The Storytelling Tree

In the town of Ansley there was a great mystery. The townspeople had long had a gift for telling stories, playing tricks, and laughing so hard their bellies hurt. They were a simple but happy people, and they left the town a spectacular legacy – The Storytelling Tree.

Today some say it never existed, but we know that’s not true for one simple reason. Children still find them. Chances are there is a storytelling tree in your backyard this very moment. It may even be peaking in your window as you read. Don’t worry, they’re friendly.

Sometimes you find one at the park, a little way off by itself. Silent. Patient. Waiting for just the right child. Others have been spotted deep in the forest, surrounded by the crinch, crunch, crinch of old leaves. One was even found growing between a crack in the pavement.

That’s because storytelling trees grow everywhere. You just have to know how to find them. Some are tall and straight like a pine. Others grow crooked and bent like an old oak. No matter. It’s what they tell that’s important.

The Ansley tree, as the first came to be called, grew in a large meadow twenty-five meters tall with a trunk as thick as a barn. No one could remember exactly how it got there, or precisely who had planted it, but everyone in town knew their great-great-grandparents had something to do with it. Its roots were said to be 350 years old. Not even the largest family in Ansley, a mother and father with twelve lanky children, could wrap their arms around the trunk of that great old tree.

But it was not its size that made the tree so special. Its branches had a magic unlike anything else, a voice without words. In ordinary sunlight it appeared to be quite an ordinary tree, but when someone sat under its branches and told a story from their heart the leaves would flutter and dance. Slowly, and then with great ease, they would form into pictures and scenes from the story.

The children in Ansley loved to sit under that giant tree and look up into its branches. At first the shapes seemed simple, just basic figures. But as one delved deeper into the leaves, and the spaces between the leaves, the curls and twists of characters and scenes would be revealed in spectacular detail.

Whole villages could be seen at work in its branches, with increasing refinement: a tiny mouse jumping from branch to branch, the parry and thrust of a bull’s horn, the immensity and depths of a dragon’s scales. Scenes within scenes within scenes.

In the fall leaves of every color and shape trickled down from its branches and danced in the wind, forming a mosaic of each tale that was told. Even the birds that flit among its branches seemed to fit into the folds of those majestic stories. It was a feast for the eyes, and so it became a feast for the storytellers in that town.

For in time, the people of Ansley gave rise to better and better storytellers. Festivals were held throughout the year, and the greatest orators were invited. Children scrambled for a front row view. Parents stood in back on tip-toes, smiling in memory of when they too were young.

The stories were magnificent. Ansley had always been a town of storytellers, and from their children were selected, generation after generation, the greatest of the great. Samuel Mosse told knightly tales, full of magic, steel, and adventure. Great-Haired Susan described colors and shapes that few could imagine. Old Man Hillock plucked words from the branches like musical notes. The tree bended its branches, cupped its leaves, and wiggled its roots in the earth, giving color and contour to the words of these beloved storytellers.

One small day, as the winter festival was approaching, a little girl named Annabel was sitting with her mother in the kitchen. The smell of fresh baked bread began to drift from the oven, and a small fire crackled in the corner. It was warm. It was bright. It was home. “Mom,” she asked, “can you tell me a story?”

“Oh,” said her mother, powdered from head to foot in flour, “I can take you to the Storytelling Tree later this afternoon. Charlie Peats is telling today and he has a wonderful story about a train. I’ve heard you can see it weaving through the branches.”

“Neat,” said Annabel, staring into the fire, “but can you tell me a story now?”

Mrs. Rattigan clapped her hands on her apron, releasing a puff of flour, then watched as it sank to the floor. It had never quite occurred to her to tell a story. Like everyone in Ansley, her whole life had been filled with stories, beautiful stories told by incredible storytellers, all under the charm of that enchanting tree. A story at home seemed to pale in comparison.

“Please, Mom,” repeated Annabel, “Couldn’t you tell me just one?” Mrs. Rattigan scrunched her eyes. She could certainly recall many marvelous stories, but none, she thought, that she could retell on her own. “No,” said Mrs. Rattigan, untying her apron with a sense of finality, “I don’t think I can.”

Mrs. Rattigan could see the disappointment in Annabel’s face, but she knew that an afternoon under the Storytelling Tree would cheer them both up. And of course, it did.

The day of the winter festival arrived soon after. Storytellers from all over had gathered in Ansley to tell their most exotic tales. Annabel and her mother watched as fires were kindled around the great tree, and cups of hot cider passed from hand to hand. Soon, everyone’s attention turned to the gifted speakers beneath that magic tree.

With no leaves on its branches, the tree appeared cold and empty. But as the storytellers gave voice, the spaces between the branches began to shift like lace and take on beautiful forms. From her seat, Annabel watched as the characters and scenes came alive with intricate features and a subtle, transfixing beauty. Wonder. Elegance. A poetry of shapes. Yet it was more than mere shapes. Light, sparkling off the frost in the branches, gave rise to phantasmagoria of unparalleled richness.

