Jasper and the Traveller

A week or so ago I did some (amateur) storytelling at the Chopin Bar in Chorlton, Manchester. I'm still gathering new material so I try and tell a different tale(s) at each event I do, and I'm always on the lookout for some new way of doing things.

This time, I'd seen a film on television a couple of weeks previously, and had loved it. I jotted down the plot of the film, thinking it might make a good story. In the end the film was way too long and tortuous, particularly as I only had a ten-minute slot. So I stripped the plot right back. And then I changed the ending, which I didn't think was satisfying enough. And then I transposed the whole thing into a different era, as I thought the modern setting might stand in the way of your average storytelling audience's appreciation.

It's a bit cliched but to be honest, but I do love a good dollop of cliche every now and then. And it's fun to strip stories back to their bones.

Here's the result. See if you can guess what film it was.


Jasper and the Traveller

There was once a young man named Jasper, who wanted to seek his fortune. So he visited the local squire, who offered him work. He asked Jasper to take a carved wooden carriage over the hills to another county, where the squire’s daughter was to marry. The carriage was beautiful, with seats that were lined with silk, velvet curtains at the windows, and led by two white horses.

Jasper was pleased, and set off early in the morning.

After a while he saw a man at the side of the road, asking for a lift. Jasper was glad of the company, and it wasn’t until he had reached out a hand and was pulling the traveller up beside him that Jasper noticed his eyes. They were cold, and grey. The man himself said nothing but “Drive,” in a nasty splintered voice.

A little further along Jasper saw another carriage, on its side in a ditch. He could see the head and shoulders of a man, still holding the reins of two horses, one dead and one injured. The man was groaning, and Jasper slowed down in concern. But the traveller at his side grabbed hold of his reins and urged the white horses on. His shoulders were broad and his arms were strong, and Jasper couldn’t stop him.

Jasper was scared.

“What do you want?” said Jasper.

The traveller only laughed.

“What happened to that carriage?” said Jasper.

“He were in need of fresh horses,” said the traveller.

“Who was holding the reins?” said Jasper.

“Why,” said the traveller. “You worried he won’t be getting no fresh horses?”

“Yes,” said Jasper quietly.

“You’d be right there then,” said the traveller. “Because I cut his legs off.”

And at that, the traveller handed the reins back to Jasper and took a bloodied knife from his pocket. He held it up to Jasper’s cheeek, and Jasper could feel the cold of the blade and the wet of the blood.

“I’ll do anything you want,” said Jasper.

“You can say me four words,” said the traveller.

“OK.”

“Say, ‘I want to die’,” said the traveller.

“I can’t! I can’t say that!”

The traveller threw his head back and laughed, with no real mirth nor warmth but with relish enough to compensate.

Only while his head was back, Jasper saw his chance. He gave the traveller a good strong shove, and even as the traveller was falling to the ground Jasper was urging the horses on as fast as they’d go.

He drove full speed for some time, until his breath began to slow and he saw a small cottage at the side of the road, a curl of smoke rising from the chimney.

Jasper stopped and knocked at the door, which was answered by a young woman with a mole on her cheek and a crinkle to her brow. Jasper tried to speak but his breath came in coughs and nothing came out right. She sat him down and brought him some broth, until finally he was able to tell what had happened, and she sent her young brother out running, to fetch the soldiers.

The soldiers came and came quite fast, but on their way they passed the carriage in the ditch, and when they arrived and saw Jasper with blood on his cheek, they hauled him out of his chair and pushed him roughly against a wall, where they searched his pockets and found the knife. The knife which the traveller had placed there, still covered in blood.

The soldiers took Jasper away to the gaol, and locked him up in a cell. Jasper sat tired and broken on the hard stone floor, until finally he slept. And dreamed, of blood and knives and cold grey eyes.

When he woke, his cell door was open. He rose cautiously and crept out into the passageway. He could hear a drip, drip, from elsewhere in the gaol. A door opened, and a dog appeared. It glanced casually at Jasper then disappeared through another doorway. Jasper followed the dog, and found it licking at something behind a desk. It was the severed neck of one of the soldiers. Three other soldiers lay nearby, and all of them dead.

