I decided to do a second playthrough of Aaron Reed’s “Whom The Telling Changed”, as discussed in my critique. I initially intended to try and take a completely opposite approach, trying to bring about war. However, I ended up having a hard time doing that, and found myself making the same arguments. Instead, for this game, I tried to focus on seeing what else I could do differently. In doing so, I discovered some interesting aspects of how the game is put together. First, I found that there is more control over some of the “bookend” parts of the story. The first choice you have to make is in fact the symbol of your profession. This time I took the medicine bag first, making my profession that of healer instead of warrior. And when told that my lover reached out a hand, this time I took the hand of Sihan instead of Saiph, making Sihan my lover and Saiph my enemy.
During the telling of the story, as I said, I found myself making many of the same arguments and judgments. However, this time around, I more actively mocked Saiph most every time he spoke. Interestingly enough, this did not seem to help my cause. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect. Where previously I had been able to sway the crowd towards my side, my mocking of Saiph seemed to result in the crowd generally siding with him, and showing contempt for me.
It looked like the crowd this time around was primed for war. Here are some examples of how the telling changed this time around, in terms of how the villagers sided with Saiph’s point of view:
>strength
“Gilgamesh is a true friend,” you say thoughtfully. “He has learned something about friendship since the start of this journey, when he called Enkidu a coward for questioning him.”
“You would think Enkidu might have learned something as well,” grumbles an old man from the edge of the circle. “Abandoning his friend to a demon at the moment of truth? These are not the actions of a hero.”
And:
>friend
“The true friend is always there to help,” you say. “What would Gilgamesh have done without Enkidu?”
“Spent less time talking and more fighting!” says a young man, whose friends all laugh uproariously.
And:
>fairness
“So that is how the mighty heroes end their adventure,” you say bitterly, “sneaking behind an enemy held down by a god. How brave the companions were.”
The crowd mutters angrily. “Hold your tongue,” says an older woman, wagging a finger in your face. “I will not hear you slander good Gilgamesh and brave Enkidu any longer.”
And most tellingly:
>mercy
“And why should Gilgamesh not show this creature mercy?” you call out. “They had defeated him in combat; the Cedar Forest was theirs. There would be no gain in killing this demon.”
Saiph steps forward angrily. “No gain?” he says. “Would there be no gain in defending the people of Uruk from this rampaging spirit? Would there be no gain in ridding the world of a monster?”
>monster
Before you can speak, Saiph steps forward.
“My people,” says Saiph, “is the evil of this demon Humbaba not clear? Hideous he is, with changing faces; he strikes fear into the hearts of all men; he threatens Gilgamesh. He must be destroyed.”
Finally, even the words I had used to convince people no longer had any effect this time around:
>guard
“Humbaba did not threaten the people of Uruk,” you reply. “He only guarded the Cedar Forest many leagues away. It was Gilgamesh and Enkidu who came to Humbaba’s home and attacked him. It was Humbaba who had the right of defense.”
Whispers move through the crowd, and many furtive glances skitter across your face and then quickly away.
In spite of all this, once the newcomers arrived, I found myself able to stave off war, using most of the same tactics – pointing out that we would be an even match for the enemy. This time around, instead of saying “offers” when they complained about how previous offers of peace have been met with spears, I chose the word fools. This gave me a chance to decide whether they were truly foolish, or acting out of despair. This allowed me to bring the one who brought about peace, instead of Sihan.
In the end, the story ended in a similar fashion, and the story summed up in a different way this time:
This is a story about a healer in the village who was in love with a strong warrior woman, Sihan. On the night of the telling, when the healer’s aunt Isi became the teller, their enemy Saiph tried his best to turn the people towards needless war with the outsiders. The healer spoke against this reckless path, but the people heard the words of Saiph more clearly.
Words and insults flew between these two firebrands, but their rancor was too bitter and curdled to heal. The arrival out of the blackest night of the strange newcomers shook the crowd, so sure peace was the way. The healer who brokered a fragile peace, and agreed to share their resources with the curious strangers to their land.
And the teller lay dying, struck down from shock or chance with a weakened heart, and in her final moments called the healer to her side. She told the healer how the story ended, and whom the telling changed. A teller died and a teller was born, and the story will always guide the way.
I am curious though, why the story didn’t play out differently. In some ways it is disappointing; I’m glad I still had a chance to strive for peace, but it almost seems from this playthrough as if it didn’t matter that Saiph had the upperhand in convincing the rest of the villagers that they should fight. Perhaps if I hadn’t stood up at the end, the outcome would have been different, and Saiph would have rallied them to war.
I think I will need to try another couple of playthroughs at least; one where I do things similar to this playthrough (mock Saiph, etc.) but stay silent when the newcomers arrive, or antagonize them more directly. And another where I fully take the position of war, and see how things play out.
But clearly, just from this second playthrough in comparison to the first, there is a pretty wide amount of depth to how the story can play out.
As before, I’ve included the full transcript of my play session below:
Begin Transcript of 2nd Playthrough of “Whom The Telling Changed”
“He found the knowledge at the heart of the universe;
Returned, and cut his story into stone…”
– The Epic Of Gilgamesh
W H O M T H E T E L L I N G C H A N G E D
By Aaron A. Reed
Release 2
(Press any key to continue)
Would you like instructions?> yes
I am your eyes and hands within the story. Direct me with commands such as EXAMINE THE BAG, GO OUTSIDE, LISTEN, or FIGHT HIM. Single word shorthand like FIGHT or BAG will often suffice. Some single words will be highlighted to bring them to your attention. Type them to shape the story to your will; some of the possible choices will be seen in the header bar above. Time only advances when you give a command or type LISTEN, which it is sometimes wise to do.
Other useful commands include REPEAT, to remember what was recently said; STORY to see the choices you have made; INVENTORY to see what you are holding; WAIT to let the time pass; UNDO to take back your last turn; and GREET, MOCK, PRAISE, TALK TO or ASK ABOUT to interact with characters.
More information about this story is available by typing ABOUT.
Press any key to continue.
‘Whom The Telling Changed’ makes use of emphasized words to indicate useful options to pursue. Typing one of these words helps to advance the story in the direction you desire. Please choose a style of emphasis which displays clearly on your interpreter:
1) The emphasized words appear in this fashion.
2) The emphasized words appear in this fashion.
3) The EMPHASIZED words appear in THIS fashion.
4) The emphasized words appear in this fashion.
