---

The Bargain of Death and Saint Nicholas

by Craig Church

“What’s your favorite tale?” I ask, voice quivering.

My audience of thieves and killers, their gaunt, dirty faces illuminated by flickering firelight, eye me with equal parts skepticism and expectation. Their captain sits front row center, an energy rifle across his lap as a reminder of my fate should I attempt to run or, worse, fail to entertain. My stomach is eager to empty itself all over the stage of this derelict theater. Thank the spirits I didn’t eat much today.

“It’s the Eve of Giving,” says the captain. “Start with your favorite holiday story.” Nods and grunts of assent follow from the raiders surrounding him. I curl my fingers into fists to stop them from trembling, unable to steer my mind away from the fact that my life depends on choosing the right tale to bring my bloodthirsty captors into a festive mood. No pressure.

I breathe deeply, letting the familiar scent of firewood smoke wrap itself around me like a hug from an old friend. How many hours had I spent by fires, listening to Dad’s tellings? “When in doubt, stick to the classics,” he’d always say.

The firelight casts dancing shadows against the intricate woodwork of the walls. My chest flutters. It feels sacred to perform on a stage that hasn’t been used in centuries.

I begin.

“I’d like to tell—”

“Speak up, young one!” the captain growls.

I straighten my posture the way I’d see Dad do it and project my wavering voice as best I can. “I’d like to tell you the story of The Bargain of Death and St. Nicholas.”

Several raiders lean forward, eyes widening like those of young children in the slums soaking up each of Dad’s tales. It’s an odd sensation, to command the attention and intrigue of a full room. Now I just need to keep it. An invisible burden of responsibility settles within me, the weight of the past couple days that have led to this moment. The possibility of dishonoring Dad’s memory causes my aching heart to skip a beat.

“It’s a story that begins with an ending.”

---

Yesterday, my audience was significantly less enthralled.

Whenever Dad would perform a telling, every face in the crowd was the same; wide eyes, slackened jaws, every breath hanging on his next word—the exact opposite of how Dex and Flynn looked as I practiced. Dex yawned, and it froze me mid-act.

“Guys, c’mon,” I pleaded.

“Sorry, Penny,” Flynn said, rubbing his eyes. “It’s just not as good as when your pop tells it.”

For a moment, the only sound was the crackling fire between us. I couldn’t deny the obvious, droopy-eyed boredom plastered across their dirty faces. Smoke wafted into my face and what was left of my concentration was lost to coughing. Defeated, I moped over and took a seat on the ground with my friends.

“I don’t get it,” I whined, “I’ve memorized the story word for word. I even repeat Dad’s hand gestures. What’s missing?”

“Some people are natural born ‘tellers,” Flynn answered, earning him a jab in the side from Dex’s elbow.

“Penny’s father is the best ‘teller in the district,” Dex said. “One of the greatest New Columbus has ever had. If anyone’s born to the job, it’s her.”

“Then what am I doing wrong?” I asked, wrinkling my nose to keep the welling tears at bay.

“Charisma,” Flynn said flatly. Dex raised his elbow again but Flynn thrust an index finger in his face. “You know I’m right. You’re just too sweet on her to say it.” He turned to me. “Listen, Pen, I know it’s your dream to follow in your pop’s footsteps, but you’re a junker. What you wanna do is at odds with what you gotta do.”

Dex hung his head, unable to argue. Life as a scavenger from the slums taught me to be a ghost, to avoid attention at all costs. These habits kept me alive outside the city walls, and I didn’t know how to turn them off while reciting tales.

I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Keep practicing,” Dex said with a noticeable lack of conviction. “I’m sure your father didn’t become a great ‘teller overnight, either.”

I dug into my tunic and retrieved the pair of ration cards I’d promised my friends in return for sitting through my performance. Flynn reached out for his, but Dex slapped his hand away. “You keep ‘em, Pen. Giving is in a couple days, and I’m feeling generous.”

“‘Generous’ is what we’re calling this?” Flynn muttered, rubbing his fingers.

“We should get back to work,” Dex said with a glare. “Bodies don’t collect themselves.”

My friends gathered their packs. I stared into the flickering flames and sighed. “You both coming out for Giving?”

“Of course,” Flynn answered. “No one within five miles misses the Giving tales.”

