The Storyteller (1987) s01e03 Episode Script

When people told themselves their past with stories explained their present with stories foretold the future with stories the best place by the fire was kept for The Storyteller.
Sometimes people are born lucky.
You imagine if they opened their hands, there'd be a little piece of sunshine a personal piece.
It lights them up.
Everyone loves these people they're lit up.
- Cats sit on their laps.
- What? It's luck, it's a gift, it's a blessing, and therefore can't be undone.
This is also true of prophecies.
So when one night, a boy is born, blessed with luck and it is foretold he will one day be king well, no matter how poor the child no matter how wicked the king in power no matter how monstrous the monster Here we go.
Not so long ago, in the deep north where it is so cold, that just very cold is considered quite warm two cold hearts ruled the land.
The one beat cold in a cruel king the other in a terrible beast, the griffin.
And it happened in a week with two Fridays that the cruel king heard of a prophecy.
A child had been born, reported his spies a luck child.
Poor as penance, rich as snow, the seventh son of a seventh son.
Wise men prophesied this child would one day be king.
"Superstition, Majesty.
Folklore," said his evil chancellor.
"Old wives" tales, rubbish.
"How could a peasant's child, not worth a spit "how could a brat become king?.
" But the cruel king choked on the news felt it sharpen and pierce his heart.
So he set out with his evil chancellor to find this luck child and do him in.
Let night protect us and the Lord watch over us.
Amen.
We come in search of the luck child.
Is he here? Well? Yes or no? Have we come to the wrong hut? He is called the luck child, sir but what luck can he have, born with nothing? Dear me! My friend here, a holy man, brings seven pieces like this.
- He seeks a child to patron and to care for.
- As if he were my own son.
Yes, a luck child indeed! It's a bargain, I take it? Yes or no? Why, he's my little boy, sir.
You have six others, Mother, and now they'll be plump as pigs.
He's my little lover.
Of course, you need more gold to comfort yourself.
It is not more gold my missus wants.
You can't put gold to your breast.
You can't hear its heartbeat.
Please yourself, you've had your chance.
I'll send in men on the morrow, we'll turn the snow bloody.
We'll hand over our little boy to your safekeeping.
- What else can we do? - Good.
- Take care of him.
- Yeah.
Because he's a little precious, you see.
He's the seventh son of the seventh son.
- He's a luck child.
- Yes, terribly lucky.
And that was it.
They couldn't speak.
They couldn't believe it.
Their baby was gone.
Right.
- It's a nice smile.
- I'd smile, given your kingdom given your gold, given all that is rightfully yours.
That's right.
Would you? I wouldn't, sir.
I mean, he would.
I speak of him.
A dreadful drop, as luck would have it.
The fall will finish him, or the icy waves.
- The shock will do him in.
- I can't look.
How far down is it? About That's it.
You go, too, sir! Good night! No one shall wear my crown! Terrible.
That's a terrible story.
What? The baby died! What do you mean, "what"? Who said the baby died? I didn't.
This is a luck child.
No, the baby fell, plummeting down dropping into the blackness, the rocks beckoning.
Yes, plunged downwards but the binding catches on a jutting branch and winds round, pulling the baby up short before letting him down gently onto the shore with a plop.
Sand, soft, safe.
The evil chancellor fared less well.
The sea had him.
Then the next morning, the griffin had a feast.
As for the cold king, from time to time, he felt a little bad a fleeting bad.
But soon he quite forgot what he'd done out of fear of a prophecy.
Besides, it's not long and he's got a baby of his own a little girl.
She seeks out the one soft part in his heart and touches it.
How he loves his little darling.
And years go by, 10, 12, 15, 16 the daughter turns out a lovely.
A princess talked of, longed for.
And the offers! Hundreds! But the king doesn't want her married.
Oh, dear me, no, he's not going to lose her in a hurry.
"Hands off," is what the king thinks.
"Hands off all my lovelies!.
" Four.
- That's four for Nicholas.
- Aye.
- Four for you then, Nick.
- Aye.
All kneel for His Majesty, the King.
Your Majesty.
I am in your region inspecting harvests.
- How goes it? - Fair, sire, good.
- And the records? - Show His Majesty the book, son.
All entered, sir.
Your people sweat for each ear of wheat and each cob of corn.
And Your Majesty also needs his tithes, of course.
Of course.
Otherwise, we'd all be lords and no king, and then what? Exactly.
Then what, indeed? How come the boy is fair, when you two are dark? I'm a foundling, sire.
He was a gift from God, sire.
We had no child of our own.
Found when? Found where? By the black cliffs, sire, 17 years since.
