Once upon a time there were three brothers: eldest, middle, and youngest. Eldest was the best and youngest was the worst and middle was in-between.
“Eldest brother, can you go out and milk the cows for us?” their mother would ask him. And he would do so immediately and did a good job, even if it cramped his hands and hunched his back.
“Middle brother, can you go out and chop wood for us?” their father would ask him. And he would say yes, and maybe he wouldn’t remember, but then his father would cough twice and say something about a dying fire and middle brother would rush out to the woodshed in such a hurry he’d forget his jacket before cutting enough firewood to set the house ablaze.
“Youngest brother, can you weed the crops?” their mother would ask him. And he would say yes, but then never do it.
One day, their parents called them all together to announce something very important. “We are very, very old and will soon die,” they said to them. “When we do, it’s of crucial importance that you follow these instructions exactly: go to our graves, thank your grandmothers and grandfathers, thank their grandmothers and grandfathers, and then promise to be good children. Can you do that for us?”
Of course all three brothers vowed that they would do this. And so their father and their mother both passed away peacefully.
On that day eldest brother was the first to arrive at the tombstone, and he stood there and remembered their words. “I thank my grandmothers and my grandfathers. I thank their grandmothers and their grandfathers. I promise to be a good child.”
Then he went home and slept peacefully.
Middle brother arrived a little late and out of breath from running – he’d nearly forgotten. He almost fell over on his parents’ grave as he wheezed and gasped, but eventually he stood back upright, finished panting, and spoke.
“I thank my grandmothers and my grandfathers. I thank their grandmothers and their grandfathers. I promise to be a good child.”
Then he went home, and it took him some time to drift off, but in the end he slept until past dawn.
Youngest brother didn’t go at all because he had lied to his parents. He stayed at home and ate a big supper and drank fine wine and toasted himself over and over and made no promises to anyone but himself and all of those promises were “I’ll have another glass, thank you!”
But as youngest brother drank long into the night his eyes hung heavy. And try as he might, he couldn’t resist the pull of one more bite, one more sip, one more brag. By the time he realized what was happening it was far too late: the night would never end. Youngest brother was held fast in the iron hands of his own guilt, turning every second to a thousand hours, and he would never break free. His own oldest brothers found him the next morning, stone dead, and his body was that of a man twice the age of either of their parents.
***
“Now,” asked the storyteller, “what have you children learned?”
“Mmmmm,” muttered the first child. “Errr. Uhm. Lying is bad?”
“Close! Anyone else?”
“Always keep your promises, especially to your family,” said the second child, sitting bolt upright and clear-eyed.
“Well done!”
“I don’t think youngest brother deserved that,” said the third child. “What kind of parent asks their children to make a promise that will kill them if they mess it up?”
“It’s a metaphor, third child,” said the storyteller. “You can learn about those when you’re older. Now, all three of you, this is your turn: try and make your own stories. You’ve heard hundreds of mine, all teaching you very important things, and it’s time you showed what you learned! Come back to this spot tomorrow with a story of your very own, and you can be storytellers too someday.”
“Do we HAVE to?” asked the third child.
“Shoo!” said the storyteller.
So they left.
***
The next day was bright and beautiful. Storyteller sat on a stump and smoked the storyteller’s pipe and thought on how fine and wonderful a thing it was, to tell stories and give guidance to the young. And as the last ashes faded away from the pipe, on came the children: first, second, and third.
“Ah, my storytellers-to-be have returned! Now, sit down, sit down. Tell me your tales. You first!”
So the first child stood up and mumbled and coughed and began to speak.
***
Once upon a day there was a dog. And this dog was very good. It was a great dog. It liked to… to eat and to sleep. But it wasn’t lazy! It helped out a lot. Around the house. But in a dog way? Because dogs don’t have hands. He barked when people came to the door and things and anyways this dog was asleep once when a stranger came to the door, and he said hello to the people in the house, but they were asleep too because the dog was asleep so it didn’t bark and they didn’t hear him come in. And he stole all their food and ate it in one bite. So it was the dog’s fault. But the dog knew she had to fix it and she chased after the man. And bit him. The dog bit him a whole lot. And then uh.