5) Emphasis off.
Select a number> 1
Style set. You may change this setting using the STYLE command.
Note that you are not limited to typing emphasized words to interact with the story. Other actions may be open to you at any time.
Press any key to begin.
The people have always gathered on moonless nights to hear the telling, since the time of your ancestors’ ancestors. The heat of the fire and the glow in the storyteller’s eyes make the past present, and the path to the future clear. Tonight the stars are bright, but the minds of your people are troubled. May the words of the telling guide your way.
———–
The walls of your tent glow yellow in the lamplight, your simple possessions casting flickering shadows on the wall. A straw bed; some skins of water, oil, and wine; a small, guttering lamp–it is simple, but it is enough.
The symbol of your occupation hangs from the central support of the tent.
>x symbol
Which do you mean, the medicine bag or the copper dagger?
>x bag
A small leather medicine pouch hangs from a long strap, bulging with curative herbs.
>x dagger
This copper dagger is as long as your forearm, with a round pommel and hardened leather grip.
>take bag
The leather strap feels cool and familiar in your hands as you take your medicine bag down from its place.
>go
You step outside into the warm night air.
It has been night for many hours, but the air is still warm, and the stars are a million brilliant fires above you. Nearby are the vague outlines of your neighbors’ tents, but on this moonless night only the distant glow of the fire pit seems truly alive.
In the darkness a few feet away, Sihan and Saiph talk quietly in strained tones.
As you approach, your enemy grows silent. Your love turns to you with a look of relief and reaches out a hand.
>x sihan
Sihan is beautiful; you have always thought so, as have many others. Her long black hair seems to swallow up her face in the dark of night.
>take sihan’s hand
You clasp Sihan’s soft hand and turn to Saiph with a frown.
“What business have you here?” you ask him coldly.
Saiph stares down at you with distaste. “I came to see if Sihan is truly a woman of action and not only of words,” he says levelly. “But I see that, like you, she is counted among the cowards and the weaklings. I have no more to say.” He turns and strides fiercely into the darkness.
>greet sihan
“I care for you more than you know,” you say, kissing Sihan on the cheek.
Sihan sighs. “His heart clamors for war with these newcomers,” your lover says, “and was upset to find I do not share his views. We shall see if your enemy has better luck at the telling.” She looks up to the stars, and adds, “It is a good night for it.”
>enemy
“Saiph has been asking all the warriors to support his plan to attack the newcomers,” your love says. “He is convinced they are planning to murder us all in our beds at any moment. He is so sure of himself; how nice it must be to have such conviction in one’s own superiority.”
>mock saiph
He is not nearby.
>newcomers
“Have you heard the news?” she asks. “Young Ada found traces of a camp less than an hour’s walk from here, and more than half a day from their fires in the valley. Saiph and his friends are already sharpening their spears and preparing for war,” she says darkly.
>fires
“The moon has waxed and grown small again since they arrived,” Sihan murmurs, holding you tightly. “Why don’t they come to us? Why do they hide when we send our emissaries? They must know the unrest they’re causing in us.”
>night
Sihan points up at the night sky. “See how bright the stars are,” she says, “as if the gods themselves gather round our fire to hear the teller’s story.”
>telling
“It is almost time,” your love says seriously. “I wonder, what story will we hear tonight? The people are buzzing about the newcomers; perhaps the teller’s story will be about them.”
>go to fire
You linger for a moment in the starlight, tempted to enjoy more quiet words with your love.
Sihan glances towards the fire pit, ducks inside the tent and emerges a moment later with her copper dagger, sliding it into its familiar place at her waist. “Let us join the gathering and hear the story,” your love says lightly, and turns to the fire at the center of the village.
>fire
You walk to the firepit with Sihan, and friends and neighbors greet you with a nod or quiet word.
Always the fire pit is the center of the village, and always the people gather there. Faint smells of tonight’s great feast still linger, but the fire now smolders low, only a shadow of its roaring fierceness at sunset.
Isi and Nabu stand near the fire, along with a growing crowd. Sihan stands near your side.
>x isi
Isi’s long black hair is white now, and her soft skin is loose and wrinkled, but her eyes have grown sharper with each passing year. Your father’s sister sees more than most; the truth behind deceit and the sadness behind smiles. Her eyes sparkle as they meet yours, and she gives you a tiny nod.
>x nabu
Your father’s brother Nabu has never been good with a spear, but there is a warrior somewhere inside him that the wise respect more than the strongest man in the village. He is short and stern; quiet, but clever and collected. He is old, now, but his spirit is as strong as ever.
>listen
A bat circles above the fire for a moment, then swoops away.
Sihan places a hand on your shoulder. “Go on, my love,” she says softly. “Give the circlet of office to the storyteller. It is time.”
>give circlet to isi
You approach your aunt Isi and hand the circlet to the white-haired old woman. She takes it delicately, eyeing the craftsmanship, and then looks up at you and smiles warmly. Carefully, she lifts it up to her old head–and now before you is no longer your father’s sister, but the storyteller… a role she has taken every new moon for many years.
>storyteller
“The storyteller awaits,” Sihan says. “The telling cannot begin until the teller’s circlet has been gifted.”
Saiph approaches the far side of the fire and greets some friends warmly.
>mock saiph
“Will you and your cronies hear tonight’s story, Saiph?” you call across the fire. “Or will you be too busy sharpening spears and grinding axes?”
Saiph stares at you with dagger eyes. “Your taunts only reveal your immaturity,” he says. “Do not trouble me with more of them.”
Sihan kisses your cheek. “May the story bring you what you seek,” she whispers, then slips into the crowd. Your beloved has always liked to hear the stories by herself.
>listen
A bat circles above the fire for a moment, then swoops away.
The murmurings of the people die away as the storyteller rises to her feet and raises two bony hands.
>listen
It is strangely quiet around the fire.
The storyteller shouts, “In this time of darkness the people gather for the telling. Will the people hear?”
>yes
You call out your response along with many others.
The crowd cries out with one voice, “The people are ready.” The teller bows humbly, accepting the people’s blessing, then straightens with the hint of a smile.
“Tonight,” she says, “we shall hear an old, old story, from days long ago when great cities and mighty kings ruled this land. May you find in the story that which you seek.”
>yes
You mutter a quiet word of support.
The storyteller lifts her hands in invocation. “Our story begins,” she says quietly, “in the far-off city of Uruk. Uruk of the broad streets, Uruk of the mighty walls. Can you see them, gleaming in the desert heat?”