Washed up without a scrap on his little body.
I see.
You're a lucky one, then.
- That's what we call him sire: Lucky.
- Lucky? A boy like you would do well at court.
- I'm needed here, sire.
- Then you'll be missed.
Paper and pen.
I'll take the boy.
See, I'll write him a royal warrant.
You take this letter to the Queen.
She will welcome you into our royal care.
This boy will want for nothing from this day forth.
Hurrah for the King! Hurrah! A happy day, indeed.
The king can hardly breathe for his thumping heart.
For this bright spark must be the boy born to claim his throne: The luck child.
"Kill him, " thumps his heart.
"Kill him!" Now, between the mill and the palace is a forest.
A man on foot cannot fathom it.
Folk go in, few come out.
Foul things live there.
And Lucky has no map, he's lost.
He's been lost for hours, and it's dark and he can't see a thing.
Not even the hole he's walking towards.
Where am I? Oh, dear.
You've fallen in among thieves, I'm afraid.
This is a robber's cave.
A terrible place.
Then I must get out.
I'm on royal business.
See, I have a letter from the King.
I see.
Oh, dear.
But the problem is when my sisters get back.
They're wild, very violent.
Oh, dear.
Now, are you hungry? - Can I climb out? - Dear me, no.
You'd better eat something while I think of what to do with you.
I'm a cook.
The cook.
That's my it's goulash.
Thank you.
Oh, dear me, no.
You can't leave now.
I'm supposed to be lucky.
That's my name, Lucky.
- This is very good.
- Thank you.
Marvellous! That's it.
I'm the cook, also the poisoner also the nastiest.
Now let's see what's in your pockets, lucky boy.
Not a sausage.
A letter from the King? This will never reach the palace.
No, your luck's run out.
Oh, dear me, yes.
But listen, the little man can't believe his eyes.
Terrible.
What a terrible letter.
This is terrible.
"Wife," it says "when you read this letter "order the bearer of it, a youth named Lucky "to be chopped into 1,000 pieces.
"Do this without delay.
King.
" That is disgusting.
Poor little fellow.
We'll soon see about this.
Now he's also a forger, this little man.
And full of fair play, sits down to write a new letter before his sisters, wild women, get home and slit the throat of their sleeping guest.
And so it was, the next morning the luck child wakes, refreshed and restored with the castle straight ahead of him.
"Very odd," he thinks.
But off he sets without more ado.
"I have a letter from His Majesty," he cries at the drawbridge.
"A letter from His Majesty," at the entrance to the court.
In he goes, to find the queen sitting with her daughter.
And a thing happens straight off, boom! The princess looks at Lucky, and Lucky looks at the princess and, boom! That's it, love.
The Queen, meanwhile, astonished reads and rereads the letter.
Gracious me! - A boo to the King.
- Boo! - And a hiss.
- Hiss! Picture him on his journey home.
He gloats, a sneer thins his lips.
He's savouring his cruel deed.
The luck child in 1,000 pieces, his letter ordered.
By now, it would be done.
He's cheated fate.
He's cheated the prophecy.
A mile from the palace he hears bells, and more bells.
And then, looking up to the battlements the wicked king sees something.
He can't believe it.
How? He howled, but no one could hear him.
- How? - You ordered it.
"Marriage, " your letter said, "on pain of death.
" I ordered him to be chopped into 1,000 pieces.
- I have the letter.
- "1,000 pieces, " it said.
- I've savoured them the long journey home.
- Look! He seems a lovely boy.
Look, they're so happy.
I thought you'd been to a fortune-teller.
The luck child will one day be king.
Father.
We're so happy.
Thank you.
Your Majesty forgive me.
I'd thought you a cruel tyrant, a blight on the poor but now you make me, the humble peasant, your son and heir and the happiest husband there ever was.
And the golden feather? Beg pardon? The golden feather from the griffin, do you have it? - No, sire.
- Then you must fetch it.
Was it not understood that my daughter could not marry without it? - Father, that's impossible! - Why? Because the griffin is a monster.
It eats people.
Yes, it won't be easy.
But then not every man is fit to marry my daughter.
- Very well.
- No.
- Don't worry, I'll come back.
- No, no one has ever come back.
She's right, I'm afraid.
We'll see.
And so he sets off, the luck child.
"To the griffin," he tells himself, "to the griffin.
" It becomes a direction when he has none a distance when he knows none.
He strides on.
With each mile, the land gets poorer.
Green gives way to dust, the black deserts of the griffin.
On and on he trudges until one day he comes to a lake in which no fish swim.
Hey, ferryman! Will you take me across? I go across, forward and back, ceaselessly with you or without you.