Cathedral ceilings could be seen in its branches. Rivers of stone and ice. Thousands of shades of blue. The tree had a way of twisting its branches so that light from the sun was bent through the frost like a prism, immersing the entire audience in dazzling pinpricks of color and movement. The whole tree seemed to shake and drip with color, filling each story with a sparkling, gemlike quality. Wafts of smoke from the fires, kindled as they were with the fallen branches of the tree, moved like pixies through the stories, adding depth and mystery to every image.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Old Man Hillock.

“The tree gives them voice,” said Lady Gray.

Storytellers in Ansley were a special breed. They worked year-round to craft the most alluring stories possible in the hopes that they would one day be told under that magnificent tree in front of the entire town. Such was the creative power of the tree that a great many storytellers were formed, men and women who traveled the world sharing stories first honed under the bricolage of that peculiar tree.

But Annabel wasn’t satisfied. “Why aren’t you a storyteller?” she asked her mother on the way home from the winter festival. “Why do we listen to Old Man Hillock and Great Haired Susan, and not you? If you were a storyteller, then I could listen to stories whenever I wanted.”

“If I was a storyteller,” said Mrs. Rattigan, “you would never eat dinner.” And that was partly true, because storytellers in Ansley spent all their time making stories, not food.

“But if you were a storyteller, we could eat anything we wanted!” said Annabel. And that was partly true too, because storytellers were prized and often very wealthy.

Springtime in Ansley brought the children’s festival. This was the one time in the year that children were invited to speak under the branches of the Storytelling Tree, a rare chance to see fledgling storytellers come to life. Amid the gently falling blossoms and fresh green leaves, the moment had an impressive beauty.

Children worked on their stories all year, with the hope of being recognized by the crowds, the judges, and especially by the tree. For the winner of the children’s festival was apprenticed to the masters, a great honor. Only after many long years of study were some, and not all, of the apprentices recognized as true masters of the craft. The competition was fierce.

It was under the blossoming tree that spring that Annabel sat practicing her story. “…and then the lion crept out from behind the boulder…and…and…” she broke off. The image in the tree had barely formed anything but a rough outline of something that looked vaguely like a dog. “I’m not good at this,” she sighed. “I’m just like my mom.”

Lady Gray happened to be nearby, preparing for the evening story hour. She saw the disappointment hanging in the branches of the tree, and when she walked up she found Annabel sitting on its roots. She smiled, recalling her own youth, and offered a kind word. “Remember,” she said, “all you have to do is tell a story from your heart. The tree will give you voice.”

Annabel looked at her and smiled. She loved Lady Gray’s stories. Then something funny happened. The tree sneezed. Lady Gray looked surprised. Annabel giggled. Thousands of white and pink blossoms drifted slowly beside them, landing softly on their heads and shoulders, the ground, and nestling into the crooks between roots. Annabel couldn’t believe her eyes. She stared into the face of Lady Gray, lips parted in wonder. It felt as if the tree had given them a big hug.

That evening, as Mrs. Rattigan was putting soup on the table, Annabel rushed in and told her mother what had happened. “Mom, you wouldn’t believe it,” she said, “The tree sneezed! The storytelling tree! There were petals everywhere! It was so funny. And Mom, guess what? You know what Lady Gray said?”

“What?” said her mother, laughing at Annabel’s excitement.

“She said that all you have to do is tell a story from your heart. That’s more important than anything else.”

“More important than dinner?” said Mrs. Rattigan.

“Oh, Mom,” said Annabel.

Mrs. Rattigan happened to be setting a bowl on the table that very instant. Suddenly she paused and glared into the distance. It was as if she was seeing something she hadn’t seen before. “What is it?” asked Annabel. She glanced at the bowl awkwardly balanced between her mother’s hand and the table. Suddenly it dropped with a thud and Mrs. Rattigan turned to her daughter. “Let’s try it,” she said.

“Try what?”

“There was once a little girl who lived in a soup bowl,” said Mrs. Rattigan. “She carved a canoe out of a carrot and rowed herself onto a potato. Using a toothpick, she made a little flag and claimed the island as her home.”

“That’s funny,” smiled Annabel.

A week later Annabel sat under the blossoming tree once again, scanning the crowd for her mother and feeling more than a little nervous. The boy beside her smiled confidently. “My name is Moses,” he said, “My father is Samuel Mosse, and I’m going to win this year.” Annabel smiled shyly. She didn’t think she would win. Finally, Annabel locked eyes with her mother in the crowd and smiled. “Remember,” mouthed Mrs. Rattigan over the crowd, “a story from your heart.”

