WHEN the storyteller arrived in the glen, the weather was fine but the atmosphere seemed downcast and glum. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something felt very different from the last time he’d visited.

People had always greeted him with a smile and a hospitable invitation to join them by the fireside, so they could hear his stories and share some of their own.

But this time there were no smiles and no invitations. He was somewhat baffled by it all, until a child, a young lass who had recognised him, came up to speak.

“You’re the storyteller, aren’t you?” she enquired.

“Indeed I am,” he replied, “and I am looking forward to sharing my stories and listening to those of others.”

The young lass crouched down to reply, whispering so the storyteller was compelled to do likewise.

“Why are we whispering?” asked the storyteller.

“In case someone hears what we are saying,” she said in a soft, quiet voice, looking around. “You see, we have a new king and he has stolen all our stories.”

“He has stolen all your stories?”

“Yes, and he has put them in a closely guarded locked chest to ensure they do not escape. We miss those stories so much but the king hopes we will soon forget they exist and he has banned us from making any new ones.”

The storyteller was aghast: “Nobody can tell or share a story? That is truly awful.” No wonder the air felt so heavy, he thought. A land without stories seemed unthinkable.

The young lass crouched down again to explain some more, so they both returned to their secretive huddle.

“Well, the thing is, we can share stories, but only the stories made by the king himself. They are so boring, they are all about him and how great he is. They are the only stories we have now.”

In that moment, two of the king’s guards approached. They instantly recognised the storyteller and arrested him. They took him to the king, who seemed pleased to see him.

“Ah, the storyteller, excellent.”

“Your majesty,” the storyteller said, as he bowed.

“I have heard that you have stolen... er, acquired, all the stories of the people and put them in a chest, is this true?”

The king smiled, but not in a nice way, so it wasn’t really a smile.

“And who told you this?”

The storyteller froze. He did not want to get the young lass into trouble. He had to think quick.

“The crow, perched on the rowan tree by the entrance to the glen, told me,” the storyteller replied.

“A talking crow?”

“Indeed, I was surprised too, and of course I did not believe a word it said; I mean, why would you hide away everyone’s stories?”

The king narrowed his eyes as he stared at the storyteller, not sure if he was making fun of him. Then he glanced at one of the guards, who left the chamber.

“Well, I am keeping the stories safe,” said the king sardonically. Then he turned to the storyteller, wearing his fake smile once again.

“You must join me this evening and entertain us with your wonderful stories,” the king proclaimed.

The storyteller nodded and smiled: “I would be honoured, your majesty, but first I have a promise to keep with the people of the glen to tell stories and listen to theirs.”

The king’s demeanour changed. He became visibly angry, his false cloak of civility fell from his face. He spoke in a threatening manner: “No, you may not tell your stories to the people, for they have no use of them. But you may tell them to me.”

The storyteller became fearful for the safety of his stories. He suspected that the king planned to steal them the moment they had been told and put them in the locked chest with all the other stolen stories. But, if he refused the king’s invitation, he knew he would be thrown into jail.

And so he agreed.

“Very well, your majesty, I will be your storyteller this evening, but I have one request.”

“What is it?”

“I left a story with the people of the glen during my last visit and now I can’t remember it. Perhaps it is being kept safe by you in your locked chest. I’d love to tell you it, it’s a very funny story. May I take it out and share it with you?”

The king was intrigued yet was wary of being tricked.

But, ironically, he loved stories, especially funny ones. So he agreed. He took the storyteller to the room where the chest was kept, accompanied by two burly, heavily armed guards.

The king cautiously took the key from his pocket and opened the chest. The storyteller peered inside: there were hundreds of stories.

“There it is,” said the storyteller, pointing to a funny story.

The king took it and gave it to him, locked the chest and put the key back in his pocket.

“You can use it so long as you return it immediately after its telling,” said the king.

“I will,” replied the storyteller.

“I know you will,” the king retorted, looking at the guard standing close by.

It was indeed a funny story. The king belly-laughed so much he almost had a heart attack – sadly, just almost. But even after the story was finished, he was still laughing. And so were the guards. When the king opened the chest to put the story back, he was still laughing.

Now the thing is, laughter changes the atmosphere. It had been heavy and depressed, but now there was an uplifting breeze of shared jocularity in the air and as soon as the lid was opened, the stories flew out like feathers caught in a sudden gust of wind.

They spiralled around the room and the king desperately tried to catch them. He demanded the guards help but they couldn’t, for they were paralysed by laughter by the sight of the king jumping and leaping round the room in a vain attempt to catch the stories!

They flew out of the window and down the glen, which was once again decorated with tales of all sorts. The people were overjoyed and told the stories they now remembered again.

And there was a new favourite story shared round the firesides that evening: a tale about the stories which were set free by laughter.