The teller gestures into the night, and in your mind the walls come alive, shimmering in the desert air.
“Come,” she continues, “cross the ancient threshold, walk the streets and orchards and markets. Walk the streets and climb the great stone steps to the temple. Climb the steps and find the box of burnished copper. Find the box and undo the lock and draw out the great tablet of deep blue stone. Draw out the tablet and read of Uruk’s king, Uruk’s pride, Uruk’s greatest hero. Hear of the trials of Gilgamesh.”
>uruk
“Tell more of the city of Uruk,” you ask.
“Uruk, mighty Uruk of the wide streets,” the teller says with shining eyes, “its heart the temple of Inanna, towering over all; its skin mighty walls of oven-fired brick, their like unmatched in all the world. Uruk, planned by the seven sages and filled with orchards and gardens. Never was a city more mighty and proud than Uruk, and never had any city so great a king.”
Saiph glowers at you from across the flames.
>king
You wonder why the teller has chosen a story of Gilgamesh, whose name is legend. Is it to inspire the people in a time of fear?
>inspire
“Good,” you call out forcefully, “a tale of mighty kings and heroes is a good story for these troubled times.”
There are some in the crowd who raise their voices in support of these words. There are other who stay pointedly silent.
Saiph’s eyes stare deeply at you. You return his stare and for a moment a flicker of some vanishing emotion touches his face.
>temple
“The great temple of Inanna: what did it look like?” you say.
“Mighty and tall and grand and proud,” the teller replies, “so fine that Inanna herself dwelt there instead of in her heavenly palace. Inanna, goddess of warfare, goddess of lust, dwelt often in Uruk herself.”
The teller continues. “Mighty was Gilgamesh, a lord among lords. Mighty is he who both leads the way and guards the rear. Mighty is he who both crashes like a wave and shelters the weak. Gilgamesh was tall, strong, bearded, a roaring bull among his people. Aruru, mother of the Earth, gave him his form, and Adad the Storm gave him courage, and Shamash the Sun gave him beauty–but,” the teller’s piercing eyes fixate on the crowd, “he was still a man, nonetheless.”
>man
Before you can speak, Saiph steps forward.
“How awesome to have such divinity in one’s creation,” Saiph says. “The people of Uruk were blessed indeed to have such a king to lead them.”
“And they knew it,” says the teller with a twinkle in her eye, “even if they sometimes wished for a leader who provoked awe less frequently.”
A shepherd nods his head, and holds his wife closer.
>aruru
“I would hear more of Aruru,” you say.
“Lady Aruru,” the teller sighs, “Lady of the Gods, Lady of the Foothills, Mother of the Earth, made Gilgamesh as she made the first man long eons ago. She formed an image of Gilgamesh in her mind, took up her clay, and kneaded it, shaped it into Gilgamesh’s form. More mighty she made him than a normal man: taller, broader, and stronger.”
>adad
“Adad, god of storms, blessed mighty Gilgamesh?” you ask.
“He breathed lightning into the body of Gilgamesh,” the teller says powerfully, “Adad of the tempest and the rain. He gave Gilgamesh the spark of courage and the fire of charisma.”
The telling continues. “With his friend and companion Enkidu,” the storyteller says, “Gilgamesh ruled Uruk with a young and prideful heart. But he saw the dead and dying in the streets of Uruk, and his mind was troubled.”
>troubled
Saiph is speaking before you can react.
“Death comes to the weak quicker than the strong,” booms out Saiph from across the circle. “It is the way of things, and cannot change. Gilgamesh spent his worries needlessly.” His eyes meet yours for a moment, as if challenging you to agree or disagree.
>disagree
“Any noble king would feel pity for the sick and the weak,” you say. “Such a feeling is what separates a king from a tyrant.”
“Of course,” Saiph says smoothly, “but pity should not interfere with the decisions that must be made by the strong.”
Saiph shoots you a quick look of contempt.
>mock saiph
“By all means, keep speaking,” you say to Saiph, voice thick with sarcasm. “Your words will drive more away from your foolish arguments than ever I could.”
Saiph ignores your baiting, set jaw and steel gaze focusing on the storyteller, but the crowd looks to you with grins.
>dead
“Why were there so many dead in the streets of Uruk?” you wonder.
“No special reason,” says the teller, “other than that which must one day take us all. In the cities things are different than here, or so my father told me: the people there are so many that every day there is death; every day a birth; every day a wedding or a feast or a piece of intriguing news.”
The storyteller continues. “One night,” she says, “as Gilgamesh knelt in prayer, Shamash, god of the sun, came down to whisper in his ear. Shamash whispered to Gilgamesh of a far off place called the Cedar Forest, where dwelt the demon Humbaba. Shamash whispered that he who could defeat Humbaba would gain fame greater than any man. He who could chop down the tallest cedar and defeat Humbaba the guardian would gain everlasting fame. He would burn in the minds of men forever. He would never be forgotten. And the heart of Gilgamesh became restless.”
>humbaba
Saiph is speaking before you can react.
“You said King Gilgamesh was restless when he heard Shamash’s call,” Saiph says loudly. “And of course he was! What king would not seize a chance for glory, to prove his strength and power? A leader is trebled in stature when admired by the people.”
There are some who frown, but some of the people smile and nod. You catch a glimpse of your love Sihan’s face, darkened by a frown.
>mock saiph
“There is something else that raises a leader’s stature,” you respond smugly, “and that is leading. An absent leader is no leader at all, by definition.”
Your enemy meets your gaze with narrowed eyes. “I would not expect you to understand,” he sneers, and the crowd looks to you with grins, though some shake their heads.
>restless
The story has moved on; there are other things to say.
“What kind of tree is called ‘cedar’?” a young boy near you calls out. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Uruk was a land like ours,” the teller answers, “where the tree is scarce and the wood is poor. Cedarwood is strong, and beautiful, and pleasant to see and smell, and in those days was valued as gold. In the Cedar Forest far, far away, the cedar trees are so thick you could not see a man a hundred paces away; and so tall you could not see the sky.”
Firelight dances in Saiph’s eyes as he stares at you coldly.
>whisper
“Storyteller,” you call out, “did you say that Shamash, god of the sun, whispered these words to Gilgamesh?”
“I did.” says the teller.
“And why would so mighty a god whisper such a thing?” you ask, turning to the people. “Was he afraid another god would hear? Did Shamash really have the glory of Gilgamesh in mind, or did he hope to use Uruk’s king for purposes of his own?”
