Valerie Tutson is talking about the power of stories and their place in the oral tradition of African-Americans when she seamlessly slips into the tale of Sis' Goose and B'rer Fox.

Seems Fox had ordered Sis out of the pond, and she was going to take her complaint to court. Only problem was, the judge, jury, bailiff and prosecutors were all foxes.

"You can be sure they cooked their goose that day," she said, mimicking the voice of the professor who told her the story years ago during her undergraduate days at Brown University. "And then he said, 'As long as there's nothing but foxes in the courthouse, there won't be much justice for them there geese.' And I went, Bing! Who needs a lecture when you have stories?"

Tutson and about 200 other storytellers are in Towson this week for the National Association of Black Storytellers' 20th anniversary convention. All week long, they've been celebrating one another and their craft. Today, there will be youth events, a panel of scholars and a liar's contest open to anyone with a tall tale to tell.

It's all part of bringing more attention to an art form that began long before Homer's heroic battles, the five books of Moses or the Epic of Gilgamesh were in circulation. Storytelling harks back to early man and woman hunkered around a campfire, recounting the day's hunt or the wiles of a crafty chimp.

"It's not just about entertainment. This is about knowing who we are," said Tutson. "With storytelling you're creating a community."

For Tutson, who grew up in Connecticut, storytelling offered a path to self-discovery and a way to investigate the experience of black people in America. But it wasn't until high school that she paid any attention to the craft, and then only after her mother urged her to attend a session being given by an Appalachian storyteller.

"Storytelling? That's for babies. I'm a senior in high school," she remembers telling her mother. "I didn't know that one person could take an entire audience, myself included, on a journey through Appalachia."

Now, having earned a bachelor's degree in storytelling as a communications art and a master's in theater, both from Brown, she has taken audiences from Prague to Pennsylvania on journeys into the humorous and often instructive world of stories. The story of Sis' Goose and B'rer Fox lost none of its power when she told it to a South African friend during a visit before the fall of apartheid.

"Even if it stays in its traditional form, it still resonates," said Tutson, who now lives in Providence, R.I. "The challenge for contemporary storytellers is to help educate people to the meaning of the story. ... The stories explain how we got here."

At 36, Tutson is one of the younger storytellers at the convention. Her elders are people such as association co-founder Mary Carter Smith, whom many simply call "Mother Mary." Linda Brown, the association's executive director, has been with the group since its first convention at Morgan State University. She said the storytellers find strength in their shared mission to carry on the oral tradition. They are like a huge, extended family, greeting one another with hugs and smiles.

"When they come here, they never encounter anyone with a negative attitude," said Brown, a deputy director in the Federal Highway Administration.

The association has 10 affiliates across the country, but there are storytellers everywhere, said Brown. They are people such as "Brother Blue" aka Hugh Morgan Hill.

Tutson calls out to him during her interview. In a crowd given to wearing African-style clothing and adorning hair with cowrie shells, Hill is a striking sight. He is dressed in blue from head to toe: blue coat, blue shirt, blue beret, blue pants, blue shoes, blue-tinted glasses, blue butterfly pendants. His wife even let slip a comment about his underwear.

"I'm going to tell you the truth. I was kissed by the great storyteller. All I have is this foolish madness to believe that we can tell stories that can change the world," he said. "God is a storyteller. Storytelling is a sacred art."

Everyone at the convention knows Brother Blue. He is a legend -- a graduate of Yale and Harvard who lives in Cambridge. He is extraordinary, a nearly unstoppable teller of tales. He once spoke for 72 hours straight in Boston, spinning story after story, stopping only for bathroom breaks. He wants to do the entire canon of William Shakespeare while he is in Baltimore, if only someone would give him a soapbox, a corner, a stage.

"How old am I?" he said, before flicking the question aside. "How old is God?"

Hill, who looks to be in his 70s, could have stopped with that comment, but instead went into an improvisation on King Lear that he spun out like a jazz soloist who states the melody before taking flight. He mixed the classical text with his own asides, allusions, bits and pieces of blues. Keeping up with him was like trying to follow a solo by jazz great Charlie Parker.

"I got old, earthquake in my soul. Something in my bones. I got die," he has Lear say. "I been in the storm too long. You could hear Elmore James calling: 'The sky is crying.'"

Before he moves on, he hugs Tutson, tells her she's beautiful, offers advice: "Sing the song you love. The Earth will blow away and turn to ashes. The moon will dry up, but your song will live forever."

He wants to say more about Shakespeare, "My soul brother wrapped in snow," but his wife is pulling on his arm. Time to go, Blue.

A few minutes later, Tutson nods and says: "I've come every year because even when I couldn't articulate it, I needed to come and sit and listen," she said. "I need to see Brother Blue."

The National Black Storytelling Convention continues through tomorrow at the Sheraton Baltimore North Hotel, 903 Dulaney Valley Road, Towson.