The Storyteller's Daughter by Maria Goodin Page A

challenges your ideas then the aim of the game is to prove that you are right and they are wrong.
    â€œWell,” he says casually, “there’s nothing wrong with a bit of nonsense now and then. I reckon we all need a bit of nonsense in our lives from time to time, don’t you?”
    He looks at me with a slight smile, his chestnut eyes twinkling playfully in the bright sunlight. Of course we don’t need nonsense in our lives, I think. What would be the point in that? He is being ridiculous. And yet for some reason I find that I am the one who is blushing!
    â€œThe whole garden’s in chaos,” I tell him, quickly, “you shouldn’t be wasting your time worrying about one tree. I’m sure my mother isn’t bothered about a few measly apples.”
    â€œMeasly!” He exclaims in mock-outrage. “How can you say that? Apples are never measly.”
    He gently twists off one of the small green apples hanging from the branch of a nearby tree and holds it up, watching the sunlight glisten on its waxy skin.
    â€œLook at that,” he says, in the way that anyone else might marvel over an original Monet. “Perfect.”
    He holds it out to me in his grubby palm and I take it reluctantly, looking at it with contempt.
    â€œPeople have journeyed far and wide for a few measly apples, as you call them,” he says, “just look at Hercules.”
    â€œI’m not interested in comic books,” I tell him.
    For some reason he seems to find this comment amusing. In fact, he actually laughs. I have no idea what I might have said that’s so funny, and if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people laughing at me. Particularly when I don’t even know why.
    â€œWhat’s so funny?” I ask, annoyed.
    â€œIt’s not a comic book,” he explains, “Hercules was a divine hero from Greek mythology who was set twelve labours, and his eleventh labour was to fetch some apples that grew in a walled garden in a far western land.”
    He watches my face for a sign of recognition, as if I should know what he’s talking about. Instead, I raise an eyebrow and look bored to show that these silly stories are beneath me. I am hardly going to feel embarrassed that I don’t know about some fairytale. In fact, I see my lack of knowledge in these areas a sign of superior intellect, evidence that I have had far more important things to be thinking about. Anyone who knows fairy tales off by heart has clearly had a wasted youth.
    The gardener strokes the sickly-looking branches of the timid tree and continues his story, although I’m not entirely sure if he’s telling it for my benefit or talking to the tree again.
    â€œHercules was set a test to fetch some apples that grew in a walled garden in a far western land. On his way, he came across Prometheus, who had been chained to a rock by the God Zeus as punishment for giving fire to man. Every single day an eagle would come and eat Prometheus’s liver, which would then grow in the night only to be eaten again the next day. Hercules was appalled by such suffering, so he fired an arrow at the eagle, killing it, and released Prometheus from his chains. Prometheus was eternally grateful and he warned Hercules to be careful in his quest to fetch the apples. Any mortal man who entered the walled garden, he said, would certainly be killed by the dragon who lived inside. He advised Hercules to ask Atlas to enter the garden on his behalf, as Atlas was immortal and so could fetch the apples without fear of death.
    â€œAfter a hard trek through the mountains, Hercules finally reached the walled garden. Outside he found Atlas, who was holding the heavens on his shoulders as punishment for waging war against Zeus.
    â€œâ€˜If you go into the garden and fetch the apples for me,’ Hercules told him, ‘then I’ll hold the weight of the heavens on my shoulders for you while you go