The Storyteller's Daughter by Maria Goodin Page B

inside.’
    â€œAtlas liked the idea of handing over the weight of the heavens for a while, so he agreed. He handed the heavens over to Hercules before going into the walled garden, where he fought the dragon and fetched the apples. But when he came back and saw Hercules struggling to hold up the heavens he realised he would be mad to take that burden back.
    â€œâ€˜You can keep the heavens,’ he told Hercules, ‘and I’ll keep the apples.’
    â€œHercules had to think quickly. He pretended to agree to the deal, and promised Atlas that if he would just take the heavens back for a minute while he went and got a pillow to make himself comfortable then he would come straight back and take the weight of the heavens forever more. Atlas, trusting Hercules was good to his word, agreed to take the heavens back for a moment, but as soon as he did, Hercules grabbed the apples and ran away, leaving Atlas cursing after him.”
    The gardener strokes the tree dreamily, seemingly lost in thought.
    â€œThat’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard,” I tell him.
    He shrugs, as if being called ridiculous is no big deal, as if it doesn’t even matter to him that I find him absurd.
    â€œIt just shows what some people will do for a few measly apples,” he says.
    â€œIt doesn’t show anything. In fact, it doesn’t even make sense. There are so many inconsistencies. For a start, there’s no evidence for the existence of Gods. Or dragons. And even if you believed that heaven existed – which I don’t – it certainly wouldn’t exist in a tangible format that could be held on one’s shoulders. Plus, nobody’s liver re-grows over night. It’s anatomically impossible. In fact, that Prometheus fellow would have died the first time the eagle came and attacked his liver, and if he hadn’t died he would certainly have been in need of urgent medical attention. Hercules should have been fetching the paramedics instead of worrying about a load of old apples.”
    The gardener is smiling, clearly finding something amusing. His eyes flit curiously across my face, as if he’s trying to figure me out.
    â€œYou’re right,” he says, with mock approval, “those are all very sensible points. I guess whoever came up with that story hadn’t really thought things through.”
    â€œPeople who find pleasure in such stories rarely do think things through,” I tell him.
    â€œIt wouldn’t make much of a story though, would it, if you took out the Gods, and the dragon and the eagle and heaven? You’d really just be left with a bloke going out to pick some apples and then going home again.”
    â€œWell, what would be wrong with that?” I ask, not seeing the problem. “If people feel the need to tell these stories then the least they can do is make them reflect real life.”
    The gardener frowns, as if I’ve missed the point. “But stories are meant to take you away from real life. To help you escape from reality.”
    â€œWhy would you want to escape from reality?” I ask him, feeling myself becoming annoyed.
    The gardener scratches his head. “Well, because life can be tough. Sometimes it’s good to escape, to just let yourself get lost in your imagination – ”
    â€œYes, you could get lost,” I tell him, adamantly, “that’s exactly what could happen. Lost and not able to find your way back.” I can feel my heart starting to beat faster, and my voice becoming louder.
    The gardener looks a little wary, and I sense this is not quite the reaction his story was meant to evoke.
    â€œI’m not sure indulging in a bit of fantasy now and again can do much harm,” he says.
    I can feel anger welling up in my chest. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about! If he thinks a little fantasy can’t do any harm, that it’s simple enjoyment, then he