Once there was a king …”

The storyteller’s voice casts a spell that conjures silence: held breaths, the not-sound that precedes the storm of coins. He loves having this power. He loves it as much as people love to hear his tales of beauty and betrayal.

“He was a golden king, handsome to gaze upon. A brave leader. But wickedness is drawn to beauty, and this king was no exception.

“The king was promised a suit of gold. He paid for it. He paid more dearly than he could imagine. He did not get what he’d paid for, because the one who made the suit was nothing but a swindler.”

The silence breaks. A voice pipes up. A child’s. “What happened next?”

These are the words that always break the spell. They’re hungry words. What happened next? This is how the storyteller knows he’s become the king of the listening crowd.

He pauses, just a moment. “He punished her. The king consulted his grimoire. He transformed her into a tree that grew poisonous fruit. Whoever ate from it died, and the people became so angry that they chopped her down and burned her.”

“Serves her right,” the little voice says.

The storyteller turns toward the child. He no longer has eyes to see the one who owns the voice. But he sees the child with his heart. The storyteller sees him, and he smiles.

His white teeth, they are beautiful.