Chapter 3: The Secret

Previously: Chapter 1: The Watching Woods, Chapter 2: The Cleansing River

Khaman was enjoying the silence of the morning walk back to the village when heard it before he saw it. Technically, he didn't see it so much as he experienced it. The sound was overwhelming and it blurred his vision. His face went instantly numb, but  his body went into a defensive stance, even as he tried to regain his footing in the soft snow. With a gloved hand, he cleared his eyes of the wet snow, but more snowballs were headed his way and he braced himself.

Using his staff, he batted away the remaining white projectiles, although a couple still grazed his hair. Such deadly precision, he thought as he scanned the trees, trying to see his attacker. His staff obliterated one snowball, but a spray of wet snow hit him in the face, obscuring his vision again. His hands went up instinctively, trying to clear his eyes when he heard an ungodly howl.

Elder Khaman knew all the calls of the creatures of the wildwood, but he had never heard such a mournful wail. It was deep, yet shrill, and it was close, too close. He was reaching for his knife when the creature barreled into him, knocking him to the ground and his staff flew from his hand. The creature roared as its claws pummeled his chest. He put up a gloved hand to push the beast away, but the glove flew off and Khaman's bare hand connected with the bare face of the beast and he felt warm skin.

He rolled away, got his bearings, and finally saw Emilie as she crouched before him, teeth bared and tears streaming down her face. Her face was already turning red from the slap he had given her, blood flowing from her nose, but she didn't seem to notice. "What are you doing? Stop!" roared Khaman, reaching for his staff.

"TRAITOR!" she howled and launched herself at him. Khaman abandoned his staff and caught her outstretched hands, twisted around, and wrapped her in his arms. Emilie tried to bite him, but his winter hides were too tough, so she wrestled and fought his grip in vain.

"Calm yourself, calm yourself," whispered Khaman. "You do not understand, but I will explain." Emilie went limp in his arms, but now they both wept. The shaman relaxed his grip, but still held her close, cradling her as he did for his own children years ago.

"How can you expect me to understand," Emilie said, looking away from him, focusing on the staff that still lay in the snow. "I saw you feeding that Jotun, speaking to it as if it were a friend and not the monster that has killed so many of our tribe." Khaman could feel her tense up at the memory of it, but he only held her closer.

"I knew this day would come, when I would be discovered. It has been a difficult secret to maintain, but of all the people to learn of it, I am relieved it is you Emilie." With one hand, he gathered up some snow, packed it into a lemon-shaped ball, and dabbed her face, cleaning off the blood. "After watching you grow into the woman that you are today, I am confident that you of all people will understand."

With the stream gurgling in the background and a light snow falling all around them, he told her. He told her about how, months ago, he was traveling back to the village after one of his meditative retreats when a sudden storm flashed overheard. His ears were still ringing from the thunderclap when lightning struck the tree not 10 feet from where he stood, and then he blacked out.

When he regained consciousness, he could feel the weight of the tree on his chest. He struggled to get out from under it when he noticed a second tree falling very slowly towards him. All he could see were the tree branches and the sky behind them, but there was something odd about how the tree moved. When it settled on the ground, the leaved covered him, but the branches seemed to avoid his head, as if the tree was being ... careful how how it lay on the ground. That's when he noticed the foot.

It was a Frost Giant's foot, connected to a very large, very alive Jotun. He saw it turn on its heel to walk away from him, only to return in a few minutes with an expanse of brush, brambles, and bushes which were placed on top of trees. Khaman tried to cry out for help, but suddenly the sky was hidden from view and all he could see were two giant blue eyes. The Jotun stared at him intently, then softly shook his head before disappearing from view.

Khaman managed to place couple of thick branches under the tree that was upon him, easing the pressure on his chest, but held his breath when he felt the tremors. He could hear the boughs around him cracking and a guttural growling filled the air. Suddenly three Frost Giants walked into view. Because Khaman was so well hidden, the Jotun took no notice of him. They gestured and shoved each other when a fourth Jotun appeared. The four of them seemed to discussing something when one of the Jotun uprooted a tree and struck another Jotun across the head. There was a brief struggle, the Jotuns stood suddenly and barked, which Khaman realized was laughter, and strode off into the woods. The tremors from their strides soon faded away.

