Imagine a bundle of energy packed in a 5′8″ frame, with a shock of almost orange hair, a face covered in freckles, and a laugh that starts as the sound of a chicken cackling over a newly laid egg and ends as a donkey’s bray. If you’ve got that in your mind, it’s the storyteller Finley Vance Stewart.

Fin’s life was extinguished in a fire that engulfed his home in 2003, when he was only 41. I still have trouble believing he is gone. He was my friend, my mentor, my confidante, and the little brother that I never had. There are days that melancholy sweeps over me when I think about him. I ache to answer the phone to hear him say, in a sing-song voice, “Shelly, Shelly, Shelly. You were always my favorite.” That phrase was always followed by some ridiculous new request he had for me.

Last night, my head was full of thoughts about Fin. I decided I want to share a story, a tale from Texas that I first heard from him twenty-some-odd years ago. I don’t tell it the same way he did. As all storytellers do, I put the story in words that “fit my own mouth.” But the essence of the story came from him. Keep in mind, if you read it, that the story flowed through my fingers this morning as I told it out loud. With a written story, I don’t have the normal “tools” I use as a storyteller: my voice, my facial expressions, my body language. I don’t have a clue if it comes across the same way on the page. It’s long, and I just can’t condense it, so I apologize for that. It’s a tale from Texas, a Native American story, a love story, and a ghost story all rolled into one. And, it’s on this page to honor the memory of “my little brother.”

SERENA, OF THE RIVER

Serena was her name. That will tell you something of her beauty. For Serena was the most lovely young woman of the Comanche tribe. Her eyes sparkled like stars in the night sky; her hair fell to her waist like a river of black water. It was so black that in the sunlight it shone blue, like the raven’s wing. Her skin was flawless and the color of sand on the river; her teeth were as white as freshly fallen snow. Serena’s smile was a gift, which all of the young men of the tribe sought. Each of them wanted to make her their wife, but she could not marry so many.

So they held contests of strength, running, racing, shooting the bow and arrow, to show Serena that they would make the best husband. She watched the games, but she would not speak to the young men. They brought her gifts when they came back from the hunt: venison for her fire; skins to make her clothing and her home; feathers, shells and brightly colored stones with which to adorn herself. She took these gifts, but still ignored them.

Serena was like many of us. She did not want what she could easily get—she wanted what she could not have. What she wanted was one particular young man of the tribe. He was the bravest of the hunters. He was also the smartest, the strongest, and the handsomest. But, this man ignored Serena, which served her right.

In her sadness, Serena took to going to the creek each day to bathe in the clear water. Then, she sat on a stone beside the creek combing out that blue-black hair while singing mournful love songs that echoed in the hills around. One day, as she sat singing, the water at her feet began to bubble and swirl. From out of the depths of that creek there arose a huge and ugly catfish. Serena knew it was no catfish—it was a shaman, a medicine man, a shape-shifter.

That catfish shaman rose upon his tail in the water and laughed a horrible cackle that rang from the hillsides. His eyes glimmered with evil, his whiskers twitched, and with his muddy lips he began to speak, “You want the hunter? I can give you the hunter, if you will do one favor for me.”

Serena fell to her knees in the water, “Please,” she said. “I will do anything to buy his love.”

“This, then, shall be our bargain,” bellowed the catfish. “I will give you the hunter. I will make him love you and marry you. But, in return, one night each month—the night of the full moon—you will come to the banks of this creek. You will wade into the water and be transformed into half-fish, half woman for the night. In the morning, you can return to your hunter.”

Serena thought about this. This was an ugly thing, but it was not too big a price to pay to buy the man she truly loved. “I will do it!” she cried.

The catfish shaman danced on the water and laughed saying, “One thing you must remember, Serena: If any human ever sees you in your half-fish, half-woman form, you will remain in that form for all eternity and you will be mine!”

The catfish dove into the water and disappeared. Serena stumbled up the banks of the creek. When she lifted the flaps of her tent, she saw that her home was filled with gifts. They were from her hunter! He did love her; he wanted to marry her; and he paid her father a bride price that well matched her beauty.

Serena and her hunter were married and they were very happy together. But, once each month—on the night of the full moon—Serena secretly crept from their bed to go to the creek. She waded into the water and became half-fish, half-woman for the night. One night, she waded into the water, and her body was transformed. Suddenly she gasped in pain! A fish hook that had been left dangling in the water had caught upon the scales which now covered her leg.

