That's odd. Meg was sure you had a story in you someplace. Peeking out from behind your ears maybe, thumbing its nose at us." The woman smiled ingratiatingly. "Tea?" "There's going to be trouble," I said. "Already?" The woman smoothed the skirt in her lap and set a plate of nut bread into it. "Well, it comes
sooner or later, this time sooner. What do you think of it, boy?" "I think I got into a lot of trouble for not much being bad," I said. "I don't know why." "Sit down, then," the old man said. "Listen to a tale, then tell us what's going on." I sat down, not too keen about hearing another story but out of politeness. I took a piece of nut bread and
nibbled on it as the woman sipped her tea and cleared her throat. "Once there was a city on the shore of a broad blue sea. In the city lived five hundred children and nobody else, because the wind from the sea wouldn't let anyone grow old. Well, children don't have kids of their own, of course, so when the wind came up in the first year the city never grew any larger." "Where'd all the grown-ups go?" I asked. The old man held his fingers to his lips and shook his head. "The children tried to play all day, but it wasn't enough. They became frightened at night and had bad (36 of 197) dreams. There was nobody to comfort them because only grown-ups are really good at making nightmares go away. Now, sometimes nightmares are white horses that come out of the sea, so they set up guards along the beaches and fought them back with wands made of blackthorn. But there was another kind of nightmare, one that was black and rose out of the ground, and those were impossible to guard against. So the children got together one day and decided to tell all the scary stories there were to tell, to prepare themselves for all the nightmares. They found it was pretty easy to think up scary stories, and every one of them had a story or two to tell. They stayed up all night spinning yarns about ghosts and dead things, and live things that shouldn't have been, and things that were neither. They talked about death and about monsters that suck blood, about things that live way deep in the earth and long, thin things that sneak through cracks in doors to lean over beds at night and speak in tongues no one can understand. They talked about eyes without heads, and vice versa, and little blue shoes that walk across a cold empty white room, with no one in them, and a bunk bed that creaks when it's empty, and a printing press that produces newspapers from a city that never was. Pretty soon, by morning, they'd told all the scary stories. When the black horses came out of the ground the next night, and the white horses from the sea, the children greeted them with cakes and ginger ale, and they held a big party. They also invited the pale sheet-things from the clouds, and everyone ate hearty and had a good time. One white horse let a little boy ride on it and took him wherever he wanted to go. And there were no more bad dreams in the city of children by the sea." I finished the piece of bread and wiped my hands on my crossed legs. "So that's why you tried to scare me," I said. She shook her head. "No. I never have a reason for telling a story, and neither should you." "I don't think I'm going to tell stories anymore," I said. "The folks get too upset." "Philistines," the old man said, looking off across the fields. "Listen, young man. There is nothing finer in the world than the telling of tales. Split atoms if you wish, but splitting an infinitiveand getting away with itis far nobler. Lance boils if you wish, but pricking pretensions is often cleaner and always more fun." "Then why are Mom and Dad so mad?" The old man shook his head. "An eternal mystery." "Well, I'm not so sure," I said. "I scared my little brother pretty bad, and that's not nice." "Being scared is nothing," the old woman said. "Being bored, or ignorantnow that's a crime." "I still don't know. My folks say you have to be a hundred years old. You
sooner or later, this time sooner. What do you think of it, boy?" "I think I got into a lot of trouble for not much being bad," I said. "I don't know why." "Sit down, then," the old man said. "Listen to a tale, then tell us what's going on." I sat down, not too keen about hearing another story but out of politeness. I took a piece of nut bread and
nibbled on it as the woman sipped her tea and cleared her throat. "Once there was a city on the shore of a broad blue sea. In the city lived five hundred children and nobody else, because the wind from the sea wouldn't let anyone grow old. Well, children don't have kids of their own, of course, so when the wind came up in the first year the city never grew any larger." "Where'd all the grown-ups go?" I asked. The old man held his fingers to his lips and shook his head. "The children tried to play all day, but it wasn't enough. They became frightened at night and had bad (36 of 197) dreams. There was nobody to comfort them because only grown-ups are really good at making nightmares go away. Now, sometimes nightmares are white horses that come out of the sea, so they set up guards along the beaches and fought them back with wands made of blackthorn. But there was another kind of nightmare, one that was black and rose out of the ground, and those were impossible to guard against. So the children got together one day and decided to tell all the scary stories there were to tell, to prepare themselves for all the nightmares. They found it was pretty easy to think up scary stories, and every one of them had a story or two to tell. They stayed up all night spinning yarns about ghosts and dead things, and live things that shouldn't have been, and things that were neither. They talked about death and about monsters that suck blood, about things that live way deep in the earth and long, thin things that sneak through cracks in doors to lean over beds at night and speak in tongues no one can understand. They talked about eyes without heads, and vice versa, and little blue shoes that walk across a cold empty white room, with no one in them, and a bunk bed that creaks when it's empty, and a printing press that produces newspapers from a city that never was. Pretty soon, by morning, they'd told all the scary stories. When the black horses came out of the ground the next night, and the white horses from the sea, the children greeted them with cakes and ginger ale, and they held a big party. They also invited the pale sheet-things from the clouds, and everyone ate hearty and had a good time. One white horse let a little boy ride on it and took him wherever he wanted to go. And there were no more bad dreams in the city of children by the sea." I finished the piece of bread and wiped my hands on my crossed legs. "So that's why you tried to scare me," I said. She shook her head. "No. I never have a reason for telling a story, and neither should you." "I don't think I'm going to tell stories anymore," I said. "The folks get too upset." "Philistines," the old man said, looking off across the fields. "Listen, young man. There is nothing finer in the world than the telling of tales. Split atoms if you wish, but splitting an infinitiveand getting away with itis far nobler. Lance boils if you wish, but pricking pretensions is often cleaner and always more fun." "Then why are Mom and Dad so mad?" The old man shook his head. "An eternal mystery." "Well, I'm not so sure," I said. "I scared my little brother pretty bad, and that's not nice." "Being scared is nothing," the old woman said. "Being bored, or ignorantnow that's a crime." "I still don't know. My folks say you have to be a hundred years old. You
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