It’s no secret Dad was the best ‘teller in New Columbus. In a few days’ time, hundreds of people would travel from other districts to hear his annual performance of holiday tales. It was a special tradition for so many families. Why wouldn’t it be? Dad’s presence was both intimate and intoxicating; his words possessed this hypnotic ability to make you feel any way he wants. It’s a magic I’d coveted for as long as I can remember.

My friends shuffled off, and I snuffed out the fire with a fistful of dirt. Despite my mood, I was just as excited as anyone else to hear Dad’s Giving tales. I started the trek back to the metal shipping container we call home, making a mental note to request Dad include my favorite story, “The Bargain of Death and St. Nicholas,” in his holiday performance. He did this creepy voice when he performed Death’s lines that thrilled me since I was little.

The winter sun faded, lengthening the looming shadow of the Dome towering over the slums. I wondered to myself what Giving must be like inside, where humanity’s elite sequestered themselves behind the impenetrable, air-tight steel walls arching up above the horizon. As a little kid, I’d heard they had their own arboretums and I would fantasize about growing a real fir tree for Giving like our ancestors did. Did people inside the Dome ever think about the rest of us, living in shantytowns woven together from the tatters of the old world? They must feel a little guilty, doling out ration cards entitling us whatever remaining scraps of food they throw out. What must they think of us, painting our own Giving trees on the sides of walls?

These were usually thoughts that got my blood boiling, but I was too preoccupied analyzing my performance from earlier to think too much about it.

It was dark when I reached the old shipping container we called home. My stomach dropped to not see the familiar, warm light pouring out from inside. I pulled back the tarp covering the entrance, flicked on the solar lamp, and found Dad slumped against the metal siding, barely conscious. Rushing to his side, I placed the back of my hand on his clammy, sweat-glazed forehead. His breath was labored, chest rising and falling in quick, short bursts.

I radioed for Dr. Prust, who was plenty busy, but made an exception because it was Dad. He arrived within 30 minutes, and when he pointed out the fluid build-up swelling around Dad’s legs and stomach, there was a forlorn sympathy in his tone.

Dad’s heart had run its course. He would be lucky to make it to Giving.

---

In the wee hours of the following morning, the Eve of Giving, Dad used his last words to ask the impossible.

“Perform the Giving tales in my place, Penny,” he said, voice faint and rasping as what little life he had left seeped away. He grasped my hand. “Promise me.”

I shut my eyes tight. I knew the request would come, but the heat of resentment flushed my cheeks. A Giving without him already sounded wrong enough. It was the time of year we would debate the theme of the holiday mural we would paint in the district square, mixing wild honey with pigments from berries and petals I gathered during junking runs. This year, I’d be an orphan saddled with a burden I didn’t know how to carry.

“I’ll ask Nico or Samba to fill in,” I said. “They’re great ‘tellers.”

Dad slid a gentle finger under my chin and turned my head to face him. “Tell me again why you want to be a ‘teller.”

My face crumpled. “Because of you,” I answered, voice hitching. “You help everyone in the district forget our shitty lives for a bit. I wanna do that, too.”

Dad sighed. “You’re still trying to tell for others.” He placed a hand on his chest. “You tell for yourself first.”

“But I know the stories already.”

“Your memorization skills are impressive,” Dad said, straining against his failing body. “But what do I always say?”
“‘There’s knowing the words in your mind, and then there’s feeling them in your soul,’” I recited.

Dad smiled weakly. “Emotion is infectious. Be vulnerable. Feel the words you speak. Do that, and a telling becomes more than a recitation.”

Tears spilled down my face. “I try, Dad. I really do. Maybe someday I’ll be—”

My protest was interrupted by a coughing fit as Dad spewed up more blood-spotted mucus. He gathered himself and mustered the strength to say “Penny, you’re ready. This is what I want.”

Kneeling at his deathbed, all I could do is nod through my tears and squeak out the words “Okay. I promise.”

He cupped my face in his palm, smiling proudly, before letting his head sag back onto his cot and falling still. My breath caught as his hand slid from my face. I sat there for hours, watching his breath grow shallow and slow until it stopped.

I wrapped him in a tarp I traded two ration cards for and radioed Dex who, while shocked, graciously agreed to collect Dad’s body on his day off.

It took every muscle I had to drag Dad’s dead weight to the door. I had to stop twice to catch my breath and sob. Once outside, I sat with him in the cold, early morning dark, until I heard the sputtering of the motorized wagon.

