The Storyteller’s ArrivalOn an empty planet in a desolate corner of the universe there was a desert of dusty jewels. A bony old horse called Chuzzlewit pulled a squeaking, ramshackle wooden caravan, slowly but quite surely. Multicolored crystals crunched under the wheels and the caravan rocked gently side to side, trying to find the carriageways that criss-crossed this once-busy world.
Guiding the horse and the carriage was an old man in a tattered velvet coat. He was worn thin, with a silver mustache, and on his shoulder sat an irritable inky-black raven called Evermore. Together they inched through the devastation.
It was hard to imagine what this landscape used to be. A glorious city of glass and steel or meadows of jewel-bright flowers? Now it was all just the same for miles and miles: chunks of crystal and powdery sand. The old man and his two friends pulled toward the horizon, even though it looked as if there were no places left for them to visit.
Once upon another time the old man had been a storyteller of sorts, traveling the many worlds, drawing curious minds into his caravan filled with exotic books. Now the carriage was empty, apart from one single volume.
“I’ve had a look in that last book,” cackled Evermore. “I can hardly make head nor tail of it. It’s all in different languages and it’s been written by a hundred different hands.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the Storyteller mildly.
“So even if we ever meet anyone again on this road, that book will never mean anything to them. They’ll never be able to read it.”
The old man shrugged. “We’ll see.” He was used to the raven’s endless naysaying. They had been companions for a very long time.
“Sometimes I think you don’t want this library to continue, Evermore,” said Chuzzlewit. “You put such a downer on things. Don’t you want our master to get his stories out there?”
The raven sneered: “I don’t think it matters, to be honest. Who cares about stories?”
“I care,” said the horse wheezily. “The Storyteller and I both care!”
“Look at this place!” the raven cried in exasperation. He flapped his dusty wings and a couple of feathers dropped off him. “It’s desolate and lifeless. It needs . . . it needs so much more. Water, fire, people, energy. All the things that life requires. Stories are just a luxury on top of that! Who cares about stories when there isn’t anything else?”
The Storyteller shook his head at his squabbling friends. “When there’s nothing else left in the world, that’s when we need the stories most of all.”
“Sentimental old fool,” the raven said.
Chuzzlewit gasped. “Don’t you say that! We would both be skeletons lying by the roadside without this kind old man in our lives.”
“Speak for yourself!” snickered the raven, but he knew the old nag was right.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter if our last remaining book is unreadable and messy and the work of many hands,” the Storyteller piped up suddenly. “Do you know why?”
The raven sighed. “No. Tell us, old man. Why is that?”
The Storyteller smiled craftily. “Because all the stories that ever there were are all inside my head.”
The horse cried out: “Hurrah!”
The raven said, “Rubbish!” or words to that effect.
“It’s true,” the old man beamed. “I have memorized all the best ones. The most important ones. Or the ones, shall I say, that I liked the most.”
The raven wasn’t impressed. “And what use is that? What help is that going to be to anyone?”
The old man didn’t reply, for he had wearied of arguing with the shabby and ill-tempered bird by now.
On went their journey through the dusty, trackless wastes. Time and space were great dissemblers these days, since the crashing wave of death had surged through all creation. It had leveled and destroyed until even the dust and dark had been robbed of meaning.
Still, the old man clung to what he knew:
The raven’s claws in his shoulder, a tell of life’s sharpness.
Chuzzlewit’s kindness, which softened the pain.
The rocking of the caravan, a reminder that the journey went on with both bad and good.
And the stories, of course. Always the stories.
My purpose, the old man reminded himself, is to traverse the ruined universe and find people who will listen to my tales. Through the telling, the past can be reborn anew. This dusty, forgotten universe can return to life.
A tinge of doubt set in. Mostly he was hopeful, like Chuzzlewit, but the bleak words of the raven sat heavily with him. Could anyone really be bothered to sit listening to stories now that life had become a constant scrabble for survival? When it was just so hard to scrape a living out of the dusty earth? Some of the few survivors they had met on the road had been frightful brutes. They ate rocks or weeds or even each other. Far from listening to stories, they had tried to capture the Storyteller and his friends and bring them to harm or to the cookpot. There had been some hair-raising escapes over the years.
But the old man still managed to hold on to his hope that someday they would find just the right audience. They would find the people who would sit and listen, enthralled, to the tales he had learned by heart.
And then at the dark end of one day—a drab, dusty day like any other—his dearest wish came true.
The ramshackle carriage drew to a halt in the middle of the desert. Because at last the Storyteller had found company.
Here in the middle of absolutely nowhere there was a small fire burning with a fierce intensity. What time of night was it? Impossible to tell under that starless, moonless sky. The Storyteller just knew somehow that this was the moment. This was the very moment he had been searching for.
A young man sat there, cross-legged on the sand. He had a huge grin, a charismatic grin, and he fixed it on the Storyteller before jumping up. Full of glee, he danced around in rings as the doddery old man climbed down from his carriage.
“Are you who I’ve been looking for?” the Storyteller asked. He was wary as well as weary. He hardly dared believe he could’ve reached this part of his own long story.
His fingers fumbled with Chuzzlewit’s harness. Once released, the horse dropped and rolled in the dust to ease his backache. Evermore flapped around their heads, cawing. Was that a touch of happiness in the raven’s harsh cries? The old man couldn’t tell, but he could feel the rise of his own heart and could hardly believe it. Company at last!
“Come here,” the young man told them. “Come and sit down next to me. Please. Tell me your story.”
And so began a whole night of storytelling—or was it many nights, a thousand and one nights? The Storyteller had carried his tales from one world to another in hope and sometimes despair, trying to recall all those preposterous escapades. He knew he must pass them on to this eager young man before his time was up.
Was the young man really prepared to embark on this series of improbable adventures?
“Oh, hell yes! Yes of course I am!” The young fellow grinned eagerly by the light of the fire. “Let’s go!”
So, with the watchful eyes of the raven upon him and the whickering of his exhausted horse soft in his ears, the old Storyteller embarked on the first of his tales . . .
GiantHe was an automaton. He wasn’t exactly sure what that meant. He just knew he wasn’t a man like other men.
He was puzzled by everything. Why wasn’t he the same?
He had huge blocky feet that he would lift high and smash down on the ground so that everything around him quaked. His hands were not like human hands; they were more like pincers or claws. They were designed to hold weapons or equipment. They weren’t made to hold other people’s hands. He tried to make them touch things softly, but it was no good. He tried so hard to be gentle, but it was hopeless.
And his face? It was only rudimentary; he could see that now. Simple slots where the eyes and mouth went on a human. There was a lamp in his head that glowed brightly to show that he was working correctly. It flickered red when he started to think for himself.
He longed to be good and do the things he was told. He had a professor who was responsible for him, who said he had created him. Made him out of the best metal with his own clever, fleshy hands. The professor had wild frizzy hair like a dandelion clock. “You must do as I and my companions tell you,” the old professor said. “We have the best intentions for you and for all the world. You must obey us without question, without thought.”
The robot man stood to attention like a brave tin soldier. He towered above the real people, and he listened to what they told him. Yes, he would do exactly what they told him to do. Life was easier that way. No questions, no worries, no flickering red light to confuse him.
They made him live in a cupboard, where he stood upright and slept all day. He waited patiently for them to wake him. They would open the door and tell him: “We need you. You must carry out this special task for us.” Oh, he was glad to snap to attention. To have a simple purpose!
Copyright © 2026 by Steve Cole. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