Just then a pink blossom fell into Annabel’s hand, and a sudden sense of calm spread over her. She listened as the other children got up and told their stories one by one under the branches of the great tree. It was clear that many of them had practiced long and hard. The pictures in the branches were graceful and bright.

Off to one side sat the judges, Old Man Hillock, Great Haired Susan, and Lady Gray. From their expressions it was evident that this would be an exceptional year. The tree seemed to shine.

Finally, Moses Mosse was called up for his turn. It was obvious that he had his father’s talent. He told a long and exciting tale about a man in a raft who fought a raging battle with a sea monster, only to be pulled into the depths of the ocean and saved by a clever mermaid. Throughout the story, the branches undulated with the clever movement of water. Countless sea creatures could be seen within the leaves. Annabel watched in astonishment.

The audience erupted in applause when Moses finished, a finale in which the sea parted in two and the happy couple strode like royalty to the shore. The judges beamed. Surely, he would get the best marks. “That really was an incredible story,” Annabel said when he returned. “Thanks,” said Moses, “I’ve been working on it a long time.” The two smiled. “I really mean it,” said Annabel.

As the crowd quieted down, a voice was heard over the murmurs, “…Annabel Rattigan.” Annabel stood up. “Good luck,” said Moses. “Thanks,” said Annabel. She walked humbly to her place as the crowd grew silent. She felt small and shy under the great tree, but once again she caught her mother’s eyes. She felt the pink blossom in her hand, and smiled.

“I was going to tell a story about a lion,” she said, twisting her foot on the ground. “It was a good story, but it wasn’t really a story from my heart…”

Lady Gray smiled. The crowd looked at Annabel. It was a funny way to begin.

“So, this story is about a little girl,” Annabel said. She looked up and paused. “She lived in a soup bowl, and she loved her mother very much.” Mrs. Rattigan chuckled.

“But sometimes her mother was busy,” continued Annabel. “So her mother gave her a story. It wasn’t a big story. It wasn’t even a great story. But it was her story. And with it, the little girl traveled the soup bowl in a little canoe she had carved from a carrot. And wherever she went, she carried her mother with her. Because she had her story inside.”

Annabel paused. The crowd listened with anticipation. “The end,” said Annabel.

Annabel stood for what seemed like a long time. Suddenly, the silence was broken by a sneeze in crowd. “Bless you,” said Annabel, and blossoms began to rain down upon her shoulders and everyone gathered. A feeling of warmth filled them from the inside, and the judges glared in astonishment.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” said Old Man Hillock.

“The tree gives her voice,” said Lady Gray.

A tear drifted down Mrs. Rattigan’s cheek.

That evening, as Annabel and her mother walked home, they held hands and smiled. “That was a beautiful story,” said her mother. “I guess so,” said Annabel, “but Moses really should have won. His story was much longer. And better.”

“You know,” said Mrs. Rattigan, “I think you taught us something. It’s just like Lady Gray said – all you have to do is tell a story from the heart. Don’t you think the tree agreed?”

“Sorta,” said Annabel. “But you know what I think?”

“What?” said her mother.

“I think the best stories aren’t really about the stories,” said Annabel. “They’re about what happens to people when they tell them.”

That summer something happened that no one in Ansley could remember happening before. The Storytelling Tree bore fruit. In early summer, they found apricots hanging in the low branches. A few weeks later a child spied cherries up high. The townspeople brought ladders and baskets, and kids climbed into its branches to stuff their cheeks.

It wasn’t long after that they began telling stories. Soon they discovered plums and peaches, and three different kinds of nectarines. Annabel was the first to find figs, after which she told a long rambling story about a chipmunk with a golden stripe. There were pears and pomegranates in the fall, and twelve different kinds of apples. There were pinecones and chestnuts, walnuts and acorns. Little maple seeds that blew in the wind like helicopters.

It was one of the most joyful summers anyone could remember. And that fall, the Ansley Tree died. No one knew why it happened. Some thought it had lived out its purpose. Others believed it had grown old and tired. “Gone to seed,” said Old Man Hillock, not without a smile. He and other master storytellers tried to conjure its branches back to life, but no image would appear in its limbs.

In time, people began to doubt that the Storytelling Tree had ever existed. It was just a legend, they said, something that parents told their kids. But thanks to Annabel and the other children, its seeds were not only planted in the earth, but in their hearts. Long after the tree had toppled and worn away, people could still be found in two’s and three’s sitting under the branch of a maple, a pine, a peach. They told stories from their hearts, simple stories, and though their stories rarely rivaled the masters of old, they knew, just like Annabel knew, that the best stories, like the great storytelling trees, come to life not in the words but in the loving connection between the people who share them.

Copyright 2020 by Joseph Sarosy. Permission is granted to read and retell this story, and to make it your own. Please do not reprint.