Today, I want to share with you the introductory story of my book “Writing Metaphorical Stories.” It’s a story about how stories can change people and, in the broadest sense, nations.
There was a saying that served as the starting point for this story:
“To poison a nation, poison its stories. A nation that is disillusioned tells itself disillusioning stories. Beware those storytellers who are fully aware of their abilities and merciless in their application!”
The Storyteller of the Tale-less Land
Once upon a time, in lands far, far away, there was a country where stories and legends were forgotten and left untold. The people living there were harsh and unemotional. They only cared for themselves and lived solely for their own interests. They tried to understand life with their minds alone, believing only in what they could see, hear, taste, feel, and hear. Born without the use of their intuition, imagination, or creativity, they grew old and passed away.
One day, a traveler arrived in the country. With a long staff in hand, a dagger at his waist, and a bag on his back, he was a man of mystery. He sat down at an inn and began to tell stories. Story upon story he told, and as he did, people listened. Mesmerized, everyone gathered around him. With each passing day, his fame grew, and people from other cities began to listen to the traveler as well.
As the gathered people listened, they could hardly believe the images that passed before their eyes. The traveler spoke, and they visualized. They learned from his stories about other countries and realms. From these stories, they learned about courage, sharing, and striving. They laughed and cried through the tales. Day by day, their numbers grew.
Life in the country came to a halt. Mills stopped turning, fields lay fallow, and animals were not brought back from pasture. People were captivated by the magic of the stories; they neither ate nor drank nor slept. They tried to satisfy all their needs through the stories.
The country’s cruel king was displeased by this. Life had stopped, work was neglected. He could find no one to obey his commands. He summoned his wizard and sent him to the city immediately to find a solution. The wizard set off towards the city and disguised himself as an old beggar woman, knocking on the door of a house.
A beautiful girl opened the door. Seeing the old beggar standing there, she was moved by the compassion she had learned from the stories.
“Welcome, dear lady,” she offered her head in greeting.
“I’m thirsty, my child. Do you have a jug of water?” asked the beggar in disguise.
“Of course, dear lady, let me get it for you,” replied the girl at the door.
She went inside, fetched a jug filled with ice-cold water, and extended it to the woman.
As soon as she handed over the jug, it turned into gold. The girl was astonished. The beggar woman smiled slyly. The girl screamed in surprise, and all the neighbors gathered around. They ran home to bring their own jugs and watched in amazement as they turned to gold. Soon, the whole city had gathered around the beggar woman.
The traveler was left alone in the city square. He looked around and saw a little boy looking at him curiously, the only one left. He packed his bag, tucked his dagger at his waist, took his stuff in hand, smiled at the boy, stroked his head, and touched his heart with the staff, saying, “Remember when the time comes!” Then he walked away along the road he had come.
The crowd and commotion caused the jugs to break, and the gold pieces scattered. As soon as they scattered, they turned back into dirt. The cunning wizard vanished. People rushed to the square, but the storyteller was already gone. A strong wind blew, erasing their memories.
The cruel King laughed wickedly and with pleasure. Before long, the country returned to its former state. Stories were forgotten again. Selfishness and self-interest enveloped everything once more. Minds were again occupied with what was visible, leaving the beyond and dreams unreachable, like the snowy peaks of distant mountains.
The storyteller traveler never visited that country again. He dedicated his life to sharing the magical world of stories with people in other lands. But a day would come when another would take up his task.
To be continued…
I have not yet written the continuation of this story. I believe it is the right time to work on it. We are in a period where individuals who have morally and ethically developed themselves need to spread their stories from ear to ear. If we do not stand up against malicious storytellers, they will continue to recount aspects of ourselves we are not proud of. The new generation will follow them out of curiosity and a desire to be different.
These stories will sometimes divide us, turn brother against brother, or endlessly narrate the years or women we have harshly judged.
Until we meet in the tales we cherish, this is my story.