Flynn caught sight of me as they rounded the corner, and he reverently plucked the worn beanie from his head as they approached. “I can’t believe it.”

I nodded, unable to look him in the eye. I produced their usual fee of 20 ration cards, but Dex cleared his throat and Flynn gently pushed my extended hand back toward me.

“No charge,” said Dex. “Least we can do for all the good times he gave us.”

I watched in silence as the two boys, both just a year older than me, hoisted Dad onto their shoulders and laid him gently into their wagon while reciting the Blessing of the Spirits. There was a reverence to the act I appreciated.

“Just a day before Giving,” Flynn said to Dex, loud enough for me to hear. “Shame we won’t get his tellings.”

Dex glared at him, pressing a finger to his lips while jerking his head toward me.

“There will be a telling,” I said, eyes fixed on the ground. “Dad made me promise to perform in his place.”

My words were met with silence, then a snort from Flynn. Dex knocked him off-balance with a shove.

“I thought she was joking!” Flynn said defensively. “Pen, are you seriously considering getting up in front of the entire district and butchering their sacred holiday tradition?”

“Not helping,” Dex growled, but again he was unable to argue against Flynn’s point.

“I told him it should be another ‘teller,” I said, “but he made me promise to do it.” I buried my face in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

Dex and Flynn shuffled their feet in silence.

“I mean, at least the holos’ll keep things from getting too boring, right?” Flynn finally said.

My heart leapt with a split second of hope before reality brought me crashing back down to earth. I’d salvaged an ancient holo projector a few years back, and each holiday season Dad insisted on using holograms to enhance his tales. It’d be a perfect distraction from my subpar telling skills, but the projector battery died earlier in the year when we used it to run the heater.

I rubbed my temples. “I don’t suppose either of you have access to a Model 4, Type C battery, do you?”

Dex and Flynn stared at me as if I’d asked them to lay a golden egg.

“Had to ask,” I muttered.

Dex gave me a kind smile and snapped his fingers at Flynn. “Let’s give her some space.”

As the hum of their wagon faded, I looked up at the monolithic Dome towering above us all. Finding another battery of this type would take months of junking. They’re relics; only the Dome and its ancient era-based tech still use that kind of resource.

There was no such thing as sneaking into the Dome, which left only one place I could go to procure a new battery in time for Giving. The thought made my stomach drop.

“Why’d you make me promise, Dad?” I whispered to myself.

If he ingrained one thing in me, it was to always honor a promise. “We don’t have much aside from our word,” he’d say. “Once that loses its value, you’re truly broke.”

A promise is a promise, and I wasn’t broke just yet.

---

I set out at the first light of dawn. The sweet spot for scavenging is right as the sun crests the horizon, giving you enough daylight to reach the less picked-over ruins near raider territory and make it back before nightfall.

There are two basic rules every slum junkrat who survives past the age of 12 follows religiously: don’t let others know where you’ve scored good salvage, and steer clear of raider tribes littering the Wastes. If the beasts don’t end you, a marauder will haul you off to a fate worse than death.

A promise is a promise, I reminded myself.

My fingers stroked the cool metal of the energy pistol tucked under my tunic. It was ancient. Probably early 22nd Century. Found it junking a couple years back, and while I had no experience handling such a weapon, it made me feel better carrying one out here.

I strode through the city gate toward the Scioto riverbed with all the confidence I could muster, knowing I’d need more than a rusty pistol and luck if I ran into raiders. I stomped through the crusty patches of snow strewn along the ancient waterway, my face already numb from the cold. I welcomed the sun’s warmth as it crept through rusted metal spines of the ruins littering the horizon.

Traversing the Wastes requires a constant state of awareness. Raiders are everywhere, attacking conveys ferrying supplies between New Columbus’ Dome and others far beyond anywhere I’d ever gone. As a result, militant drones—and their Model 4, Type C batteries—patrol everywhere and are frequently downed in firefights.

I walked eastward, slipping through crumbling, hollowed-out ruins of restaurants and shops to maintain cover as I followed the outer edge of the city wall. This continued for a couple fruitless hours, and if not for my promise hanging over my head, I’d have turned back multiple times. I tried to ignore my growing doubt over my ability to find a battery in time.