A wave of muttering sweeps over the crowd, but no one comes forward to answer your question.
>shamash
“Shamash, lord of the sun, delivered this message himself to Gilgamesh?” you ask. “Why was it so important?”
“Shamash, lord of the sun, is not here to tell you,” answers the teller with a wink, gesturing into the night as the crowd laughs.
The story moves on. “The heart of Gilgamesh burned with the words of Shamash,” says the teller. “Gilgamesh sought out his friend Enkidu and said to him: ‘You came from the wild. My friend, you came from the wild and you know the secret paths of animals. Do you know the way to the Cedar Forest?’
“Enkidu sighed and his heart grew heavy,” says the teller, and then seems to become young and strong as the gruff guise of Enkidu comes over her. “‘Yes, I know the way to the Cedar Forest, but it is long and lonely. And what awaits you at its end but the demon Humbaba? The lord of all gods, mighty Enlil, has set him there to guard the Cedar Forest. What man or god could defeat him, my brother?’”
>enkidu
“Let us hear more of Gilgamesh’s friend Enkidu,” you say.
“Enkidu the wild man, made by the gods to tame unruly Gilgamesh,” says the teller, a smile lighting her face. “He lived with the animals in the wild lands till he came to Uruk to challenge Gilgamesh. But their battle united them, and instead of enemies they became closer than friends. Inseparable were Gilgamesh and Enkidu; together they faced all foes and fought all battles.”
>guard
Your mouth is already open to respond when Saiph’s voice booms across the circle.
“Subtle is the art of the storyteller,” Saiph says with a smile. “Do you see why Gilgamesh is the leader and Enkidu only a follower? He hesitates in the face of danger; when courage is called for, he backs away. It is Gilgamesh whose bravery will be remembered and loved.”
People murmur in agreement and nod. The storyteller’s eyes sparkle in the firelight, inscrutable.
>mock saiph
“And you would have all vassals follow their leaders with mindless obedience, I suppose?” you say dryly. “How boring the stories would become were you to lead this village and forbid any questioning of your tellings.”
Your enemy meets your gaze with narrowed eyes. “I would not expect you to understand,” he sneers, and the crowd seems to take a subtle step away from you.
>defeat
If Enkidu wonders whether even a god could triumph, then the fight must be truly hopeless–but surely, if any mortal could ever have triumphed at such a task, it was Gilgamesh?
>hopeless
“Wise is the counsel of Enkidu,” you say. “Can even such a hero as Gilgamesh hope to defeat a monster as powerful and horrible as Humbaba?”
Saiph laughs. “Even the heroes of legend are weaklings in your eyes,” he says. “Small wonder you have so little faith in the heroes of today.”
The telling continues. “Gilgamesh looked at Enkidu with disapproving eyes,” continues the teller, who then seems to grow tall and strong. “Is this the brave Enkidu I know?” she asks in the voice of the king. “Is this Enkidu who fought with the wild beasts and once challenged King Gilgamesh himself? Have you traded courage for cowardice? Our days are few, and chances for glory far between. Do you not wish to burn forever in the minds of men?”
The teller becomes Enkidu again, and seems to consider the words of Gilgamesh. “‘You have set your mind, I see. You will make this quest no matter what your friend Enkidu counsels. Since that is your road, I will go with you. I will guide you on the hidden paths; I will find for you the hidden water; I will help you on your quest for glory. Enkidu will go with you.’”
>cowardice
“There are few chances for glory,” you say. “Why did Enkidu not relish such a chance to prove his valor, and that of his King?”
“The story does not say,” says the teller demurely, “and so neither shall I.”
>enkidu
You consider Enkidu’s response for a moment. Some might call him weak for giving in so easily to Gilgamesh… but others would call him a true friend for standing by even though he did not agree.
>friend
“Such is true loyalty,” you say, “to stand by a friend and companion no matter what your own thoughts are.”
“But truer still,” calls Sihan unexpectedly, “is the friend who stays true to her own beliefs.” Your lover smiles mischievously and fades back into the crowd.
>praise sihan
Now is not the time for that.
The story continues. “Gilgamesh rejoiced,” the teller says, “and summoned the blacksmiths to forge mighty weapons for the companions. He summoned the blacksmiths and summoned the servants to prepare food and supplies. He summoned the servants and summoned the priestesses to make generous sacrifices, to ask the gods for good fortune.”
“When all was ready, Gilgamesh and Enkidu passed through the seven gates of Uruk and set off into the desert. The people watched them go,” she says softly, “the people of Uruk in silence watched them go.”
>silence
Before you can speak, Saiph steps forward.
“How solemn the folk of Uruk must have been,” says Saiph, “to recognize the seriousness of such a moment, and not protest like fearful children.”
At these words, some nod somberly. Spears glint in the firelight as hands grip them tighter. Through the crowd, you spot the guarded gaze of your love, eyeing you with concern.
>protest
“And why should they not protest?” you respond. “Gilgamesh and Enkidu are leaving on a long and dangerous road, and the people of Uruk have little to gain from their leader’s self-centered quest.”
Whispers dance around the circle as the people share their views; a fair number seem in agreement.
>sacrifice
“What were the sacrifices Gilgamesh made to the gods?” you ask.
“They were many,” the teller responds, “and befitting of such a strong king; three fattened oxen and twelve fattened sheep; four golden bowls of honey and five silver bowls of butter. The incense was lit and the prayers were sung; the priestesses sang the prayers while the stars turned above.”
“Hot were the sands of the desert,” continues the teller, “hot were the sands and hard was the way. Many bones of less fortunate travellers marked their journey. But Enkidu knew the secret paths of the animals and the secret hiding places of water, and the land fell behind them swiftly.”
“The first mountain range they crossed in a day; the first desert and mountain range they crossed in a single day. On the next day they crossed the second desert and the second mountain range; on the next they crossed the third desert and the third mountain range. On the third night they lay down to sleep, utterly exhausted from their journey.”
>bones
“Did the companions not stop to perform burial rites on the bones of those who had died in the desert?” you ask.
“Why should they?” says Saiph. “Those who failed the journey were weak, and their fate was decided accordingly. We should not pity the weak.”
>mock saiph
“That is the best way you can think to defend your position?” you say loudly. “I might have expected better from one who holds himself in such high esteem.”
