The First Night

(Note this was written on the train several months ago, It’s be reworked a bit since then but overall the story is very much as it was, a simple fairy tale.)

“That is a lovely name indeed. Perhaps you will tell me the story of what it means.” Said the King.
She shook her head knowing she had bought herself more time. “Soon my King. My story is about a young boy.” And she started her story, but as she told it she could only think of her brother, which is the story I will tell you now.
Once upon a time there was a little boy. He was born to two parents, as many children are apt to be. And not long after he was born his parents had a little sister, well actually they had a little daughter and so the little boy had a little sister.
The time came for the little boy went to school and when he came home his little sister asked him what school was like. He told her about the other little boys and girls and he told her about playtime and he told her about numbers. He also told her about stories. The little girl liked when he told her stories the best. So everyday he would come home and tell her a story. Some of the stories were long some were short, and though she liked the short stories, she liked the longer stories better, because they lasted much longer and she could be entertained for more time.
Sometimes she would say. “Brother, tell me a new story and he hadn’t learned any new stories. The little boy, not wanting to disappoint his sister, would make one up on the spot. He favored the tales of Aesop and he would tell her fables of horses and pigs and mice and lions. She liked these stories the best. Not the fables, the stories her brother made up just for her.
“They are your stories.” he told her. They belonged to her, to keep and share as she liked. Sometimes the little girl would beg her brother to tell some of her old stories when she had already heard a new one for the day. “Brother, tell me the story of the boy that tricked the efreeti caliph into making him King.” or she would say, “I like it when you tell the one about the boy that stole the treasure from the Two Scores Gang.”. And he would spin her stories into the night, taking care not to wake their parents. They would lay in the darkness of their room and he would recite tales until he knew she was asleep.
A funny thing happened as they grew, the girl couldn’t remember a time when her brother didn’t tell her stories at night and as time passed she never learned to fear the void of darkness. She had always looked forward to bedtime and dusk, so she grew up into a brave young woman. Her brother grew up brave as well. Then one day he left home to become a hero himself. In his fascination with his stories he had spent his youth learning the sword and spear.
And when Agamemnon called the kings of Messenia together to find his brother’s kidnapped wife he took up arms and followed his king to Troy only to return ten years later a shell of his former self. I could tell you his tale, it’s a very good story, most assuredly, but this is not a story about a little boy who went to war. It’s a story of his sister and what trouble she got into during his absence.
Heartbroken that her brother was now gone she sought out her fortune in the world. Living the life of a gypsy, she traveled to the places in her brother’s stories. She met the giant in the Straits of Gibraltar and the sad titan who holds up the sky. She had coffee in a bazaar with the man in charge of ferrying the dead to Hades. She often met with dangerous men and evil women the villains and henchmen of stories. But, as I said, she had never learned to be afraid, and much like a bad dog, the malicious are only dangerous when they know they have power over you.
She even met a man who had known her brother while she worked as a handmaiden to a wise woman on her island. Although she did not care much for his lot of sailors and soldiers, this man had fought in Troy along side her brother. He had died just before the war was won. He told her that he was the bravest man he ever knew and that his story would go on forever in time. The young woman was pained at hearing this and she left the island to meet more of the people from the stories she had been given but not before she made that man promise to keep his story safe until he got home. The man promised he would. I believe it’s that promise that kept him alive for the next seven years of anguish he endured.
Times got rough for the young girl. She begged for a time and when begging did not work she would steal. One day, castle guards caught her stealing from the kitchen. She was taken before the king as only he could pass judgment upon her.
I should note that in that day people didn’t get up to as much thieving and fighting. And murder was rare outside of the nobility “making room for a new heir” every now and then. So punishment was rather harsh, which in this particular case is a bad thing. Although I suppose that had it not been so harsh in retrospect I’d be telling you a story about a Hare and his love of a Heron, and surely that story would not be as good as this story. But I digress.
The young woman went before the king to confess her crime and be given her punishment. The king did not like thieves, he told her. If there was one thing in this world that he disliked it was a person who covets the goods another has worked his back and sweated his brow for. “Thieves have no place in my land. They are a blight, a pox on my people, who are honest and work hard for their wealth. I will have you put to death for your crime, but I am not an unjust man. As you have been truthful about your crime I shall grant you a final boon, one last request within reason that I cannot decline. You may not request to not be executed, but if there is one last comfort you would have then your wish is my command.”
Upon hearing those last words the girl had an idea. “King, My only request is to tell one story, that I might be remembered by your court.”
“Granted!” replied the King who lit up hearing her request. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard anything but excuses, so the thought of listening to a story pleases me to no end. But first I must ask your name. A formality my guard has forgotten to record.”
And that young woman, who was a little girl, who’s big brother who died in Troy and told her stories growing up each night, who later became the royal storyteller and then the queen, dusted off her rags, smoothed back her hair took a seat near the throne and told the king. “My King, you may call me Scheherazade.”