I came to a ruin about three stories tall. As good a vantage point as any. I cautiously made my way inside, sidestepping the enormous roots snaking out from the floor of an auditorium lined with rows of seats. My mouth dropped in awe as I realized the place was an ancient theater. Vines and foliage tangled themselves along the ornate carvings and sculptures decorating the cavernous space. Light poured into the darkness from the caved in ceiling, casting mother nature’s spotlight onto the stage. Dad always talked wistfully about the giant rooms where our ancestors gathered to see stories performed. Their ‘tellers would dress up in costumes and craft props. Sometimes there’d even be music created specifically for a story. Putting on different voices in front of a campfire suddenly felt pretty basic. I’d once asked Dad why ancient ones who had everything still needed ‘tellers. “Stories make everyone better,” he’d replied. “Everyone. They feed the parts of us no one else can see, filling us up with inspiration and empathy.”

My chest tightened, so I shook away my wonderment and returned to the task at hand. I found a stairwell and gingerly climbed, avoiding the gaps where steps had rotted away. I reached the balcony, which was high enough to provide a view of the landscape outside through the missing roof. Miles of wasteland spread out in front of me, vast and still. There were no raider drop ships or patrol drones to be seen along the skyline.

There was a thin plume of smoke in the distance, though.

From this far out, it was impossible to make out the source. It could have been a raider campfire, but it might have been a downed drone. It would be dangerous to approach the site without knowing exactly what it was, but I was running out of time. I pulled my pack tight and set out in the smoke’s direction.

---

An hour later, the smoke wafted above me as I crept through shrubbery toward its source. I drew near a clearing and peered through the branches. I stifled a gasp. On the ground, sparks and smoke springing from it, lay a downed drone. Aside from the exterior damage, the silver puck of a hull seemed fairly intact. Raiders must’ve shot it in the night and left it. I dutifully thanked the spirits for the luck and scurried out into the open, eager to pry the drone open and leave with my prize before anyone else came looking.

I slid my crowbar out from my pack, but froze a few feet from the wreckage. Something was off. It hadn’t registered with me until now, but the smoke coming from the drone was grayish-white, not black like this kind of damage would produce. I stepped closer, leaning forward on my tip toes to spot an improvised smoke canister tucked under the hull.

A trap. Raiders.

I didn’t even have time to mutter a curse before someone shouted “Now!”

Figures clutching various bludgeoning tools raced into the clearing, surrounding me. Their body armor was dirty and graffitied, the leather of their boots worn thin. Their faces were painted white and tan, completing a cohesive camouflage perfectly suited to the muted colors of the Ohio tundra.

I hurled my crowbar at the nearest raider with all my strength, striking him in the neck just below his jaw. He crumpled to the ground with a gurgle as the rest of his lot continued to charge me. I reached into my tunic and brandished my pistol.

“Stop right there, shithead!” I shouted, my trembling hands leveling the gun at one of the raiders a few feet away from me.

Everyone halted. They had me outnumbered, but no one appeared willing to be the one to get shot should they act on their advantage. My hands steady as I spoke to the raider I had the gun trained on. “Just let me go, I don’t want trouble.”

She sneered at me. “Dome scum.” She punctuated her words by spitting at my feet.

I was confused by the insult, but before I could make sense of it, a shot rang out from beyond the clearing. An energy bolt, perfectly aimed, sang through the air and blasted the pistol from my hands.

“Take her,” a gravelly voice drenched in authority called from the edge of the clearing. I was tackled to the ground, a cloth bag thrown over my head before I could see who the voice belonged to.

Within a minute, I was hog-tied and hoisted aloft from a rusted pipe jutting from the ground. I wriggled my hands, but the knots binding me were tight as hell.

“You’ll only chafe your wrists doing that,” the gravelly voice said as the bag was pulled from my head. I craned my neck to come face to face with a gleaming, silver helmet with two great horns protruding from its sides. My stunned reflection greeted me. There was no way to see through the metallic surface, to look into the eyes of my captor. The raider cocked his head, trying to make sense of me. “You shouldn’t be out this far east. Haven’t you heard about the marauders infesting the area?”

Chuckles rippled through his crew, their hungry eyes darting between me and the man in the helm who appeared to be their leader.

“I’m just a kid,” I said, hoping some good old-fashioned begging will help my cause. “I don’t have anything of value.”

The faceless helm turned to one of the nearby men. “Silas, scan her.”

