The Storyteller Read Free Page B

his own children if there were a gold coin in it for him. Po challenged Rondrigal to a drinking contest, something Rondrigal would never pass up, and the two proceeded to throw back flagon after flagon of mead.
    Rondrigal was a legendary drinker who had never been bested, but Po had a trick up his sleeve—or, to be more specific, under his shirt. He had the ability to untie his belly button and tap into his stomach. Using the tentacle of an octopus, he created a spout that led from his stomach to a hole in the floor. The mead went in and the mead went out and Po didn’t get the least bit drunk.
    Rondrigal certainly did. So drunk, in fact, that he passed out in his chair and Po was able to drag him out of the tavern and put him under a blanket on Rondrigal’s horse-drawn cart. Po had the king’s blessing, of course, but even if he didn’t, he feared no punishment for kidnapping this horrid man whom everyone in the kingdom despised.
    â€œYou’d be wise to toss him off a cliff,” the tavern keeper called out as Po pulled away. The tavern erupted with laughter.
    The Dorgon was brisk with his business. As soon as the cart pulled up to the bog, the creature emerged and croaked, “You’ll be wanting a potion?”
    â€œI will,” Po said. “A potion of forgetting. A girl is too careless with her kindness. She does not need such a burden.”
    â€œIt is understood,” the Dorgon said as it pulled Rondrigal from the cart and down into the bog. It was only a few moments later that the Dorgon surfaced with a flask of colorless liquid, tossing it at Po. “She will not forget what she already knows, but this will steal her ability to make new memories,” the Dorgon said. “She’ll need to drink a drop every day.”
    â€œI will make sure that she does,” Po said.
    The Dorgon burped and replied, “Next time, bring me one who doesn’t taste so sour.”
    Back in the onyx tower, Po put a drop of the potion into Princess Sigrid’s evening stew. It must have been flavorless, because she didn’t notice it. She simply bid Po a good night and went to bed.
    The next day, when Po arrived, Sigrid was out on her swing, looking over the land. In the center of the market below, a woman sat on a stump crying.
    â€œPlease see what ails that poor soul,” Sigrid said, her voice as full of empathy as ever. “And make sure her life is set right.”
    Surprised, because the Dorgon’s potions were legendary for their effectiveness, Po asked, “What was that, my lady?”
    Sigrid turned from her swing, shook her head for a moment, as if it were full of dust, and replied, “I seem to have forgotten.”
    Po smiled. “Come inside then and rest a bit. No need to look out onto the world all morning.”
    â€œI suppose you’re right,” Sigrid said in a resigned tone. She came inside for the remainder of the day.
    Every day went like this. Po would arrive in the morning and Sigrid would be on her swing, asking about the unfortunate people below. Po would reply, “What was that, my lady?” She would turn, instantly forget her worries, and go back to her room. In the evening, she’d have a bowl of her stew, which always contained a drop of the potion, because Po gave it to the cook with explicit orders.
    â€œThis is medicine for Princess Sigrid. If it does not flavor her stew, then she will become very ill and you will be to blame. Understood?”
    â€œUnderstood,” the cook said, and the cook was always true to his word.
    The king and queen were thrilled that the plan had worked, but Po found himself disturbed. Because every morning, before Sigrid’s forgetfulness set in, she fixed her eyes on the same place: the stump at the center of the market. And every morning, that same old woman was there, crying. Sigrid would always forget about the woman moments after taking her eyes off of her, but every morning