Jasper heard horses’ hooves, and looked out of the window to see more of the king’s men arriving. He didn’t hang round to take the blame. He pulled a knife from one of the soldiers’ belts, climbed through a window at the back, and ran. He ran and ran, ’til his feet were sore and his breath was scraping his throat like a rusty blade, but at least he could see a destination.

At the bottom of a valley was an inn, and that’s where Jasper went.

“What’s happened to you?” said the innkeeper.

Jasper couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but sit at a table with his head in his hands, where he was brought a drink which sat at his elbow and remained untouched. He sat there some time, sad images flicking through his mind, until he felt a presence on the other side of the table.

He looked up, to see cold grey eyes.

And at that moment the last few hours built up in Jasper and burst from his mouth in a yell, even as he reached for the knife in his pocket.

But the traveller only laughed. “You won’t do no damage with that poor thing,” he said. “It’s old, and broken.”

And as he spoke, the knife fell apart in Jasper’s hands.

The traveller looked sympathetic. “Maybe you’d be better off dead,” he whispered, and he reached into his pockets and drew out two coins. He placed these, one on each, on Jasper’s eyelids.

Jasper didn’t move. For a long time he sat there, until he was sure that the traveller was gone.

Just as he was blinking the coins from his eyes, he heard hooves again outside the window, and this time he looked to see the young woman with the mole on her cheek, driving Jasper’s beautiful borrowed carriage.

“You left something behind,” she said simply, pulling him up beside her.

“Drive,” said Jasper.

And drive they did, as far as they dared without harming the carriage or the horses, until they reached another inn. It was perched at the edge of a high cliff, with a view stretching out over flat plains beyond.

The innkeeper assumed they were married, and gave them a room. They didn’t argue. They curled together on the bed, fully clothed, quiet and calm. After a while the woman fell asleep, and Jasper got up carefully. He went out onto the balcony and stood there looking at the view as the sun set around him.

The woman woke, and stirred. There was a strong arm around her, and a hand stroking her cheek. She lifted her own hand to stroke it in turn, but the other was gnarled and rough. She tried to pull away but it was over her mouth and the arm was dragging her off.

When Jasper turned back to the room, the woman was gone. From the other side of the inn he heard horses whinnying, and he crossed the passageway to see through the window, the carriage. And tied to the carriage, the woman’s hands. And to a nearby tree, the woman’s feet. And the carriage itself, balanced on the edge of the cliff. The horses gone. And the only thing stopping the carriage from following them was a rope, held straining in the hands of the traveller.

Jasper was terrified. The woman was screaming, and he called back through the window, said he would come to her aid. He ran down the stairs, out the back, to the yard, where he stopped suddenly at the sight of those cold grey eyes above a cold hard smile.

“Hello, Jasper. How nice to see you,” said the traveller.

He started forward, his eyes on the woman, whose own eyes in turn were pleading with him. He was desperate to help.

But the traveller moved his arm slightly, the carriage moved slightly over the cliff, the woman screamed. Jasper didn’t dare move.

“What do you want?” he said in desperation.

“I want to die,” said the traveller, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“What?”

“Look down, Jasper.”

At Jasper’s feet was a crossbow, and the traveller nodded at it. “Pick it up,” he said. “Shoot me.”

And Jasper did pick it up, and he raised it, and he aimed it, and it felt as though maybe, finally, it could all be over.

“Jasper,” called the woman. “No!” He couldn’t shoot. The traveller was the only thing stopping that carriage from pulling the girl apart.

The traveller was laughing. It was a hideous sound.

And suddenly, Jasper knew what the traveller would do. He ran forwards, but it was no use.

“You’re pathetic,” said the traveller. And he let go of the rope.

And the sounds, they were awful. Creaking, and crunching, and one last scream.

Jasper switched direction, running to the woman instead.

But he was too late. He found himself clutching at flesh and covered in blood, and when he looked up, the traveller was gone.

Jasper ran again. Through trees, across fields, down dark country paths until he found himself at the side of another carriageway.

Towards him was coming a carriage, beautiful, and driven by a smiling young man.

Jasper held his thumb out for a lift.

The young man stopped, and as he reached out and pulled Jasper up beside him, Jasper did nothing but turn those cold, grey eyes and say very quietly, “Drive.”