Silas stepped forward and pressed a metal rod to my neck. It beeped cheerfully. “No chip,” he said, grunting. “She ain’t Dome or serf.”

The leader sighed, hanging his head. “You really are just a little, lost junkrat aren’t you? A shame. We were hoping for someone valuable.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to upend whatever all this is. If you let me go, I’ll promise it’ll be the last you ever see of me.”

The leader folded his arms. “Is that so?” he asked, amused. “And what do I tell my crew? You’ve seen our numbers and our latest trapping strategy. Selling such information to the Dome would be a hard opportunity for a poor junker to resist.”

Silas leaned in, an unsettling gleam in his eyes. “She could be useful to us in other ways, captain.”

The raider captain took a step closer to me. “Avert your eyes, young one.”

Before Silas could react, the captain whirled around and buried a fist in his throat. Silas staggered back, clutching his neck and wheezing. A glint of light flashed from the captain’s thigh as he unsheathed a dagger. I shut my eyes tight, wincing as the wet schluck of blade sinking into flesh repeated, accentuated by yelps and whimpers. I heard a body hit the ground.

I opened one eye in time to see the captain kick Silas’ corpse over onto its face and extend the point of his dagger out at his crew. “Our Queen has forbidden the enslaving and spoiling of the innocent,” he said, his voice even and casual, as if this were just any normal afternoon activity. “To suggest otherwise is treason. Do not make Silas’ mistake.”

“What do we do with her, then?” someone asked. Most of the crew keep their eyes firmly on the ground.

“Two options,” the captain said, turning his attention back to me. “We let her go, or we kill her as mercifully as possible.”

“I vote for option one,” I said, looking out at the marauders imploringly. “I won’t say a word about you to anyone. I swear it on my father’s memory.”

The captain stilled. He brought his hands to his helmet and lifted it off, revealing an older man with a greying beard and deep scarring across his face. His eyes narrowed. “Your father’s memory is worth swearing upon?”

“Best ‘teller in the district, bar none,” I replied.

To my surprise, the captain smiled. “A ‘teller’s daughter!” he exclaimed. “And you’ve come into our midst on the Eve of Giving, no less.” Murmurs began to echo around the group of raiders.

He leaned in close to me and whispered, his breath musty and sour. “My friends and I have lamented our deployment, so far from home during such a beloved day of joy. Surely your father taught you the classics? Should you warm us with the cheer of a telling, how could we respond with anything other than the gift of your freedom?”

As much of a no-brainer proposition as this was, my heart fluttered with hesitation. Getting up in front of my neighbors and friends to perform is one thing, but doing so for a band of raiders who seemed to have no qualms about murdering me in cold blood is another. Who knows what they would do if I wasn’t entertaining enough?

Stories make everyone better. Everyone.

Dad would want me to do this. He believed I could do it. He’d also probably prefer me not die, too.

I nodded to the captain, who used his still-bloody dagger to slice my restraints with glee.

“Everyone gather ‘round and build a fire!” he shouted to his platoon. “Our friend the ‘teller’s daughter has stories for us.”

“Actually,” I said, knowing I needed to make this as special as possible, “I think there’s a better place to do this.”

---

“It’s a story that begins with an ending.”

The theater does a lot to heighten the aura, but without a holo projector I have to improvise my flourishes. My hand darts into the pouch at my waste and retrieves a fistful of copper scraps I’d chipped off an old poster frame in the lobby. I toss them into the flame, and hear a chorus of oohs and ahhs as the tendrils of heat radiate every color on the spectrum, white smoke curling upward through the open roof. The response to my showmanship causes my chest to swell with pride and grief. Dad would love this.

I collect myself and press on. “The tale of St. Nicholas and his bargain with Death begins with the end of the Ancient Ones.”

Excited murmurs ripple through the raider crew. Invoking our ancestors who lived in an era of comfort and plenty always elicits awe. I throw a pinch of pine needles into the fire and watch the bright, crackling sparks light up the ruins surrounding us. Attention settles back onto me, and I feel a thrill over the chance to make an audience feel something.

“It happened on a cold winter’s night much like this,” I continue, maintaining lots of eye contact. “In the ancient world, there was a holiday called ‘Christ’s Mass.’ The consensus of our historians is that once a year, a holy being called St. Nicholas would leave a gift for only the most selfless of people. These gifts were extraordinary, often the heart’s desire of the recipient; a magical map that led you wherever you wished to go, or a tablet that enabled someone to speak face to face with anyone in the world.”

