The Storyteller

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Authors: Antonia Michaelis

BOOK: The Storyteller
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The Storyteller

 

 

PUBLISHER’S NOTE
: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for and may be obtained from the Library of Congress.

ISBN: 978–1–4197–0047–7

Text copyright © 2011 Antonia Michaelis

Book design by Maria T. Middleton

Translated from the German by Miriam Debbage

AIN’T NO CURE FOR LOVE
© 1987 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE
© 1984 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

HALLELUJAH
© 1985 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

SISTERS OF MERCY
© 1985 Sony/
ATV
Songs,
LLC
. All rights administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

TAKE THIS WALTZ
© 1988 Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, Publisher(s) Unknown. All rights on behalf of Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
administered by Sony/
ATV
Music Publishing
LLC
, 8 Music Square West, Nashville,
TN
37203. All rights reserved. Used by permission.

First published in Germany under the title
Der Märchenerzähler
in 2011 by Verlagsgruppe Oetinger, Hamburg.

Published in 2012 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.

Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact [email protected] or the address below.

 

115 West 18th Street
New York, NY 10011
www.abramsbooks.com

Contents
 

At First

  Chapter 1:  Anna

  Chapter 2:  Abel

  Chapter 3:  Micha

  Chapter 4:  In Between

  Chapter 5:  Rainer

  Chapter 6:  Rose Girl

  Chapter 7:  Gold Eye

  Chapter 8:  Damocles

  Chapter 9:  Bertil

  Chapter 10:  Sisters of Mercy

  Chapter 11:  Sören

  Chapter 12:  Three Days of Sunshine

  Chapter 13:  Snow

  Chapter 14:  No Saint

  Chapter 15:  Thaw

  Chapter 16:  Truth

  Chapter 17:  Michelle

  Chapter 18:  The Storyteller

About the Author

 

To Anna K. and the lighthouse keeper, whose names I borrowed

To Charlotte R., Bea W., and Fine M.,

who will turn eighteen sooner or later

To Kerstin B., Beate R., and Eva W.,

who were eighteen once

And to all those who never will be

BALLAD FOR THE YOUNG

 

My child, I know you’re not a child

But I still see you running wild

Between those flowering trees.

Your sparkling dreams, your silver laugh

Your wishes to the stars above

Are just my memories.

And in your eyes the ocean

And in your eyes the sea

The waters frozen over

With your longing to be free.

 

Yesterday you’d awoken

To a world incredibly old.

This is the age you are broken

Or turned into gold.

 

You had to kill this child, I know,

To break the arrows and the bow

To shed your skin and change.

The trees are flowering no more

There’s blood upon the tiled floor

This place is dark and strange.

 

I see you standing in the storm

Holding the curse of youth

Each of you with your story

Each of you with your truth.

 

Some words will never be spoken

Some stories never be told.

This is the age you are broken

Or turned into gold.

 

I didn’t say the world was good.

I hoped by now you understood

Why I could never lie.

I didn’t promise you a thing.

Don’t ask my wintervoice for spring

Just spread your wings and fly.

 

Though in the hidden garden

Down by the green green lane

The plant of love grows next to

The tree of hate and pain.

 

So take my tears as a token.

They’ll keep you warm in the cold.

This is the age you are broken

Or turned into gold

 

You’ve lived too long among us

To leave without a trace

You’ve lived too short to understand

A thing about this place.

 

Some of you just sit there smoking

And some are already sold.

This is the age you are broken

Or turned into gold.

This is the age you are broken or turned into gold.

 
 

BLOOD.

There is blood everywhere. On his hands, on her hands, on his shirt, on his face, on the tiles, on the small round carpet. The carpet used to be blue; it never will be blue again.

The blood is red. He is kneeling in it. He hadn’t realized it was so bright … big, burst droplets, the color of poppies. They are beautiful, as beautiful as a spring day in a sunny meadow … But the tiles are cold and white as snow, and it is winter.

It will be winter forever.

Strange thought: Why should it be winter forever?

He’s got to do something. Something about the blood. A sea—a red, endless sea: crimson waves, carmine froth, splashing color. All these words in his head!

How long has he been kneeling here, with these words in his head? The red is starting to dry, it is forming edges, losing a little of its beauty; the poppies are wilting, yellowing, like words on paper …

He closes his eyes. Get a hold of yourself. One thought at a time. What must be done? What first? What is most important?

It’s most important that nobody finds out.

Towels. He needs towels. And water. A rag. The splatters on the wall are hard to remove … the grout between the tiles will be stained forever. Will anybody find out? Soap. There’s dried blood under his fingernails, too. A brush. He scrubs his hands until the skin is red—a different red, a warm, living red flushed with pain.

She’s not looking at him. She’s turned her eyes away, but she always turned away, didn’t she? That’s how she lived—with her eyes turned away. He throws the dirty towels into the dark, greedy mouth of the washing machine.

She’s just sitting there, leaning against the wall, refusing to speak to him.

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