Serena sat upon a stone in the water, trying to pull the fish hook out. But, if you have ever had a fish hook caught in your flesh, you know that because of the barb on the tip the more you pull, the deeper it bites. Each time she pulled, Serena screamed in pain.

In his bed, her hunter awoke, for he had heard his wife’s cries and though it was in his dream. Confused from sleep, he looked around for her—but she was not there. Knowing that his wife loved the river, the hunter wrapped himself in his sleeping robe and walked out in the night toward the water. But there on a stone in the river he saw a strange sight. It was half fish! It was half woman! It was disgusting! It was Serena!

He called out her name. She looked into his eyes, and in that moment Serena felt her blood run cold for all eternity. In that one moment, Serena learned something we all must know: True love cannot be bought. It must be freely given and freely received.

Serena dove beneath the waters of the creek, and was never seen again by The People. But, The People will tell you this: “If you go to the banks of the creek on the night of the full moon, you might hear her mournful love songs echoing in the hills or the ugly laughter of the catfish.: And, the Comanche People will tell you that the ice cold tears of Salado Creek are fed by the ice cold tears of Serena.

[ If you are a storyteller and wish to tell this story, please feel free to do so. But, please tell it in words that fit your own mouth, and give credit where it is due.]

For my little brother Fin, with love. Shel

Technorati Tags: Finley Vance Stewart, story, Texas, love story, ghost story, SERENA, Salado

I had a hankerin’ for fried fish. I like to eat fried crappie (that’s pronounced like “croppy”) but you have to catch crappie for yourself, and I don’t fish. I did until Daddy made me bait my own hook and take my own fish off the line. Those squishy worms were nasty, but I didn’t want to kill them. I didn’t want to kill the fish either, but I’m happy to eat them if someone else does the dirty work.

Since you can’t buy crappie at the store, and I’ve never seen it on a restaurant menu, I had to settle for catfish. We decided to go to Waxahachie, Texas to visit the Catfish Plantation. It’s a restaurant housed in a historic Victorian home that was built in that quaint little town in 1895. They have a reputation for their excellent fried catfish, but they also serve fried pickles and fried ice cream! It’s Texas; we fry. Catfish Plantation has a reputation for something else, too: it’s haunted. No lie.

I had been to the restaurant years before with a friend of mine. She wanted to go with me, because she knows I’ve had experiences with those of the Other World (and I’m not talking about the teenager upstairs). I’ve seen ghosts when I was alone and when I was with a group of people who also saw the entity. My friend was hoping we would have an “experience.”

However, nothing out of the ordinary happened on our visit. On the drive back, she was visibly disappointed. After a few moments of silence, she blurted out, “Shelly, it’s my fault we didn’t see a ghost! I was born in the Chinese year of The Rat, and the Chinese believe that people born in a “rat” year deter ghosts!”

“Honey,” I said, “I don’t think it was a Chinese ghost.”

This trip, I did see something odd. We were seated in a corner next to the front wall of the “parlor.” On the other side of that wall was a glassed-in porch where people entered the building. The door into the parlor had a window pane through which the sunlight streamed, creating shadows on the opposite wall. I sat mindlessly munching while I watched the shadows of the people as they approached the door to enter the room. There was also a window next to our table where I often glimpsed the people as they approached.

I saw a shadow on the wall, the figure of a large person, but I couldn’t distinguish if it was a man or a woman. I waited for the door to swing open—-but it didn’t. I glanced out the window at the porch, and there was no one out there. I even got up and went to the door to look, but no one was near. The shadow was gone, too.

I laughed when I told the waitress what I had seen. But, she nodded in a very matter-of-fact way and asked, “Was it a man or a woman?” I told her I couldn’t say for sure. She replied, “You saw Will.”

She explained that there are three entities haunting the restaurant. One is a woman in the kitchen, who evidently didn’t like to cook. She throws things and slams things, but isn’t seen very often. One of the ghosts is a young girl who was strangled in the house on her wedding night, but usually when she is seen it is at the window, and her features are recognizable. The other entity is “Will,” who usually stays on the porch and likes to change the stations on the radio. You can read more about them at the link I gave you above.

We finished our meal in peace, but I do believe I might have had another one of “those experiences.” I have a friend who told me once, “Experience is what you get when you didn’t get what you wanted.” Actually, I don’t mind it a bit.

Raise your hand if you have seen a ghost, or if you have a story someone told you about a friend of a friend who saw a ghost. We all want to hear. At least, I do.