I pause for effect, letting my audience imagine their own heart’s desire and what it would feel like to be gifted it.

There’s knowing the words in your mind, and there’s feeling them in your soul.

Dad’s guidance echoes in my head. I close my eyes and allow myself to imagine, too. I envision Dad in the front row next to the captain, smiling proudly, as I meet this challenge. I yearn. I grieve. I feel. My trembling muscles calm and my voice steadies. I allow the storm within me to coat my words with emotion.

“But our ancestors forgot what it meant to be selfless, and The Last War came. Humanity’s light flickered like a candle in a storm as we consumed ourselves to the edge of extinction.”

I kick a glowing coal from the fire and crush it under the heel of my boot, and with an elegant flick of the wrist, I stoop down and fling the embers into the air. My enraptured audience watches the sparks float above us, gradually fading like stars at dawn.

“St. Nicholas was bereft, for soon there would be no one left to give gifts to, much less be worthy of them.”

When I look at the raiders now, there’s a familiarity to their awe. The expressions are ones I’d seen at each of Dad’s tellings for the past sixteen years. I hold the mood and spirit of everyone surrounding me in the palm of my hand. Words flow from me at a steady clip, like a song I’m compelled to sing.

“Taking the only recourse left to him, St. Nicholas went to Death to bargain.”

I drop my voice by an octave, doing my best to put on the same affectation Dad did when he performed these characters. “‘Please, sister Death,’ said St. Nicholas, ‘you’ve had your fill. Spare the remnants of humanity, and I shall craft and give to you the object of your heart’s desire.’”

I can tell by the way several of the younger raiders in my audience wring their hands they’re hearing this tale for the first time. This is fun.

I throw my voice to the back of my throat and hiss my next words. “‘My one desire cannot be made,’ answered Death, ‘its need is immaterial and constant.’”

“‘Name it, and we will see,’ St. Nicholas replied.”

“‘I am sated by souls which are themselves satisfied,’ said Death. ‘A soul made content by love comes to me not in fear but with the embrace of fulfillment. Can you craft for me a humanity capable of affection in spite of what it has wrought upon itself?’”

Some in the audience stroke their chins as they consider what St. Nicholas would do in the face of such an impossible request.

“After a great deal of thought, St. Nicholas replied. ‘My craftsmanship is unnecessary, for I will be the object of your heart’s desire. Break me apart and imbue a piece of my spirit within each remaining mortal. I will be gone, but each year they will be compelled to remember and acknowledge the best of each other. Is not such appreciation the foundation of love?’”

I stride over to the nearest audience member, an older woman with a weathered face and long, greying hair. I extend my hand, which she hesitantly reaches out and shakes.

“‘I accept,’ said Death.”

“And so,” I continue, “Death broke St. Nicholas apart and stitched the pieces to the souls of those who remained—to us. The Last War ended and ever since, at the end of each year, we gather at what would be the Christ’s Mass Day for the ancient ones and celebrate the Giving of St. Nicholas by showing appreciation and love to those who’ve shown it to us.”

I let a moment of silence permeate the clearing before stooping into a bow, throwing my wrist into the air with a twirl just like Dad used to do. I’m met with applause, hoots, and hollers from an appreciative audience. It feels good.

---

Everyone in the theater is intoxicated by the tale, having let themselves—if only for a minute or two—be carried off somewhere other than here. A bond of shared experience envelopes us, but it isn’t nearly as strong as the connection I feel with Dad. I can sense him, his loving, proud smile just on the edge of my periphery. I’d always thought of stories as a service you give to others. It’s so much more than that. It’s first and foremost a gift I give myself, and something for Dad and I to do together for the rest of my life.

As the rush subsides, the captain applauds. His crew follows suit. “Wonderful, wonderful! Spend this night sharing more of your wonderful stories, and we’ll celebrate Giving by not only letting you go, but sending you along with a gift of our own.”

I’m unsure if that’s an invitation or an order, so I just nod politely. Raiders begin checking their packs, some offering small baubles or precious metals.

The captain snaps his fingers. “You were looking for parts from the drone? The battery would be valuable.”

My heart leaps. Am I about to be personally gifted my quarry by a raider captain? At the same time, I think of the telling I’ve just performed, and quickly know I don’t want or need to use a holo projector anymore. Using scavenged materials came naturally and felt so intimate. Holos would only distract. I guess I’m old school like that.