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The Ancient Golden-Eyed Storyteller

What a wonderfully evocative piece of archaeology.


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BBC Radio

For those who wanted details, here is some more stuff about the thing I'm doing on Sat. It's a BBC radio thing. Don't get excited, it's not a Clare thing. I (and Felix) will be just one minion amongst a couple of hundred, and it's highly unlikely that anything directly attributable to me or my son will be recognisable in the final product. Plus I've been a bit ill again, so may not make it.

"BBC RaW and the Philharmonic Orchestra are joining forces for the day to create a new RaW Christmas story with adults and to narrate and record (with sound effects) the existing RaW Max and Lara titles - Who Ate all the Pies, Shooting Stars, The Circus Finds a new Star and The Circus Makes a Difference.

In the morning the adults will join a storywriting workshop with our RaW facilitator, and together will create a new Max and Lara Christmas story - a story based on Christmas Eve.

While they're doing that the kids will be in the Philharmonic Studio, learning how to do the sound effects with percussion instruments, using their voice etc, to the existing Max and Lara stories with staff from the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra.

In the afternoon... all will be reunited, and BBC presenters and a SPECIAL GUEST will narrate the stories, with help from the audience!

The stories will be recorded, and will be broadcast on Christmas Eve on BBC Radio Manchester.

If budget permits, we'll be putting the stories onto CD to distribute to people who attend the day.

They will also be placed on the BBC website, and potentially made available to ALL BBC Local Radio stations to broadcast over Christmas (40 stations)"

There's also a chance I'll be doing some Xmas storytelling in Heaton Park on Sunday afternoon, but will depend on health (nothing to worry about, just a bug).


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Something Else

OK, I'm done writing book reviews now. It's like the dirt under your fingernails. Save it up and then clean it all out in one great satisfying go. Except most people probably don't do that and it's not really fair (or accurate) to compare book reviews to dirt. But apart from that, it's exactly the same.

Problem is, I don't have much else to tell you about. No book news (yet), and I've not been well so I've been sitting about on my rocking chair a lot and not doing much else.

I love my rocking chair. I can't remember what life was like without it.

This Friday I'm doing some more storytelling at the Chopin Bar in Chorlton (Manchester), but tickets were very limited and will almost certainly have all been booked by now. I'm hoping to write a new story for this tomorrow, health permitting.

Then on Saturday me and Felix are doing some, er, thing. Something on the telly. Or maybe it was the radio. At the BBC. Or perhaps it's Granada. Something to do with storytelling. I think we're helping to make a soundtrack. Er. This is what it's like in my brain most of the time. All a bit vague really.

Also, me and a delightful laydee wot I 'ave never met called Lynda Mangoro have created a kids' book together. We're getting the proofs this week, then once we're happy with it all we'll start flogging it. Me and that Ms Pepper are doing one, too. About a dragon. Called Stinky.

Apart from that, I ain't bin doin' nuffink. Well, I went to York. And walked some dogs. And cuddled some kittens, and laughed at their antics (they played Backgammon with us this evening). Nuffink else though.

Maybe tomorrow I'll think of something more interesting to say. Or maybe not.


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Many Stories to Tell

Last year, a good friend introduced me to the storytelling scene, by way of a festival in Shropshire called Festival at the Edge (aka FATE). I've been to plenty of music festivals and this wasn't much different, except that each stage was populated by a storyteller instead of a musician.

It's an ancient tradition, and predates the printed word by a long way. People entertaining each other by gathering round a fire and telling each other tales. Not reading, not writing, just telling. Each story passed on by word of mouth and embellished a little as it goes. Personalised to fit the teller.

I did the "Ooh, I could do that" thing I tend to do. It took me a while to get round to climbing up on a stage, but as soon as I did I realised I was right. And that I never stop telling stories, anyway. They're normally anecdotes about things that have happened to me or people I know, or something I heard on the news or saw on the telly, but long before I came across the oral storytelling scene I've called them stories. "Have I told you the story of when I got run over by a bus?" I say, to a chorus of groans from my long-suffering friends.

