Have I mentioned I live in an awesome city? Because I live in an awesome city. With an awesome library that regularly holds evening events. Such as, for example, evenings with professional, nationally-renowned storytellers. A few weeks ago Shonaleigh returned (who has delighted us with medieval tales before), along with Peter Chand, to share the tale of The Petal Garden of King Shubash.

Like any good story, The Petal Garden of King Shubash is actually a nest of stories. The story of King Shubash is framed by the tale of one of his descendants, returning from war to a bride he barely knows. King Shubash’s story is told as they count petals (a feat of multitasking I could never manage!).

King Shubash was once close to his vizier, but when doubt was sown in his heart he set the other man a riddle. The vizier sought high and low for the answer, finding it, finally, in the mind of wise woman Hannah Leah. Shubash is worried that a woman so wise lives in his kingdom, and decides to marry her in a fit of ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’.

You don’t turn down a king and live, so Hannah weds the king, veiled and covered from head to toe. The king sets her three tasks to complete while he is fighting abroad: first, the sack of 1000 gold coins, sewn and sealed with his signet ring, should contain 2000 coins when he returns; second, her mare should bear a foal to his stallion, who will be going with him to war; and third, Hannah will bear him a son, without accompanying him to war. And that night, he leaves.

When a woman is smart enough to solve a riddle like “What is the water singing?” being given teen years to complete three impossible tasks is simplicity itself, and Hannah Leah gets underway before the dust of the army’s departure has settled. Oh, and she tells a few good stories herself, along the way.

The Petal Garden of King Shubash is a deftly woven tale of fear and force of will. In a society and a period where women have no control over their lives Hannah Leah finds ways to survive without relinquishing any part of herself. Shonaleigh gives wonderful voice to strong female characters, while Peter Chand brings energy and a wry humour to balance Shonaleigh’s broader jokes.

The Russian doll nature of oral storytelling can sometimes through off people who aren’t used to it, but I have to admit that at one point even I missed the cue that another story-within-the-story had started, and I wasn’t the only one. The story in question – chefs telling each other anecdotes about previous jobs – ended on a pun that wasn’t really worth the effort of catching up again. It pulled me out of the story and I was disappointed, but since it was the only bum note Chand and Shonaleigh hit it didn’t take me long to be sucked back in again.

If you’ve never seen a professional storyteller, you’re missing out on a part of pretty much every culture in the world. You are not being read to, like a child in bed. You’re not being acted at, like the audience of a play. Oral storytelling is like the best anecdote you ever heard; there’s an element of dialogue to it even though the listeners rarely speak. If you ever get a chance to go to a live storytelling, take it. If you get several chances, take something like this – a story from a culture other than your own, told by people so good they get to do this for a living (weren’t storytellers once the most important people in any tribe or village? What happened, society?), with good company and comfortable seating.

During the interval we were given a riddle to solve. If we didn’t, we were told, we wouldn’t get to hear the end of the story. I solved it, and got a cute little apple-shaped tester bottle of perfume for my trouble. I was wondering if any of you could work it out:

I can be long,
I can be short,
I can be grown,
and I can be bought.

I can be round,
I can be square,
I can be painted,
or I can be bare.

What am I?