If I were as lucky at getting picked for the lottery as I am at being picked for jury duty, I’d be richer than King Midas. Last year, I had been living in Denton County, Texas for three years. I got picked for jury duty for the fourth time.

The first time, the cases were all dismissed or postponed, so everybody who was called got to go home. The second time, I wasn’t picked to serve. The third time, I was scheduled on a date for which I had been contracted to tell stories. Since I work for myself, a letter to the judge got me excused.

I told that judge that if they would call me during the summer (my slow time) I’d be happy to serve twice. However, I got my fourth summons the next month. My client was local and was willing to switch days, so I traipsed down to the courthouse. I got chosen to appear the next day (in a town 30 miles away) for a “voir dire.” That meant the lawyers were going to ask me questions to see if they wanted me on their jury.

My brother told me that I should go in the room with a little piece of string and repeatedly tie it into a “hangman’s noose.” Surely then I wouldn’t be picked. I chose to ignore him. I was willing to do my civic duty.

I arrived and obediently filled out the information sheet; then I sat down to wait until my “pool” of people was called. Almost immediately one of the lawyers, a short, pudgy, young man with a smug expression on his face, pulled out an information sheet. With a grin on his face that made him look like a possum in a plum tree, he called out in a slow drawl, “Missuz Tucker?”

I raised my hand. He started laughing and moseyed over to stand in front of me. He said, “It says on this paper that you have a job as a proFESSional storyteller!” At that, he turned to the other jurors and started mugging until they all were snickering.

“Will you please tell me,” he drawled, “how ANYONE can make a living telling stories?” He guffawed, and everyone in the room almost went into hysterics.

I was livid. How dare that young man get sassy with me! He was barely old enough to shave! But, I silently gnashed my teeth and maintained my faux ladylike demeanor. When the laughter died down enough so I could be heard, I sweetly replied in my best fake Southern Belle accent.

“Why sir,” I said, with my voice oozing honey. “I make my living the same way a good lawyer does.” There was dead silence in the courtroom as a waited for three beats. Then, I said, “I work very hard. I can tell a lie with a straight face, and I charge an exorbitant fee.”

The crowd roared. I got the bigger laugh. And, I didn’t get picked for jury duty.

I don’t know why people think that being a “professional storyteller” is a strange occupation. Before there were televisions, every culture had storytellers. The storytellers were revered and given gifts. Yet, today storytellers “don’t get no respect.” People make idiotic remarks that show they have no understanding of the art form.

It happened again last week. In one school, the morning announcements declared that I would be “reading” a story to the children. Later, the principal said, “You sure do charge a lot of money. Maybe I should be a storyteller.” Yuk, yuk.

I do NOT “read” stories. I expend a lot of energy to “tell” them. I paint pictures with words on the canvas of the imagination. It is much like an actor performs, except that I have to be ready to improvise within the story to suit the moods of each audience. The story is told a shade differently each time. Audience reaction and feedback changes it. In front of small children, and grownups who act like small children, I have to be ready for anything.

And, I don’t just walk in to a classroom, open my mouth and tell, and take my money out the door. I spend countless hours scouring books for old folk tales that I like well enough to tell. Then, I work for days or weeks painstakingly re-writing the stories into words that fit my own mouth and putting my own spin on the plot. After that, I rehearse again and again until I can tell the story the way I want it to be heard. That’s just the artistic part.

I have to find the jobs, which means time and money spent to market. I have to negotiate contracts, write them, send them, and follow up on the paperwork. Sometimes schools make me wait weeks for a paycheck. After I get it, I still have to update all my accounting records.

Then, there is the issue of the grueling travel. Anyone who thinks that traveling for a living would be exciting hasn’t ever gotten the dubious pleasure of doing so. My nine hour drive (which should have been only seven at most) from Corpus Christi back home last week is an example. I had already worked all day before I began that drive through grueling SXSW festival and spring break traffic. I had gotten up at four that morning to pack, told stories to wiggling elementary students all day, driven all that way home and finally got to bed around midnight that night.

If you subtract my business expenses and then divide my pay by the actual hours I put into the job, I could work as a greeter at Wal-Mart and double my salary. Those blue uniforms would make my eyes look beautiful, and I can say, “Howdy, do y’all need a cart this morning?” with the best of them.

I’m not complaining about the job or the pay. I love my job, and know it is what I was destined to do. I just wish the world at large would save their snide remarks for the lawyers.

Do you know how many lawyer jokes there are? Four—all the rest are true stories.