I've always loved reading stories out loud too, which is another thing I inflict on drunken gatherings, particularly if it's Dr Seuss. I even wrote a novel after attending dozens of author events when my partner worked at Waterstone's, specifically because I liked the idea of reading sections from my own book on stage. When The Dying of Delight was published, me and Ally spent weeks creating a whole multimedia event around me performing sections from the book. And then there was the performance poetry, which I used to write and present. Being on a stage, using words, it's something I've always enjoyed, right back to when I was an amateur actress, or when I was in a band and writing and performing my own lyrics.

Storytelling doesn't involve the written word. It's not the same as story reading, because you don't memorise stories word for word. You learn the bones of a story, and then you improvise. You tailor the performance for the audience. You interact with them. You use your body.

And it's fucking great.

It fits in with tons of things I've always enjoyed. Writing stories, telling stories, using words, using my voice, performing on stage, interacting with an audience. And it complements the writing. Gives me a greater understanding of the bare bones of story, and instant feedback to go with it. Written stories and told stories are different in many ways, have different requirements, but a lot in common too.

And so the other week I found myself in a stable yard on Hallowe'en, standing on a wooden carriage festooned with cobwebs and performing a collection of stories (some written by me, some by Joseph Jacobs) to an audience of adults and children, with people milling about in the background and cheeky ten-year-olds sitting at my feet and heckling me. It wasn't easy, but it was fun. And very different to the upstairs room of a pub, a couple of days later, where I performed a story I'd written specially for the occasion called Butterfly Soul. It was very personal and I welled up towards the end. That was fine, even planned, but my voice was cracking as I left the stage, and I was worried I might have gone overboard. Except that the faces and the hush in the room told me, like no review ever could, that it was a success. It felt like an old classic, rather than written by me that afternoon.

I wrote this post because somebody asked for a report-back, and I wanted to try and explain storytelling. It's given me a creative boost, and it's got me writing again. There's a lot more where that came from.

So far I've created three stories for telling, two of which have been written down and are available for sale (including the one which made me cry). I've found it doesn't work if I write them first. I have to tell them first, then transfer them to the page afterwards - and one of them hasn't been transcribed yet. It's a lovely new way of doing things.

One of the jobs I have lined up for the next few weeks is to create various materials advertising my services. That'll include storytelling CDs for sale, and sample audio files on t'internet somewhere. But in the meantime, I may as well do some advance publicity: I'm available for weddings, children's birthday parties, schools and nurseries... anywhere you can think of where some stories might go down well. Modern, traditional, for kids, for adults, and I'll write tailor-made stories to fit the occasion. I got a request the other week for a housewarming party, so... well, anywhere really. I'm a storytelling tart. Currently the only audio available is this link here, which is a recording of me performing a story I wrote for Big Blogger. But anyway, you know. I'm available. Hire me.


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Butterfly Story

I'm off to do more storytelling tonight, and I've writtten another story for the occasion (Briton's Protection, Manchester City Centre, 8pm). It's called Butterfly Soul. People who've been reading this blog for a while may recognise the reference, but if not try looking here.

As with the last one, copies can be bought from me for £3.50 (including p+p). Email me (remove "spam" from the email address - it's there to stop spam) or indicate in the comments box. It's a sad one, this one.


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Small Extra Plug

One of those unexpected Blankets Of Gloom has descended on my head this morning for no particular reason, coming as it does with such pointless wails as "What am I doing with my life?" and "Why haven't I earnt any money?" and "Fuck oh fuck oh fuck," but tonight I have planned the ideal pick-me-up.

I spent half of yesterday writing a brand-new specially-tailored ghost story, all about Heaton Park (North Manchester), which is where I shall be telling it tonight to an audience of kids and adults and Whoever The Hell Turns Up. It's called Screaming Willie and if you want a copy, it's £3.50 (including p+p). Email me (remove "spam" from the email address - it's there to stop spam) or indicate in the comments box.

So, if you fancy being a Whoever who The Hell will Turn Up, then please do come along and help cheer me up.

Details here. And it's free.

Oh, and as my son and his friend sang in the car last night...

We wish you a terrible Hallowe'en,
We wish you a terrible Hallowe'en,
We wish you a terrible Hallowe'en,
And a horrid Bonfire Night.


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Stuff Happening Next Week

Oops, head, forget, not screwed on (can I get away with using cliches if I rearrange the words and miss a few out? I think I can).