Khaman could not see what had happened to the Jotun who was struck, but after what seemed like hours, the bleeding Jotun reappeared and removed the brush, brambles, and trees, and then collapsed upon the ground. Now freed, his first thought was to run, but as he watched the blue blood pour down the Jotun's face, he could not will himself to move and his instincts kicked in.

Keeping an eye on the unconscious giant, he removed his pack and took out a blanket. He cautiously approached, but froze when the giant's eyes opened and watched him. He summoned up his courage and moved forward until he could place his hands on the giant's face. Soon, his blanket was soaked in Jotun's blood, but  the shaman used his healing herbs and called upon the Gods for blessing. He noticed that the Jotun's eyes were closed now, and although his breathing was labored, it was steady and he smiled when he realized the Jotun was asleep.

The smell of roasted meat shook the Jotun from his sleep. There was no sign of the human, but the  smell of fire and food was intoxicating. The Jotun struggled to his feet and followed the smell until he found the shaman seated by a fire near the river roasting a stag on the open flame. When Khaman saw the Jotun approach, he faced the giant, bowed, and backed up slowly. The Jotun fell upon the deer hungrily, consuming it in almost two bites, and spit out the bones. When his gaze fell upon Khaman, the old shaman bowed to the giant, who then returned his bow and then walked off into the woods.

"Since then, we've met once or twice a month  and formed an odd, but I believe, sincere friendship," Khaman chuckled, amazed that he even uttered these words.

"So it saved your life. The Jotun saved your life," Emilie muttered, bewildered. "How can that be? It is not possible."

"That's why I thought and I was there," he smiled. "Not only did he hide me, he fought to protect me from the other Jotuns. I have spent the past months trying to understand why, trying to understand him, trying to really understand them."

"Do you speak the language of the Frost Giants?" asked Emilie.

"Not very well," chuckled Khaman. "But by using symbols and gestures, we've both found a way to speak to each other. Even though it is challenging, we've both learn much from each other. There is much we misunderstand about each other."

Emilie crawled out of his embrace, stood up, and stretched. The snow was still falling, but the late afternoon sun pierced the clouds with sharp rays. "So now what do we do?" she asked, looking towards the village. "The people need to know what you know about the Jotuns. They need to know the truth."

"I don't know," frowned Khaman, retrieving his gloves and staff. "So much of our history, our mythology has centered around this idea that the Jotuns are crazed, evil creatures. This is not an idea that will be easily forgotten and if we approach it the wrong way, the people may turn on us. The violent history with the Jotuns runs deep."

Emilie knelt by the stream and plunged her hands in the icy water. She could feel the heartbeat of the land coursing through her skin, but this time it made her feel tiny and alone. Everything she thought she knew was thrown into question and a tiny seed of despair formed in the pit of her stomach. She pushed it aside and faced the shaman. "I know what it's like to be misunderstood and feared. We cannot ignore the truth because it's difficult to face. It's what you have always taught us."

"Truth, but there's another problem," said the shaman, planting his staff in the snow. "And now it has become your problem as well, Wolf Girl." Khaman placed both his hands on Emilie's shoulders and held her gaze. "You and I need to find a way to end this Jotun's life, and in turn, save our people."


This work by John David Hickey is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at www.johndavidhickey.ca.

Some stories are missing

I was using a service at Fileden.com to store the story recordings on this site, but for some reason, all the files have been deleted! This means that some of the streaming stories will come up as errors until I replace the files.

So if you notice that a story is no longer playing, please send me an email and I'll fix it.

The Lost Poetix Bag

The Montreal spoken word community seriously rocks. We are so blessed to have such an open and welcoming community. Last year, I dipped my toe into the spoken word community with some hesitation, not sure how they would react to a storyteller with all these poets. I had heard horror stories from other communities that stated that the spoken word community and the storytelling community stayed on opposite ends of the road and very rarely crossed to see what was happening on the others side. Supposedly, the storytellers didn't like the raw edginess of the spoken word world, and the spoken worders didn't like the traditional format of the storyteller's art.