Uh.
Uhh….
The man… gave back the food.
And the dog was happy so he went home and gave it to the people and it wasn’t the dog’s fault THE END.
***
“Well,” said the storyteller. “That was pretty good. Maybe a tiny bit… all-at-once, but very good. Strong moral impulses.”
“Wait, how did the man give back the food if he ate it?” asked the third child.
“Shush,” said the storyteller. “Now, which of you will go next?”
“I will,” said the second child, upper lip stiffening visibly.
“Very good! Go ahead, go ahead.”
So the second child stood up, ramrod-straight, coughed once very particularly, and spoke in clear, enunciated tones,
***
Once upon a time there were three brothers: oldest, in-between, and youngest. Oldest was the best and littlest was the worst and in-between was neither. Oldest brother would do as he was told, in-between would forget but do it anyways, and littlest would lie.
One day, their parents made them promise never to be rude or mean or nasty. All three of them promised to do that, and littlest brother lied because he was evil. But the other two brothers knew he lied, and so they took him and threw him off a cliff for being evil, and their parents were very happy with them.
The moral of the story is that evil must be stopped at all costs.
***
“Oh.” said the storyteller. “Well, that was very… clear.”
“Thank you,” said the second child. “I wanted the moral to be very strong.”
“It’s moral to throw your brother off a cliff?” asked the third child.
“Talk less about other people’s stories and more about your own,” said the storyteller. “It’s your turn now.”
“Okaay,” said the third child. And then the story began, without so much as standing up first.
***
Once upon a time there were three children in a small village. All three of them had parents that were very busy and needed to get lots of things done, so they sent them to work for the local blacksmith, pumping the forge.
Having all of those children working for him made the blacksmith feel mighty important. He stood there at the forge smelting iron and forging tools and told himself over and over that the children were there because they wanted to be, because their parents wanted them to be, because he was the most important person in the village.
“Truly,” he said, “nothing would get done around here without me! On my shoulders this community lies! I am here to teach all the value of hard work: with it, anything may be done!” And he told himself this and things like it a dozen times a day, and the more he did, the more he ran the forge and the more tired the children got from working the big leathery bellows all day.
One day, the first child didn’t come in, because they were sick from being exhausted pumping at the blacksmith’s forge.
“Well, that just goes to show that some people don’t appreciate hard work!” said the blacksmith. “You two are good children, and will pump harder!”
So they pumped harder.
The next day, the second child didn’t come in, because they were too tired to wake up after pumping at the blacksmith’s forge.
“Excuses, excuses!” said the blacksmith. “You are the only one around here who’s paid PROPER attention to me. Now you and I will get some things done!”
But the next day, the third child didn’t come in, because their hands were a blistered mess and their arms were strained from heaving the heavy bellows at the forge all day on their own, and the blacksmith had nobody to help him.
“Well, that’s fine!” said the blacksmith. “It’s normal for the industrious and earnest to suffer the slings and arrows of a lazy and needy community! I shall shoulder my burden alone, as I am the only person who can get it done properly!” So he took up his bellows himself, and heaved, and pumped.
But the blacksmith had pulled the bellows so very little over the past few days that his arms were as thin as sticks, and it only wheezed onto the fires no matter how hard he tugged. The only hot air that day was inside him, and by the time he went to bed it had all leaked out as he struggled and failed, leaving him a tiny little man as small outside as he was inside.
***
They sat there.
“Did I do a good job?” asked the third child.
“Buzz off, you little pissant,” said the storyteller.
And so the children did, with confusion and frowns and big bright smiles.
The storyteller refilled the storyteller’s pipe and smoked it down to the dregs four times over, looked at the big bright sky, and sighed.
“I hate children.”