the fable of the storyteller and his witch

by Sumitra Singam

The storyteller’s face was like wind-ploughed fields, scored by the violence and tenderness of his stories. Nightly, the villagers gathered in comfortable blanketed heaps in a natural amphitheatre made of gently sloping foothills and the memory of a rushing river. They looked at the man as if he were the sun and sky and stars. The man raised his hands and summoned a universe of knights and princesses, farmers and crops, death and sorrow.

The man held them like puppets on a string, until he uttered the words, ‘The end.’ Something cleaved in their minds, and they looked around confusedly, laughing to mask their fear. They thanked the tall, rugged storyteller, aware he had done them some service, but unsure what. The storyteller watched them sharply as he bid each one goodnight, searching their eyes. They staggered to bed and blamed the cottony feeling in their minds on the mead they had drunk.

A woman, one whom the storyteller had called ‘wife’ in a different time, did not laugh or jeer or cry as the villagers did. She took note of his words and gestures, and walked away as the story came to a close. She tried to knit the strands of her mind together, but the storyteller’s magic was too powerful. She could remember an ache of feeling, like a pressed bruise, but nothing else. She alone looked at the storyteller with something other than adoration.

In the fields, the woman nosed around the edges of her friends’ memories.

“Do you remember his story?” she asked.

“Why of course! A great sweeping tale, wasn’t it? Of a queen and her slave.”

“No! It was the story of a clever farm boy and his dog!”

As her friends bickered, the woman felt loneliness and fear pull around her like a threadbare cloak. Something frozen and sharp had entered her heart. She remembered how he could be cruel with his words, then reel her back in with his honeyed voice.

That evening, she sat on her haunches and vowed to keep her mind and memory open wide. The storyteller wove his tale with grand sweeps of his hands, his voice ringing out like wolf call. The woman repeated parts of the story to herself, but as soon as he said, ‘The end,’ it vanished entirely from her mind. Frustrated, she cried out, “Does anyone remember the story he just told?”

There was a moment’s confused silence, then her friend chuckled, “Why, there was no story!”

Another said, “And if there was, it was a grand adventure!”

“Or a comedy!”

“Or a great tragedy!” the storyteller chipped in, an amused smile on his face as a wave of relieved laughter rippled the crowd.

The woman beat the earth, “You did tell us a story!”

The storyteller, his voice soft in the warm night, said, “If I did, perhaps you could tell us what it was?”

“Yes! Tell us! Tell us!” the village clamoured.

“But I don’t know! That’s the point!” she answered, clutching her head.

The storyteller came to her, his eyes narrowed, “But how did you know to ask the question?”

“Yes! Preposterous! Tell us!”

The crowd had gathered in a circle, the woman in the centre, the storyteller to one side holding her gaze.

The woman felt the energy shift, like a chill wind. She stood up, eyeing the villagers with their crossed arms and closed faces.

“I…I’m sorry! I don’t know!” she faltered.

“Are you a witch to claim such knowledge?” the storyteller silked. The villagers muttered and shifted, their voices gathering momentum.

It was never clear who hurled the first stone. The flinty piece of rock hit her on the head, leaving a dark bloom of blood. The woman raised a hand to her temple, shocked. Another stone hit her on the shoulder, then another on her belly. She slumped, her fellow villagers jeering and cursing, “Witch! Witch!” The woman’s body screamed hurt. “It’s not me! It’s him!” she whimpered.

The storyteller bellowed, raising his hands, “That’s enough!”

The villagers dropped their rocks, some spitting on the ground by the woman’s curled shape. As they walked away, they saw the storyteller go to the woman in her huddled heap. They saw him kneel down and tenderly soothe her hair from her face. They saw the rivulets of tears on her dirt-stained face. He whispered something in her ear. What a gentle, kind man he was! The woman sobbed softly as he helped her up and led her into the lamplight the villagers held up for them.

Photo of Sumitra Singam

BIO: Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. Her work has been published widely, nominated for a number of Best Of anthologies, and was selected for BSF 2025. She works as a psychiatrist and trauma therapist and runs workshops on how to write trauma safely, and the Yeah Nah reading series. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com