But not in Montreal. For over a year, I have been warmly welcomed into various spoken word events and labeled as the Storyteller. The audiences have been receptive and generous and it has been a great, rewarding experience. Much love to Montreal's spoken word community!

So there's this event called MadPoetix run by the great Kym Dominique-Ferguson that happens on the second Sunday of the month (soon to be the second Saturday of each month in 2013). I've been going off and on for over a year now and I've told quite a few tales. Tonight was my return to MadPoetix after having taken the summer off, and I promised a new story that was a sordid tale from Kym's past.

This is a great frame story that I have used several times already. It allows for lots of customization, so I can throw in details about other people and events and it all seems natural. Enjoy!

I tried to clean up the audio on this recording, but since I used my Android to record it, it is what it is.

The Lost Poetix Bag (6:23) told by JD Hickey

Yuletide Story: The Devil's Canoe

People often ask me if I ever tell original stories or if I ever write my own stories. I usually bristle at this question, as if it suggests that I'm just parroting other people's stories word-for-word. When I  find a story I like, it goes through a transformation as I learn it, change it, drop details, add new details, and slowly make it my own.

You may be able to see a thread in the story that connects it to its traditional source, but the story I tell is mine.

That being said, this is a story that I wrote. I wrote it around the classic Quebecois story La Chasse Galerie, but the presence of the devil's canoe as a plot-device is the only thing I re-used. The rest of it is my own creation.

I don't tell this story often enough, mainly because it's a story I associate with this time of year. It was recorded before a live audience at Chateau Ramezay in Old Montreal in December of 2010.

The Devil's Canoe (11:35) told by JD Hickey

Clarella's Devils

The 10 gold sovereigns disappeared quickly into the witch’s pouch, but these were desperate times. Horace and Matilde craved a child to chase away their despair, which hung from their shoe leather as they dragged themselves through life.

The witch offered them the potion, which simmered in a stained brass cup. Closing her eyes, Matilde whispered a dark promise and drank the bitter liquid, while Horace clung to her and wept.

Nine months to the day, as the crows darkened the sky and filled the night’s silence with their broken songs, Clarella took her first breath and screamed.

As her parents doted on her, Clarella’s eyes were always darting, staring, and then looking away in alarm. Horace always dismissed it and insisted that she would eventually settle down, but he would never truly know how wrong he was.

Clarella knew they were nearby, always watching with those piercing white eyes, so she gave them names. “Hello Griff,” she waved as the demon rounded the corner, dragging its claws along the wall. Griff growled, its grin glinting in the sunlight, and sank into the carpet with a light hiss.
 
-- JD Hickey, November 2012

Les Mensonges Delicieux

I really need to tell more stories in French. I really, really do. In Quebec, there are just more opportunities to tell if I start telling in French and, if I play my cards right, I could become the Jim Corcoran of storytelling.

So a few months ago, André Lemelin asked me to take part in an evening of storytelling at the Maison de la culture de Villeray, Saint-Michel, Parc-Extension. It was a small crowd, but the stage was very nice. I was honored to share the stage with André Lemelin, Patti Warnock, Bernard Antoun, and Jacques Pasquet.

Unfortunately, the show was not being recorded. But at the last minute, I decided to try the recording app on my phone so I would at least have a record of it. It turns out, the recording quality wasn't so bad!

When I rehearsed this story, I had it all down perfectly. But of course, the presence of an audience and a microphone challenged my composure, so my telling isn't as smooth as I would have liked it to me. I really need more practice telling in French, and I need to slow my pacing down so I can mentally prepare to say each sentence properly so I don't auto-correct so much. Practice, practice: that's how you get to Carnegie Hall.

So with just a bit of editing for sound quality, here's the recording from that night.

Les Mensonges Delicieux (7:34) told by JD Hickey

Story: Zahir and the Well

Back in 2009, during the Festival Internationale du Conte du Quebec, I went to see Alan Shain and Kim Kilpatrick tell stories at the Westmount Library. Alan told a story that I found especially moving and I suddenly remembered it this past spring. I hunted about for the story and found several different versions, and my memory of Alan's story was pretty spotty, so I reconstructed the story as best as I could.

I contacted Alan in the spring and asked if I could retell his story. He said that he and Kim had reconstructed the story from the traditional Sufi story called Half Boy, but as long as I gave he and Kim credit, that should be fine. Thank you Alan and Kim!