You'd never guess I'm trying to make a living out of this lark - anyone'd think it was a secret. Anyway, I have Things To Announce.

On Wednesday (31st Oct, Hallowe'en) next week I'll be having my Very First Gig as a storyteller - telling a scary story to a bunch of kids at the Farm Centre in Heaton Park (North Manchester) at about 7.30pm. I'll let you know when I know more.

On Friday next week (2nd Nov) I'll be telling a story at Word of Mouth in the Briton's Protection (it's a pub), central Manchester. The evening starts 8pm. Not really a gig, and I'll only be on for ten minutes, but I was asked to do it and am taking it seriously.

On Saturday next week (3rd Nov) I'll be in Liverpool, running a short creative writing workshop as part of the Loved Up In Libraries thingy. I think it's at Picton library, in the afternoon. I'll update this post when I find the info in my deluge of undealt-with emails (sigh).


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From Track to Sky

I went to a wedding on Saturday. It was a very nice wedding, and everybody had fun, and we sang and we danced, and... ah. Yes. I forgot about that.

You know how weddings always have A Wrong Bit somewhere along the way? Traditionally people have drunken fights, but if there aren't any pugilists on hand there's bound to be some kind of Dreadful Incident or other. Like the time my grandmother had an aneurism the day after my uncle's wedding, or the old lady that died at an Irish wedding my inlaws went to recently.

Well, at least nobody died. And my family are a bunch of pacifist academic liberals, so a fight was never likely. But although they're not in the habit of throwing fists about, they do rather like to throw elbows, knees and any other body part that's throwable when they're drunk and there's a dancefloor. And that was all great, until a 78-yr-old woman got in the way of one of the aforementioned body parts and got herself whacked across the dancefloor and into a radiator, which she hit rather spectacularly with her head and then lay there, unconscious for a while.

Of course, as soon as she came round the band started playing again, but she wasn't well enough to move, and although most people were happy to overlook the body at the edge of the dance floor and keep boogying, a Sensible Aunt intervened.

And so, we sat. On the edges of Glasgow on a Saturday night, waiting for an ambulance that didn't come for over an hour... but lo, it arrived! At the same time as the pre-booked taxis to take everybody back to the not-very-near hotel.

Ah well, what the heck. We all trooped back to the hotel and drank whisky and hot chocolate until 4am, and my several million cousins and I got more drunk and nattered about nothing in particular, and I wholeheartedly recommend it as a way of spending time on a Saturday night.

What I do not recommend, wholeheartedly or otherwise, is that you follow it by only 3.5 hours' sleep and an 8.5-hour train journey back to Manchester.

It would have been only six hours, were I not so spectacularly transportmentally challenged. Did I tell you about the time I got on a train just because it said it was going to Manchester, even though I'd only just left Manchester and was in fact on my way to Staffordshire? Or the time I got off the bus at the wrong place? Or the time I had flat tyres? Or the time I ran out of fuel when there was a panther on the loose? Or the other time I ran out of fuel, or the other one or the other one...

I'm not too bad at getting myself onto or into various forms of transport. The problem is that once I'm there, I assume my job is done. Such minor trifles as holding onto bus tickets, checking fuel gauges, paying drivers or changing trains go right out of my head.

On Sunday I did really well. I ordered a taxi, I got in it, I got out of it, I paid the driver, I stood on the correct platform, I got on the right train, I got off it again at the right place, I even managed to find the correct train-replacement-bus AND got off it again, and all with an hour to spare. This, I think, was my downfall. "Ooh," I thought. "A whole hour." A more travel-savvy person would have thought something more like, "Ooh, a whole fifty minutes plus ten minutes for finding and getting on the next train," but not me.

I looked at my watch a couple of times as the hour of departure drew near and thought, "No no, not time yet" and continued to read my book and munch my sandwich.

I had brought sandwiches with me, but they'd been in my bag over 24 hours and smelt a little suspect. And tasted slightly wrong too. But there was a little shop immediately opposite my seat, so that was OK. I really couldn't be bothered gathering all my belongings together and risk losing my seat into the bargain, so I turned to the man next to me and said, "Look, I'm just leaving this black rucksack here while I go into the shop. It's not a bomb."