“Thank you,” I answer, “but coercing me into this was actually a gift in and of itself.”

The captain raises an eyebrow, then smiles. “Take this instead,” he says, snapping off the crest hanging from his neck and handing it to me. “Wear this while you scavenge these parts, and our clan will always know you’re a friend.”

I return his smile. “Oh, we’re friends now? Weren’t you thinking about killing me a couple hours ago?”

The captain chuckles and shrugs. “Maybe your stories are making me a better person.” He’s only half-joking.

He returns to his seat, rubbing his hands together in anticipation for the next tale. I’m surprised to be just as eager to get telling. I silently thank Dad for the gift.

“Okay,” I call out, my voice commanding the room. “This is the legend of Charles Brown and the Giving Tree Miracle.”

---

Host Commentary

Craig had this to say: One of my favorite quotes is from Roger Ebert, when he said “movies are like a machine that generates empathy.” I wanted to write a story about the value of storytelling itself, how it can connect and warm us in even the harshest of circumstances, allowing us to communicate and empathize with elements of each other we can’t express any other way.

Here are the notes I made as I was reading this story:
‘Be capable of affection’
‘Do not kill the part of you that is cringe. Kill the part of you that cringes.’
‘Stories make everyone better.’
‘It’s not escapism. It’s a map.’

Let’s focus on those last two. It’s very easy, especially at the end of a year that for me has been
punctuated by the loss of a parent and for the world defined by a never-ending parade of seemingly terrible news, to look at escapism as sticking your head in the sand. That’s because a lot of the time, it is. That’s because a lot of the time that’s exactly what we need. We see ourselves in fiction. We seek out fiction we want to see ourselves in and when it’s not there life is so much harder than it should be. That’s why representation matters. Because when we escape into a world that we’re seen in, that reminds us we deserve to be seen.

It’s not Escapism, it’s a map. A map to a better version of ourselves, one we reach by stepping off the line, by resting, by putting our phones down. It’s a map because it’s an example others can follow, a tunnel other people can dig their way through too. It’s a map because it’s Not Here, and God knows so much of 2024 was defined by the need to Not Be Here. There are other places than trauma. There are other places than fear. There are better stories than the one we’ve all been told so loudly this year.

That’s what the second half of the story does so well for me. It dodges the well-meaning ‘The real stories are the ones we met along the way’ platitudes that are always lovely but are so often empty fictional calories and shows tells the truth. That telling stories are hard. That remembering the people we’ve lost is hard. But that when we do the hard things, we either touch other people through the art we made or by the simple fact we’ve stepped forward. We’ve made something.

We’ve shown them the escape tunnel. Stories make everyone better.

Timely, kind, honest. Good job everyone, that’s how you close out a year.

And speaking of closing out a year, 2025 is just around the corner and with it Escape Artists’ 20th anniversary. To prepare for 20 more years, we are running an end-of-year donation drive and several of our most generous supporters have committed to matching every gift 1:1 between now and January 1st. That means if you donate $5 it will become a $10 donation. $25 becomes $50. And $42 becomes twice the meaning of life, the universe, and everything to us.

If you make a one-time gift, it will go twice as far today, but if you subscribe, you will have twice the impact for the rest of the year. Monthly donations ensure we can plan ahead with a reliable income, which means we can publish more original stories, devote more time to editorial excellence, and plan for the future. And, because Escape Artists is a US 501(c)3 nonprofit, your donation may be tax deductible, depending on your own tax circumstances. EA can also accept gifts from donor advised funds, family foundations, employer matching gift programs, and lots more. Whether you have been a member of Escape Artists’ community since 2005 or just started following, now is the perfect time to start supporting us because your gift will have twice the impact.

Visit Escape Artists dot net forward slash Support for all our support options – from Patron and PayPal to Kofi and more. Or if you have a question, contact donations at escape artists dot net.  Thank you for supporting our mission to bring free and accessible speculative audio fiction to a global audience. We couldn’t do it without you!

We will see you next time, folks with Forever the Forest by Simone Heller, narrated by Hugo Jackson, with hosting from Valerie and audio production by Summer. And I’ll see you next year!

Happy festive season, everyone and may we all see Whistler’s wish come true. Until next time, have fun.