Your enemy meets your gaze with narrowed eyes. “I would not expect you to understand,” he sneers, and the crowd gives you sharp glances of contempt.
>enkidu
“Without Enkidu, Gilgamesh could not have crossed the desert,” you point out. “Without Enkidu, who was once his enemy, Gilgamesh could not have prevailed in this quest.”
“It is true,” nods the teller, “without Enkidu Gilgamesh would have been lost in the trackless sands.”
Low muttering comes from across the circle; it seems this has struck a chord with some. Sihan gives you a quiet smile from across the fire.
>mountain
“Was the crossing of the mountains difficult?” you ask.
“For the likes of us, perhaps;” says the teller, “certainly for an old bones like me. Great and long the desert ranges ran, with no water or shelter or game on their cruel slopes. But Gilgamesh and Enkidu strode over their slopes without slowing down, though the sweat coursed down their bodies like rain.”
The teller continues. “In the darkest hour of night Gilgamesh woke with a start and clutched his chest. ‘Who walks there?’ he gasped. ‘Why does my flesh tingle? Has a god touched me?’ Enkidu heard and awoke, saying, ‘Have you dreamt, Gilgamesh? Tell me your dream and I will unravel its meaning.’
‘I dreamt we walked in a gorge beneath a mighty mountain, you and I,’ said Gilgamesh. ‘We were like flies beneath its massive bulk. Then, with a rumble, the mountain collapsed on top of us. What is its meaning, my friend?’”
>god
Saiph is speaking before you can react.
“A clever trick,” says Saiph with a smirk, “to house good omens in tragedy. But it is clear this dream was sent by Shamash, to show that the demon Humbaba will fall.”
The storyteller bows to Saiph. “And this is how Enkidu, too, unraveled the dream of Gilgamesh. ‘The mountain is the demon Humbaba,’ he said. ‘Shamash has sent us this dream to show that we will defeat the demon, and his fall will shake the earth.’ And Gilgamesh heard his words, and was at peace.”
From the whispered voices around you, it seems many agree with Saiph’s words.
>fell
“The mountain collapsed on the companions?” you say. “This does not sound like a fortunate dream.”
“What Enkidu said next may then surprise you,” says the teller with a mischievous smile. ‘The mountain is the demon Humbaba,’ he said. ‘Shamash has sent us this dream to show that we will defeat the demon, and his fall will shake the earth.’ And Gilgamesh heard his words, and was at peace.”
The stars begin to fade as clouds swallow up their light.
>listen
With a flutter of wings, birds ride the blustery air up the valley above you.
As the teller speaks more of the journey across the desert, a strong hand presses on your shoulder. You turn to see Saiph’s angry face only inches from yours.
“The power of the story should not be meddled with,” he says in a barely audible undertone, the breath from his words hot on your face. “Why do you seek to twist and subvert its meaning to your own purpose? Are you afraid of the spear?”
>purpose
“I have only the same purpose as you,” you say, “to lead our people down a path to safety.”
“Safety?” Saiph asks, his eyes widening, “safety is convincing them to lay down their weapons when a fearsome enemy approaches? You would give them safety by tricking them into making a peace that cannot last, that will end only in bloodshed?”
>last
“Why can’t it last?” you ask. “Why can we not make peace with the outsiders?”
Saiph looks at you in disgust. “You are as foolish as you are outspoken,” he says. “How many stories of peace does the teller know, and how many of war? How many kingdoms, great or small, have lived forever in peace? This is a world of war, and those who do not see that are truly blind.”
>blind
“No,” you say fiercely, “the truly blind are those who decide the answer to a question before they have ever heard it.”
Saiph looks away in disgust. “I see I waste my words,” he mutters, “on a coward and a fool. I have no more to say.” He turns and melts back into the crowd.
>listen
The stars begin to fade as clouds swallow up their light.
You turn your attention back to the teller. “On the seventh day,” she is saying, “the companions crossed the seventh desert and the seventh mountain range, and came at last to the edge of the Cedar Forest.”
“The cedars were green, and the forest cool after the barren heat of the desert, and it smelled inside of wood and soil. But quiet it was under the boughs of the trees; quiet, with a lingering whisper of fear.”
>fear
Fear, you wonder, of the unknown? Or the dreadful fear of a terrible evil?
>unknown
“This fear is only natural,” you say reasonably, “even for braves ones like our heroes. Only the foolish do not feel fear when facing a foe they know little about.”
>quiet
“But is this not normal for a forest? I have never heard of noisy trees,” you say with a smile.
“This forest was too quiet: quiet as a temple, quiet as a tomb,” the teller chants, “no creature stirred within the Cedar Forest; not hare nor hawk nor rat nor owl. No beetles crawled on dampened leaves; no crickets chirped. Even the wind seemed to lose its voice as it entered the cool wood.”
>forest
“What did this mighty forest look like?” you say.
“Tall were the trees,” says the teller, “tall and broad were the trees of the cedar forest, their wide arms grasping each other high above. The Cedar Mountain sloped up, up, up, and the trees were a pale green blanket wrapping it tight.
The teller speaks slowly, lingering over each word. “Enkidu and Gilgamesh stepped into the cedars with care, but,” she says, picking up speed, “the demon Humbaba, Humbaba, Humbaba heard the rustle of every leaf in the forest.”
The teller leaps up and spreads her arms wide, and the people shrink back in fear. “A wind blew through the trees,” the teller says quickly, “and a freezing terror seized the companions. Nightmare faces leered behind gnarled branches: blood-smeared faces, faces of rabid lions, faces with hideous tusks, always changing, always horrible. But the demon did not appear before them.”
>not
Curious, that. Did the demon not appear because he was a coward, trembling before the approach of the mighty heroes? Or did he perhaps hope to scare off the companions and avoid a fight?
>scare
“Perhaps he thought to save himself the trouble of fighting,” you say with an amused tone, “by scaring off the intruders. Wise is the one who avoids unnecessary conflict.”
Low muttering comes from across the circle; it seems this has struck a chord with one or two. Across the circle, your love gives you a tiny nod of approval.
>humbaba
Before you can speak, Saiph steps forward.
Saiph raises his voice above the crowd. “Truly Humbaba was hideous!” he shouts. “These changing faces that precede him are like those of all liars and thieves who mask their true self.”
“Truth is subtle and often hidden,” says a gaunt woman from the crowd. “Things are not always what they seem.”
A distant roll of thunder sounds from the horizon.