This past week, I was performing at Kuper Academy High School in Kirkland, Quebec. I managed to record 3 of the 4 shows (the recording application crashed on one of the shows), so here's my recording of Zahir and the Well. I'm telling it to a class room of 12-13 year old kids who were very quiet during the show and very loud at the end.

I'd also like to dedicate this story to my friend Brynn who told me she was very moved by this tale when I told it for the first time in August 2012.

Zahir and the Well (5:13) told by JD Hickey

A Story of Loss and Comfort

Today is Halloween, which for most people is a time to dress up, visit or be visited by the neighbors, and share tricks and treats. An odd consequence to this holiday is that this is one of the few times when you actually meet your neighbors!

There is also another side to Halloween or Samhain as the modern Neo-Pagans refer to it: this is a day when you take a moment to remember loved ones that have passed on,  either in the past year or longer.

When I lost my Dad back in the summer of 2007, it was unbelievably difficult to deal with, but it's something that we all need to face at some point: the loss of a parent. His death kickstarted something I called the Year of the Firsts: the first Christmas without Dad, the first New Year without Dad, Dad's first birthday without him, my first birthday without Dad, etc. The good news is that as the year progresses, it gets easier to accept the idea that he has passed on. Of course, I still miss my Dad and there are  days when I tear up at his memory (like right now, for instance).

After my Year of the Firsts, I told this story at festival and it felt right. Whenever I hear of a friend who has lost someone, I've been wanting to share this story because it brought me a great deal of comfort with  my own sense of loss. I wanted to wait until I had a live version of this telling, but I had to settle for a studio recording instead. I'm hoping to have some music composed to add to it soon.

On this Halloween, I wish you pleasant memories of your lost loved ones and remind you that you do not grieve alone.

The Hunter's Son (4:45) told by JD Hickey

October: Anti-Bullying Month

Because October is National Anti-Bullying Month, I am reposting this Raven story. In this tale, Raven not only faces down several bullies, but he learns about courage for the first time, which is what everyone needs to be able to deal with bullies.

There is a great focus in the media on bullying in the schoolyard and how it affects children. While this is very real and very true, bullying doesn't end when school is out for summer. We face bullies in our families, in our friends, at work, at play, and even within ourselves. Recently, a news piece arose where a local TV anchor had to deal with a stranger who attempted to bully her using her weight as a weapon. Here's how she dealt with that.

There are many, many Raven tales where he defends the people against one threat or another, but I like this particular story because Raven has moment where bullying fills his heart with fear for the first time. Dealing with that fear is how we must face our own bullies so that they do not control who we are or what we can accomplish.

Note: the drumming this piece is by The Dragon Ritual Drummers and is used with permission.

A Sample Clip from Northern Exposure

Riding with the Winds

So... I don't know if you remember, but back in early June of 2012, I had the immense honour of appearing with Concerto Della Donna in McGill's Pollack Hall during the Northern Exposure fundraiser. I was called to take part as the storyteller to tell the classic Norwegian tale East of the Sun and West of the Moon (image taken from çizgili masallar zaman blog, artist Mercer Mayer). The hall was almost filled to capacity with over 500 people in attendance.

This was the most ambitious thing I have ever attempted and even up to hours before the show itself, I wasn't sure I was up to the task. Fortunately, everything went smoothly and we got through it. My heartfelt thanks to maestro Iwan Edwards for his infinite patience and passionate guidance, and to my beloved Sarah for calming me down and helping rehearse the piece until I got the timing right.

Then this past weekend, I was sent the recording of the entire show, including the piece I worked on with the choir. Due to restrictions with rights and such, I can't post the whole thing, but I can post a clip (which is 2 minutes of the 30-minute piece). In this piece, the heroine is traveling with the East Wind in the hopes of finding her prince who is trapped in the castle that is East of the Sun and West of the Moon.

In this clip, you can hear myself telling the tale along with the 17-member Concerto Della Donna. On Stradivarius violin is Caroline Chéhadé and on cello is Michael Nicolas. The piece was composed by Marie-Claire Saindon and the maestro was Iwan Edwards.