Then I'll join you.
As you like.
I seek the griffin.
Yes.
Am I near? Over there.
What are those lights on the shore? Jewels.
Riches.
No one brings them back.
I shall.
I shall come back.
If you do, perhaps you may discover why I must continue this weary way back and forth, without ending.
For I'm weary and sick to the soul.
I'll remember.
Each one who came, the same tale.
"The griffin, please.
.
" For love, for justice, for fame, for fortune but always in the end, for the griffin's supper always in the end, terrible cries splintering bones the suck of juices.
Who's there? Oh, dear.
What are you doing here? - What about your sisters? - They're here, too.
Yeah? Where? Hard to be absolutely certain.
- What happened? - The griffin flew by the cave.
He was hungry.
But, luckily my cooking saved me.
But listen, you must hide, dear boy.
He'll be here soon.
I need a feather from his back, the golden one.
His gold feather? Thank God if you walk out in one portion.
Forget the gold feather.
- I made a solemn promise to me wife.
- You did? Oh, dear.
And I must also find out when the ferryman can cease his ceaseless crossing.
Hide under the table and I'll do what I can.
Dear friend Quick! My sniff, snuff, snaff, man whiff.
Of course you can smell a man.
That's me.
No, snuffle snort other sort.
There's no one else here.
Now, are you hungry? - I could eat a house.
- Of course you could.
Stop yap-yap.
Stink, stench, stunk of man-bits.
My not like.
Okay, food now.
From underneath the griffin's table the boy listens, trying to smell of nothing but bone of things rotted.
Dear, oh, dear.
- Finished.
- Good, and now a little scratch? Scratch-itch-scratch.
- That was which-wouch! - I know.
Clumsy, I'm clumsy.
I scratched too hard.
- I should stop.
- No.
Itch scritch-scratch.
All right.
I'm so sorry.
Oh, dear.
I'll be more careful.
I'll be, you know, really careful.
My not like things pulled.
No, that's right, you're a sensitive monster.
My not monster.
I mean a nice, misunderstood, and brilliant beastie.
My bird! My misunderstood bird! My not beastie! Of course you are.
A bird.
A very nice bird.
I should go, back to where I came from.
To that dark, horrid cave.
Serve me right.
- No! - Don't try and stop me.
I'll tell that old ferryman to row me across.
Yes, he's outside now, I expect, waiting for a passenger.
Poor old fellow.
I wonder why he's always there.
Why can't he leave? His curse the worst and stay the same, less someone take pole then someone cursed the same way as him.
Simple.
So if someone took his pole, they'd have to row and he'd be free? So simple.
I should go and tell the poor fellow.
I should take over.
Really, I should go now and take over.
No.
My like goulash and itch-scritch, scratch-scratch.
Then you go to sleep, now.
Busy day ahead.
Eating people and wreaking havoc.
Snoozie-woozie, now.
That's it.
Snoozie-woozie.
And off the luck child scurries clutching the golden feather, scooping up jewels.
Straight home he wants to go.
Straight home to happiness.
I dare not think it possible you found the answer.
But then, you did come back.
- No one has ever come back.
- I've come back, and I have the answer.
The next passenger you have, give him your oar and your luck will be his, his freedom yours.
So simple.
So simple.
And for the first time in years, centuries hope fires the ferryman.
A smile is forming in his mind.
A tiny smile growing, getting ready to be born.
Hello! He's back.
And he's got the golden feather! I've come back.
And I've got the golden feather.
"I have done as you bid," he says.
And the king can do nothing but agree, and give his blessing.
Then you have my blessing.
Though it cost him in his bitter heart.
Then out comes the treasure out pop the king's eyes.
"Gold! Jewels! "Where are they from?" And the boy answered him.
I took a ferry across the lake to where the griffin lives and on the other shore, gold lies where pebbles should emeralds where sand and where the sea breaks, diamonds fall.
Is that so? So lucky.
And saying this, the poison swilling his eyes souring his mouth, the king vowed to go himself.
And that very night he slipped away alone.
And set off in search of this magic shore across the lake.
Come on.
Can't we go any faster? Yes, sir, there is a way.
"Take it," he says.
"Take it.
" So if you come, one day, to a lake and there's an island and a ferry goes back and forth, rowed by an old, sad man turn around.
Griffins live there.
You may never get off the boat.
For the ferryman was once a wicked king who ignored a prophecy whose heart was cruel.
And nature, my dears is a wise woman who pays us back.
Tit for tat.
Hey.
The boy and the girl, did they live happily ever after? Yes.
Wonderful.
Very, very happy.
The boy, you see, was a luck child.