>mock humbaba
The story has moved on; there are other things to say.
>mock saiph
“That is the best way you can think to defend your position?” you say loudly. “I might have expected better from one who holds himself in such high esteem.”
“I pity you if you have not the wit to comprehend my words,” Saiph lashes back; the crowd gives you sharp glances of contempt.
>humbaba
“Humbaba the demon?” you ask. “Why was he so feared?”
“Humbaba the awful, he of many stories,” the teller says. “His breath is a firestorm; his voice is the floodwaters; his jaws are death itself. Horrible to look at is the demon Humbaba, and the few who saw him and survived could not describe his face.”
The story goes on. “With a cry, Enkidu fell to his knees,” says the teller, mimicking the action. “‘I cannot go on, friend Gilgamesh! You must leave me and go on alone. I must return to Uruk in shame, for I cannot withstand the terrors of Humbaba!’”
“Gilgamesh pulled Enkidu to his feet. ‘Courage, friend,’ he said. ‘Two may prevail where one would fall. Together, we are stronger than any single man. Touch my heart and you will not fear death.’ And Enkidu placed his hand on Gilgamesh’s chest, and he felt no fear. Together they journeyed deeper into the forest.”
>together
“So true are the words of Gilgamesh,” you say. “Two together are stronger than two divided. Such a simple thing to say, but how many can remember it?”
A current of energy runs through one or two in the crowd, who mutter affirmation with somber faces.
>fell
Does this episode show a weakness in Enkidu, or does it illustrate a strength in Gilgamesh?
>strength
“Gilgamesh is a true friend,” you say thoughtfully. “He has learned something about friendship since the start of this journey, when he called Enkidu a coward for questioning him.”
“You would think Enkidu might have learned something as well,” grumbles an old man from the edge of the circle. “Abandoning his friend to a demon at the moment of truth? These are not the actions of a hero.”
>listen
A flash of lightning on the horizon catches your eye, followed by a low, rumbling wave of thunder.
Saiph lets out a contemptuous snort. “So a few shadows in the dark is all it takes to subdue this Enkidu?” Saiph asks. “I would have expected more from one of Uruk’s greatest heroes.”
“You would expect the entire village to walk off a cliff if it would make them seem more manly,” Sihan says hotly, but the mood of the crowd is clearly against her.
“Be quiet and let the story continue,” shouts a voice from the back of the circle.
>brave
“Even the bravest of heroes feel fear at times,” you say gently. “Even the surest of feet sometimes question their way.”
“Soon before them rose up a mighty cedar,” continues the storyteller, so tall its top seemed to touch the sky. ‘Surely, this must be the tallest cedar in the forest,’ Gilgamesh cried, and unsheathed his axe. But his first blow had scarcely fallen when Humbaba screamed with rage. The leaves rustled and the ground shook, and in an instant Humbaba the terrible had come.”
“His face shimmered and whirled with a thousand forms,” says the teller, eyes wide as if the demon stands before him, “a thousand nightmare faces whirled and shimmered down at them. Humbaba’s breath scorched their faces; his screeches cut their ears.”
>first
“On the very first blow of Gilgamesh the demon came?” you ask.
“That is so,” nods the teller, “the sound of the splitting tree had not yet died when the ground began to shake with Humbaba’s rage.”
“It seems this demon has a sense at least of honor, then,” you say quietly.
A shepherd near you nods his head, and holds his wife closer.
>breath
“Humbaba’s breath was fire?” you ask.
“Not fire like this,” says the teller, nudging a smoldering log. “It was as if the air itself was burned; scorched and withered inside and out.”
>screech
“What made the demon’s cry so horrible?” you ask.
“Humbaba’s voice tore the air in two,” says the teller, clawing a bony hand through the air, “sucked at the clouds and stirred up the lightning with its ferocity. The mountains trembled, and mothers in distant lands looked to the skies in fear and clutched their little ones to them tightly.”
The story goes on. “Gilgamesh trembled and fell to his knees. ‘I cannot face him!’ he cried to Enkidu, ‘My blood has turned to ice. You must go on and fight him without me!’
Enkidu pulled Gilgamesh to his feet. ‘Courage, friend,’ he said. ‘The well-twined rope is stronger than a single strand. Together, we are stronger than any single man. Touch my heart and you will not fear death.’ And Gilgamesh placed his hand on Enkidu’s chest, and he felt no fear. Together they drew their weapons and faced the demon Humbaba.”
>friend
“The true friend is always there to help,” you say. “What would Gilgamesh have done without Enkidu?”
“Spent less time talking and more fighting!” says a young man, whose friends all laugh uproariously.
>gilgamesh
“Ahh,” you say, a great smile breaking over your face despite yourself. “And now it is your mighty Gilgamesh who falls to his knees in fear. Will you mock him too, as you did Enkidu?”
Saiph stares back at your with narrowed eyes. “Do not make light of the story,” he says quietly.
Saiph glowers at you from across the flames.
>listen
The coming storm blows through the darkness around the fire, unseen.
The story continues. “Humbaba laughed, and the mountains shook,” the teller says, then draws herself up and cries out in a great, booming voice: “‘What fools are these? What fools are these who dare challenge the demon Humbaba? I will crush your bodies and leave your corpses bloody and mangled on the ground. You will never see your homes again and your women and children will mourn an empty grave.’ And with a roar like the splitting of the heavens, Humbaba charged.”
“Enkidu stabbed with spear; Gilgamesh slashed with sword; Humbaba ripped with claws. Trees crashed to earth; the ground was torn asunder; lightning and thunder split the skies over the forest. Gilgamesh and Enkidu fought like no men ever fought before; but still the demon Humbaba drove them back, and the companions came ever closer to defeat.”
>humbaba
Your mouth is already open to respond when Saiph’s voice booms across the circle.
“Awesome must it have been, to see such a fight,” Saiph says.
“You would not have wanted to be too close!” warns the teller, bringing a nervous laugh from the audience. “The clouds turned to a poisonous shroud; the very mountains were split by the fury of Humbaba’s rage. It was all the companions could do to stay alive.”
>defeat
“So contested was the battle?” you ask. “Even Gilgamesh himself struggled?”
“He struggled more fiercely than a trapped lion,” says the teller, “striking at Humbaba again, again, again. But the demon was too strong, too fierce; and ever did he drive Gilgamesh and Enkidu back, back, back.”
The coming storm blows through the darkness around the fire, unseen.