Amazingly, he believed me.

(it wasn't a bomb)

So anyway, with two minutes to spare I gathered all my stuff up, went in search of a display, arrived just in time to see my train disappearing from the display, puzzled over it for a minute or two, asked a man, who said, "It's down the other end! Turn right, then left! You've got ten seconds!"

So I ran, really fast, and I huffed, and I dodged the stupid standing-staring people, and it was all right. The train was still on the platform.

"NO!" said a voice.

I ignored it.

"STOP!" said the voice.

I ignored it again. Probably some nutter-lady.

"THE DOORS ARE LOCKED! NO!" said the voice, in a tone you'd use if you were looking after a naughty child who kept doing something they weren't supposed to do. Somebody else's child. And you were somebody who really hated kids.

I turned to see a frowny-looking lady in a uniform, wagging her finger and being all cross with me for wanting to get on her train.

"But it's right there!" I said. "And I need to get on it!"

The train wasn't going anywhere. It was just standing on the platform. The guard was ambling up to the driver's cab. I looked at him appealingly. He raised his eyes sympathetically, but "NO!" said Nasty Lady again, and I stood there and watched helplessly as the train failed to leave and the doors failed to open and Horrible Pouty Woman glared at me like I was some kind of train-entering vandal.

And finally the train left, and I started to cry, and had to go and hide in the toilets and sob a little, or at least I would have done if there wasn't a long queue of doddering toilet-visitors all failing to understand the basic concept of putting-20p-in-a-slot and me standing well-behavedly in line behind them with tears falling down my cheeks but finally losing patience and shouting at some poor woman who was struggling to understand the big green arrow pointing which way she should go, "GO!" I screamed at her. "Through there! Now!" and she did and I did and then I hid in a cubicle and cried and hoped she guessed I wasn't quite feeling myself.

But then I realised I was in the middle of Edinburgh and it was two hours until the next train so I went and had a look at Edinburgh and cor blimey stone me, but what a beautiful city it is. I climbed something called the Scott Monument all the way to the top, despite being slightly too fat for the final staircase, and squeeezed myself out the top with a little pop! and admired the amazing views. And the sun was sunning and I felt a little better.

When I got on the next train, Big Old Meany Woman was there again, with her clipboard. I gave her a Hard Stare.

And then spent another 3.5 hours on trains and it was pretty grim to be honest.

Still, Edinburgh's nice.


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Telling Stories

I had a great day on Friday. I spent the afternoon rehearsing, and then in the evening I met up with one of my best friends and we went to a Manchester pub.

I was expecting a small group of people in a grotty pub back room. But I had forgotten how beautiful this particular pub is, and underestimated the popularity of my chosen activity. Even though I took it very seriously and spent a good couple of hours practising, I still thought my audience would be small, and didn't anticipate the stage, and the rows of chairs, and the large room packed out with discerning people.

Nor did I realise that there would be professionals performing before the amateurs took their turn. By the time the opportunity arose for the ordinary folk to have a go on the stage, I was ready to pull out. I could never compete. I'd be a flop. But I'd spent all that time practising...

Ah well, I thought. Serve me right if I have to eat a little humble pie and acknowledge my incompetence. "Excuse me," I said nervously to The Woman With The List, stuttering and swallowing my words. "I was wondering if maybe I could have a little go..."

They were very busy though. I thought they wouldn't be able to fit me in. Except they did.

"The trick is," advised the friendly professional beforehand, "to know when people are getting bored. If they look bored, just stop."

I stumbled up to the stage, started to introduce myself...

...and bloody hell, I think I was as surprised as anyone else. Instead of the nervous newcomer, needing a little encouragement on her first time, the stage worked its magic, the adrenalin took over and I was A Performer again.

I'd forgotten how stages affect me. I'd forgotten how much I love being in the limelight, how well I respond, what a consummate dyed-in-the-bone attention seeker I am.

I sang, I joked, I used silly voices, I watched them laugh and smile and catch their breath and I realised, this is something I can do. Will do, again and again. Will be paid to do.

I'm a storyteller.

Available for weddings, bar mitzvahs, corporate events, whatever.

And bloody hell, it ain't half fun.


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