[This was what Saigon Tai-tai came up with. She saw the Memory Tree story slightly differently. My earlier draft had the boy as the central character whereas Saigon Tai-tai’s version centred around the old woman telling the tale]
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“Once upon a memory…” the old woman began, weaving her story into the night. Every evening the village gathered around her. They sat circling a warm fire, under a banyan tree, drawn by a new tale each night. And late into the evening they stayed, dreaming and remembering her story.
She wove stories from memories of the past, from the legends of ancestors, from tales of forefathers. The stories danced and cried, walked and ate and were alive in the hearts of the people. Each thread of her story was carefully picked from a treasured memory – memories that had been guarded and carefully passed to the next generation of storyteller. Then made alive to those willing to hear.
[Place Story one here]
It used to be that with each telling, the memory would grow stronger. As each child, each man and each woman took the story’s threads and wove them in their hearts – a memory.
This evening however, was different.
Dancing with the evening’s shadows, mingled with the light of the fire, was a tiny imp. He had listened enthralled by the old woman’s stories and he hungered for more. And slowly the greedy imp plotted to steal her stories.
[Place Story two here]
So the imp’s greedy mind churned a plan. During the morning, whilst the villagers set off to their plantations and farms to plough the fertile land, the imp scurried to their homes. He placed glittering stones in their homes. They looked like treasures but held little value. A blue one in one home, a green one in another and a brilliant white in the one down the road. In the evenings, the stones shone with a strange glow. Those who had stones sat watching their light. That evening the crowd gathered at the feet of the old storyteller seemed less than the night before.
“Where is dada?” an 8-year old asked, looking around for his uncle. The storyteller’s threads unraveled a little, fluttering in the wind as the crowd grew a little distracted. The imp caught the unraveling threads of stories and buried them in his pockets. A rumour grew in the village, that some had gained prized possessions that kept them from the nightly storytelling gatherings.
“What is that dada?” the 8-year old asked his uncle, who had spent the whole night staring at his glowing stone. Unable to explain, the uncle shared the stone with the child. Looking deep within it, the child noticed tiny creatures dancing in the stone. Then his uncle, tilted the stone in another direction and there were falling snowflakes in a small village. Another tilt and the sounds of waves came from the stone within a scene of bright sun and sparkling sea. So the boy and his uncle remained the rest of the day enthralled.
Meanwhile, the imp strung the threads of stories through the banyan tree. Each treasured memory, slowly woven together.
But the villagers were in an uproar. Why and how did some gain a stone and not the other? And now there was a great hunger for these shining stones. And the imp rubbed his little hands, knowing where the true treasures were.
That evening, as the old storyteller took her seat, she noticed only the little children and the elderly by her feet. She paused for a moment but continued to weave another colourful tale. In the shadows, the imp caught the lose strands of songs and lyrics and wove the memories around the banyan tree.
[Place Story three here]
And so the imp stole the memories and wove the stories around the trees. And each day, more and more villagers acquired rocks of varying colours that captured their imagination, leaving a forgetfulness behind.
Night after night the old lady saw her audience dwindle. Until only the 8-year old boy was left – and an imp in the shadows.
“You have come to listen to a tale tonight?” she asked. “Is there no one else?”
“No one, grandmother,” said the boy, for the imp remained hidden.
“Where have everyone gone to?” she probed.
“To watch their own stories…” he said, matter-of-factly.
“And why are you not with them?” she wondered.
“Your stories have life…” he explained.
[Place Story four here]
By now, the old lady was exhausted. For without the crowd of villagers, the effort of weaving a tale grew heavy. There were no longer the many eyes to watch the colours of a story unfold, there were no longer the many ears to hear cries of legendary creatures, there were no longer the hands to clap along a tale’s song. Her memory dimmed as the night grew longer and darker.
But the imp continued to collect until the evening dimmed.
“Are you still here?” the old lady asked the little boy.
Half asleep, the boy nodded as his memory and his dream worlds merged.
And in the light of dawn, the woman noticed the crooked shadow. The imp!
[Place Story five here]
The Memory Tree 