>lightning
You open your mouth to speak but a middle-aged widow turns with a look of annoyance. “You speak too much.” she says frostily, “Be quiet and let the rest of us hear how the story ends!” She turns eagerly back to the teller, as several nearby people hide their smiles.
The teller continues. “Gilgamesh cried to the sky, ‘Shamash, my lord! Help your servant Gilgamesh in his hour of need!’ And Shamash heard Gilgamesh’s cry, and sent all the mighty winds of the world to rail against Humbaba: The Winds of the North and the South and the West and the East and the Rainstorm and the Snowstorm and the Icestorm and the Sandstorm; the Screaming Winds and the Piercing Winds and the Cruel Winds and the Devil Winds and the Winds of Simurru. Thirteen winds Shamash sent against Humbaba, and not even he could stand against them all. Enkidu threw a net over Humbaba and Gilgamesh seized him from behind.”
>fairness
“So that is how the mighty heroes end their adventure,” you say bitterly, “sneaking behind an enemy held down by a god. How brave the companions were.”
The crowd mutters angrily. “Hold your tongue,” says an older woman, wagging a finger in your face. “I will not hear you slander good Gilgamesh and brave Enkidu any longer.”
The teller continues. “Humbaba saw the way things were and cried out in fear. Humbaba the demon cried out, ‘Do not kill me, mighty heroes! If you let me live I will be your slave, your eternal servant. I will let you cut down all the trees you want; I will cut them for you. I could have attacked you when first you set foot in my forest, but I showed you mercy. Now return the favor and spare my life.’
“Gilgamesh heard Humbaba’s words and took pity on the monster. He lowered his sword. But Enkidu cried out: ‘Do not listen to him! Show no mercy to this cunning foe, this evil creature. If you let him live he would attack us the moment our backs were turned.’”
>mercy
“And why should Gilgamesh not show this creature mercy?” you call out. “They had defeated him in combat; the Cedar Forest was theirs. There would be no gain in killing this demon.”
Saiph steps forward angrily. “No gain?” he says. “Would there be no gain in defending the people of Uruk from this rampaging spirit? Would there be no gain in ridding the world of a monster?”
>monster
Before you can speak, Saiph steps forward.
“My people,” says Saiph, “is the evil of this demon Humbaba not clear? Hideous he is, with changing faces; he strikes fear into the hearts of all men; he threatens Gilgamesh. He must be destroyed.”
>pity
“Curious,” you say, “that mighty Gilgamesh, so strong and proud, would take pity on the creature in this way.”
“He has been through a great battle,” says Saiph, “and the great windstorm has doubtless muddled his wits.”
>could
“What Humbaba says is true,” you say, “he could have attacked the companions when they first set foot in the forest. Why did he not?”
A weatherbeaten farmer steps forward. “The desert spider lies in wait in her tunnels until the insect is at her doorstep,” he says. “Often do predators, monsters, demons, wait thus to ensnare their prey.”
The storyteller continues. “Humbaba the demon called out in fear, ‘Please, mighty heroes, do not slay Humbaba! I was set by Enlil, father of the gods, to guard over the forest. If you slay me he will be angry and his judgment severe.’
“Gilgamesh heard the demon and again took pity on him, lowering his sword, but Enkidu cried out, ‘Gilgamesh, do not listen to his words; close your ears! Kill the demon before you become confused. Kill him now before he can tell the gods anything. Kill him now and claim your fame!’”
>guard
“Humbaba did not threaten the people of Uruk,” you reply. “He only guarded the Cedar Forest many leagues away. It was Gilgamesh and Enkidu who came to Humbaba’s home and attacked him. It was Humbaba who had the right of defense.”
Whispers move through the crowd, and many furtive glances skitter across your face and then quickly away.
>humbaba
Your mouth is already open to respond when Saiph’s voice booms across the circle.
“Enkidu has had a change of heart,” Saiph says. “When once he opposed Gilgamesh in the quest to slay Humbaba, he now is more set on this mission than even Gilgamesh.”
>mock saiph
“That is the best way you can think to defend your position?” you say loudly. “I might have expected better from one who holds himself in such high esteem.”
“I pity you if you have not the wit to comprehend my words,” Saiph lashes back; the crowd looks alternately annoyed and amused.
>humbaba
Perhaps it was a sign of weakness for the demon to plead for his life. Or was the creature wise not to fight to the death?
>wise
“Humbaba was wise not to fight to the death,” you say. “Continuing malice in the face of total destruction is foolishness.”
The teller continues. “Gilgamesh looked into Enkidu’s eyes,” says the teller’s powerful voice, “Gilgamesh, the King, looked into the eyes of his friend Enkidu and made his decision. He knew…”
A gasp rises from the far side of the circle. Out of the darkness three dozen strangers appear, bearing long spears and faces painted with dark blue lines. It is the newcomers, the invaders in your valley, and as they approach your fire, the rain begins to fall.
Amongst them one stands out: tall, with sharp features and a thick leather vest. You guess at once that he is their leader.
>x leader
He is tall, with a hard face painted in dark blue lines, and a scarred but strong body. But a strange emotion burns behind the fierceness in his eyes. If his bearing did not say otherwise, you would almost think it was fear.
>greet leader
“Welcome to our village,” you say to the leader. “We did not expect visitors in the midst of our telling. What can we do for you?”
The warrior leader steps out of the darkness and bares his teeth. “You will give us half your sheep,” he says in a strange, harsh accent, “and half your grain. You will gift us these things or we will take them, now.” The men behind him grip their spears tightly.
>spears
The enemy looks to be about an even match–but perhaps they will respond to a show of force.
>even
“Your spears are of fine make,” you say, “not so different from ours. I think if our peoples were to fight, it would be a very close battle.”
The warrior leader’s face stays fierce, but you see in his eyes he has thought the same. “We would not take this path,” he says with heavy tones, “were there any other way. But the spear is the only way we have in this strange land where our shepherds cannot catch sheep.”
Lightning flashes across the bodies of the enemy warriors, who stand for an instant in brightest light before thunder and darkness settle over them once again.
>shepherds
“The skill to catch these sheep can be taught,” you say. “We will teach you. Come in peace, and we will teach you to catch the sheep and share our grain with you.”
A twisted smile crosses the leader’s face. “We have heard such offers before,” he says, a bitter edge shaping his voice, “to come unarmed and helpless to the homes of enemies with sharpened spears and cruel daggers. Do you think us fools?”
