silently nearby, ‘we are the old ones. We are the first. Humans spoke of us and trembled, and we were content. People embellished the tales, over time, and other tales were born. This is the way of things, the natural order. This is how you humans tell what was, what is, and what shall be.’

  Brian didn’t understand. ‘So how…?’

  ‘I’m getting to that, boy. Be patient, bide your time and all will become clear. Humans started to tell the old tales, of us and our kind, but prefaced them with “Once upon a time…” or made them into fables, with a fable teller that was part of the story. Do you see now what happened?’

  ‘This Storyteller…our storyteller, was one of those. He wasn’t real.’

  ‘Not in the sense you mean, no, he was thought rather than flesh, word rather than deed. But he grew stronger each time the tales were told, until he became flesh…and with the flesh came the hunger. A hunger greater than you could ever imagine, making him hunger incarnate.’

  Brian didn’t understand everything he’d just heard, but he understood enough of it. He understood enough to make him mad. ‘And he likes to chew on fear, is that it? A big, fat fearburger anytime he wants one, just by terrorising a few kids.’

  No one spoke, even in his mind. The monsters – let’s face it, Brian thought, that’s what they really were, who were they kidding? – had the good grace to hang their heads, as if ashamed.

  ‘He scares us too, Brian. It’s not just the children anymore. How else could he make us hurt you? Why would we hurt you when you are the source of our selves, of our very being? He forces us to do his bidding so that he might scare the children more each time, and we get nothing but the scraps from his table!’

  This last was spoken in a roar, as the wolf-creature struggled to retain its human aspect in spite of its rage. The Storyteller was aware of them now, Brian could feel it. And he was coming for them – one step at a time, so the other kids wouldn’t see.

  ‘You must forgive us, son.’ The vampire was terrified, his teeth bared as he turned one way and then the other, sensing danger though he couldn’t yet see where from. ‘We’re so hungry. And each time he tells his tales and makes us hurt your kind, one or more of you join our number, and thus we grow weaker, as there’s less nourishment to go round – until finally his is the only tale left. Do you see?’ Brian nodded, dumb now with the shock of what he was hearing. ‘This is why we must destroy him! This is why you must help us, Brian. Can’t you see?’

  Brian could, though he didn’t want to. He wanted his mother. He wanted to curl up at her knee as he had so many times, while she read to him of dragons and elves, of trolls and fairies and children who had their dearest wish – if it were a true and unselfish wish – made true. He couldn’t have that any more though, not now – the time for that was past, and he had to put it aside. Now he had to be the one who told the tale, and held the power. He had to be strong, for all of them, so that no more kids ended up scared of their own shadow because on some level they understood that it wasn’t theirs at all – and that it could bite.

  The Storyteller was staring at him, he knew it. He couldn’t bring himself to look just yet, but he could tell by the way the skin on the back of his neck was crawling, and by the way the creatures that had tried so hard to get through to him were cringing even as they tried to make him see. Looking around, he saw that a space had opened up all around him, as the children, too, had shuffled a little away from him, leaving him alone, and in plain sight. He didn’t have long, but what could he do? He was shaking, and he could feel the fear eatin
g away at the edges of his brain – it wouldn’t take much for him to lose it, and end up as one of the Storyteller’s acolytes, doomed to follow him and collect the fear from children just like him. It wasn’t fair! He wanted to yell it at the creatures, at the Storyteller, to make them see what they were doing to him. He was just a kid, for Chrissakes! He sensed, rather than saw, the creatures around him start to dwindle, their disappointment in him palpable. He looked at the little boy all the way in the front, still rocking, still unaware of anything except his fear. And all of a sudden he understood what to do.

  ‘So let me get this straight. This guy is just a story?’

  ‘In essence, yes. Or he was. I’m not altogether sure that’s all he is now.’

  Brian looked at the Storyteller with new eyes, and now he didn’t look quite so awful. The yellowy-green glow had dimmed a little, and to Brian’s eyes, the Storyteller didn’t look quite so solid. He looked as if he wasn’t entirely there, in the library with all the little kids who wanted their moms, wanted to go home because this was too scary. He looked at the Storyteller, and he looked at the monsters – the vampire, the werewolf, the ghost and the ghoul, and all the other shadows milling around (they’d stopped hurting kids, he saw, maybe the Storyteller knew what was coming) – and he felt power begin to rise in him. He could feel it – clean and pure and pulsing right through him. He closed his eyes and thought about that, thought about the power – and realised it had a colour he could see. It was blue, clear and bright as the sky, and it was all his. The blue pulsed out from him, spreading around the room, and he saw the Storyteller’s sickly greeny-yellow aura begin to fade under such brightness. He saw the other kids start to brighten in response to it, becoming more alert, though they couldn’t have understood why this was happening. Even the little kid all the way in the front stopped rocking, and took his thumb from his mouth. Brian thought he heard him say, “Mommy?” The monsters had tuned towards him now, Brian saw. They were waiting. There was an air of restlessness in the room, like a fresh breeze on a baking hot day. Still, Brian wasn’t sure. He turned to the vampire, the wolfman, and the ghost – the oldest of the tales. ‘So if he’s just a story who forgot that’s what he is, I can fix it, right?’