>fools
Are they truly foolish? Or are they merely shaped by despair?
>despair
“You are not fools,” you say softly, “only people like us who do not wish to see their children starve.”
“You are brave,” he says after a time, looking away for a moment and licking his lips. He focuses on your people. “And clear-headed,” he adds. “Perhaps… perhaps there are things we can learn from you.”
He steps forward and places his spear on the ground. As he straightens, a wave of sighs moves through the circle, a release of tension in both strangers and neighbors.
The leader of the warriors looks upon you with stoic pride. “I am Arkab,” he says, “and these are my people.”
[Press any key to continue]
The fire has almost died and the people have scattered, leaving a tangible emptiness behind. Even the rain has stopped its drizzle.
>listen
A gust of wind makes the ashes of the fire hiss.
Sihan finds you and gives you a strong embrace. “I am glad there was no war,” your love says, “though I was ready to fight if I had to. Arkab has promised to return tomorrow, bearing gifts instead of spears.”
>praise sihan
“I am glad to see you well,” you say, holding Sihan close.
Sihan wipes a tear from her eyes. “There is sad news,” she says. “The storyteller is dying. The shock must have done something to her heart. There is little we can do now, but she asked to speak with you. You should hurry,” she adds quietly, pointing towards the storyteller’s tent near the edge of the village, “for there is not much time left to her.”
>dying
“How did this happen?” you ask.
Sihan smiles. “Quietly,” she says, “during the talks with the newcomers. Perhaps a chance of timing, or the shock of their sudden arrival. But now a great pain is in her chest, and her vision fades, and the healers say she will not linger long now in this world. Hurry, love, to her tent, while there is still time.”
>tent
You pull aside the flap of the teller’s tent and step inside.
A lamp burns low, its nearly-spent wick barely lighting up the storyteller’s small tent. Nothing adorns the walls or brightens up the floor; all that is here is a small straw mat, on which the teller lies, breathing shallowly.
>x teller
The teller lies on a simple straw mat, as if merely resting, but it is clear at once she is very sick. Her face is waxy white; breathing rasps in a sweat-covered throat; grimaces of pain fight for control of the wrinkled face.
>greet teller
You lay a gentle hand on the teller’s forehead. She reaches up weakly to touch your arm, a brief smile crossing her lined faced.
The teller smiles at your arrival, and beckons you closer with a weak hand. You kneel by the old straw mat and grasp the cold fingers tightly.
“Curious,” she mutters, “the way fate moves, sometimes weaving a fantastic tale, and othertimes getting the timing all wrong. I would not have had my end be upstaged, were I telling this final chapter.” She smiles, then grimaces in pain.
The teller seems to look through your eyes to something hidden at the core of your being, and weigh it with great care. “The people did not hear the end of the story,” she says presently. “For good or ill a great decision was made tonight, before the story was complete. Would you know how it ends?”
>yes
“Yes,” you say, “I would hear the end of the story.”
The teller smiles and closes her eyes. “Gilgamesh faced a choice,” she says quietly. “Whether to take pity on Humbaba and spare his life, or kill him, as his friend Enkidu counseled. Gilgamesh looked into Enkidu’s eyes, and made his choice. He reached into the demon’s throat and pulled out his insides, pulled them out of the demon’s body by his tongue. Enkidu chopped off Humbaba’s head, and the ground shook, and the forest trembled, and the soil ran with blood. And then it rained, it rained, it rained…”
The storyteller trails off, eyes unfocused, as if lost in another world. After a long moment, she comes back and looks at you. “Perhaps this seems to you a strange story to tell at such a time?” she asks.
>yes
A smile. “There is a secret that all storytellers know,” the teller says, and I will tell it to you now.” She beckons you close, and says each word distinctly. “No story is true, until the listener has heard it. A story is no more true than a doll is a man. To a child, a doll can seem to be filled with life and wishes and dreams; but this is not because of the doll. It is because of the child.”
The teller coughs, but the cough turns to long, gasping chokes.
>listen
The lamp sputters quietly, sending flickering shadows across the tent wall.
The teller’s eyes sparkle. “The power of the teller is to share the story with the people,” she says, “but the power of the listener is to make the story true, or untrue. Only a teller who understands where the true power lies becomes a master; only a teller who knows not to hoard this power can bring change to this world.”
The storyteller coughs again, very, very weakly. There will be but a few more breaths, now, before the end.
>listen
Wind tugs gently at the tent flaps, then subsides.
>listen
Wind tugs gently at the tent flaps, then subsides.
“I have one last gift for you,” she says, her voice fading but still beautiful, “a choice you must make. You must make your decision not out of consideration for me, nor for Sihan, nor for any but yourself, for it is you who will walk the path this choice lays out, and you alone. There is no shame in refusing, for the ways to the path are many, and another will find it in time. But I think, perhaps, it is well-suited for you.”
The storyteller grips your hand tight, and summons up one final reserve of strength, holding your gaze with eyes that begin now to fade. “The teller must gather the people each time the moon dies,” she says. “The teller must tell the stories to the people so the young will learn and the old not forget. The teller must teach the people who they are, and how to shape who they will be. Will you do these things? Will you become the storyteller?”
>yes
The teller sighs, and sinks back into her pillow, and your father’s sister Isi lies before you once again. Peace slowly fills her pain-wracked face, and she mutters something as the old eyes close. You bend closer to hear.
“You will tell the stories well, my child,” Isi says in a voice softer than grass in the wind, “You will tell them well.”
The voice falls silent, then, and there is much darkness before the next story begins.
[Press any key to continue]
This is a story about a healer in the village who was in love with a strong warrior woman, Sihan. On the night of the telling, when the healer’s aunt Isi became the teller, their enemy Saiph tried his best to turn the people towards needless war with the outsiders. The healer spoke against this reckless path, but the people heard the words of Saiph more clearly.
Words and insults flew between these two firebrands, but their rancor was too bitter and curdled to heal. The arrival out of the blackest night of the strange newcomers shook the crowd, so sure peace was the way. The healer who brokered a fragile peace, and agreed to share their resources with the curious strangers to their land.
And the teller lay dying, struck down from shock or chance with a weakened heart, and in her final moments called the healer to her side. She told the healer how the story ended, and whom the telling changed. A teller died and a teller was born, and the story will always guide the way.
*** This telling has ended ***
Would you like to RESTART, RESTORE a saved game, read the AFTERWORD, or QUIT?
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