Saturday's Storyteller: "In the old wooden desk was a small talking elephant."
by Belinda Roddie
In the old wooden desk was a small talking elephant. Fernando didn't think it was alive at first, what with its resplendent brass glaze and its jewel-tattooed eyes. But it did indeed move, and it did indeed speak, albeit at a slow pace and in a very low voice.
"What's the matter?" the boy asked the little elephant. "You seem frightened."
"You get a little claustrophobic," it mumbled, "when you are locked inside a tiny space for so long."
The desk had not been Fernando's first. It was a rare specimen of artisanship and craft, carved meticulously from a redwood deep within the towering California forests. His father had been the first to own it, but it had not been built within his own family. It was not of the Alvarez ancestry, nor close to it. The only thing the two of them knew for sure was that Fernando's mother had desired it above all else.
Yes, his mother, days before her imminent death to things very foreign and mysterious to her son, had asked for her husband to buy this desk. For within it, she said, was something very special for the boy.
"It is not for you to cherish, Diego," she had whispered into his ear, stroking the stubble around his jaw with pale, gnarled fingers. "It is for Fernando." Let him have it.
And so he had. The man had searched high and low for the desk that his wife had described, and he hoped that the one he had found was the right one. Now it would be up to Fernando to prove that his father's endeavors had not been in vain.
Delicately lowering his hand, he offered the small ornamental creature a fleshy platform to stand on, his fingers serving as the bridge. The elephant hesitated at first, but then with small, laborious steps, it lumbered onto Fernando's palm and curled up between his fortune teller creases, breathing heavily through its trunk.
"Tell me," the boy whispered, "where did you come from?"
He was first answered by a determined puff of air. "That, my friend, is a long story indeed."
***
I was meant to be built from gold by a very proud jeweler. The finest gold there ever could be, at least to him. He believed the only good material was from Spain - oro from Madrid. But when he did find his slabs of precious gold, he spared it not for me.
Instead, he used it first to construct a small boy out of gold. He had gold curls. He had gold eyelashes. He even sneezed gold powder and cried gold tears. His companion was a small silver owl, with bright pearl eyes to guide him through the harshest adventures. I have not seen the two of them since I was taken away, but they were so beautiful to look upon, even when the boy was indeed very sad, and the owl sadder than him.
Second, the man melted gold down into paint to lavish upon his daughter, who desperately wished to be beautiful. And thus she was tattooed with gold. From her forehead to her toes, brilliant golden art was displayed, vast murals of scenery, faces, and emotions. Done by an artist who later poisoned himself with molten lead to stave off his nightmares. She would always glow in the night, though I always wonder if she came to regret the way she had been marked - like a brooch or chain, to be looked upon and worn by men but never truly loved.
The last of the gold was bestowed upon the jeweler's youngest son - a rare kind of boy who did not wish to carry on his father's business. He was offered me as a thirteenth birthday present - a modest thing compared to the man's other accomplishments - and told him to travel to his uncle's to learn the ways of fishing and boating. If not an artisan, he would be a working man, and the son was meant to be pulled in a wagon to the east, to meet with his relatives.
But we never made it. The boy desired, above all else, to be a scholar, and a philosopher. It was not something heard of where I am from, especially not by boys - unlike where you live, the women are meant to be wiser than the men. So clutching me in a small pouch, the jeweler's son fled the inn where the carriage had stopped for the night and headed north.
"And what was the son's name?"
It was a curious name, belonging to him. I believe it was Rainer. Which, now that I recall, means "deciding warrior" in Old German. I know this because it was mentioned by Rainer's mentor, a middle-aged dame by the name of Isabella Metin, a renowned philosopher in that time. And how appropriate it really is.
Rainer studied for six years under Metin, with me nestled between him and the many books and papers that he pored over. I became accustomed to the way he worked, from the way his hand moved against a pen to the way his thumb stroked the parchment. I witnessed how the hair grow under his nose, the way his hair grew long and would not be cut unless the boy was pushed to do so. And when all was done, I wondered what it was all for.
I believe by the seventh year, Rainer had grown tired of learning, but he never had grown tired of me. He now wished to teach, but Isabella warned him that the learning never ended. He had a small school constructed for her after she died a rather insignificant death - in her sleep, I believe, while reading a book for the twenty-seventh time to gather even further meaning - and called for a very special desk to be built. That desk is the desk you see here now.
***
Fernando's brow was pressing deep into his eyelids, so concentrated in the story he was. "But how did it end up abandoned?"
The elephant, as it had done throughout the extensive time it had taken to speak, sighed arduously. "That is a rather simple ending. Rainer did not endure far into his teaching. It turned out that the difference between a scholar and an adventurer is slight, but indeed crucial. One wishes to learn everything. The other wishes to experience everything."
"Can a scholar and an adventurer not do both?"
"Perhaps," the elephant replied. "But either way, now you know why I am here. And why I have been tucked away into his desk."
"But my mom wanted this desk," said Fernando. "And I'm not sure why."
Perhaps, if it had been able to, the jeweled creation may have smiled.
"Well, then," it said. "I think we must find out together."
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
In the old wooden desk was a small talking elephant. Fernando didn't think it was alive at first, what with its resplendent brass glaze and its jewel-tattooed eyes. But it did indeed move, and it did indeed speak, albeit at a slow pace and in a very low voice.
"What's the matter?" the boy asked the little elephant. "You seem frightened."
"You get a little claustrophobic," it mumbled, "when you are locked inside a tiny space for so long."
The desk had not been Fernando's first. It was a rare specimen of artisanship and craft, carved meticulously from a redwood deep within the towering California forests. His father had been the first to own it, but it had not been built within his own family. It was not of the Alvarez ancestry, nor close to it. The only thing the two of them knew for sure was that Fernando's mother had desired it above all else.
Yes, his mother, days before her imminent death to things very foreign and mysterious to her son, had asked for her husband to buy this desk. For within it, she said, was something very special for the boy.
"It is not for you to cherish, Diego," she had whispered into his ear, stroking the stubble around his jaw with pale, gnarled fingers. "It is for Fernando." Let him have it.
And so he had. The man had searched high and low for the desk that his wife had described, and he hoped that the one he had found was the right one. Now it would be up to Fernando to prove that his father's endeavors had not been in vain.
Delicately lowering his hand, he offered the small ornamental creature a fleshy platform to stand on, his fingers serving as the bridge. The elephant hesitated at first, but then with small, laborious steps, it lumbered onto Fernando's palm and curled up between his fortune teller creases, breathing heavily through its trunk.
"Tell me," the boy whispered, "where did you come from?"
He was first answered by a determined puff of air. "That, my friend, is a long story indeed."
***
I was meant to be built from gold by a very proud jeweler. The finest gold there ever could be, at least to him. He believed the only good material was from Spain - oro from Madrid. But when he did find his slabs of precious gold, he spared it not for me.
Instead, he used it first to construct a small boy out of gold. He had gold curls. He had gold eyelashes. He even sneezed gold powder and cried gold tears. His companion was a small silver owl, with bright pearl eyes to guide him through the harshest adventures. I have not seen the two of them since I was taken away, but they were so beautiful to look upon, even when the boy was indeed very sad, and the owl sadder than him.
Second, the man melted gold down into paint to lavish upon his daughter, who desperately wished to be beautiful. And thus she was tattooed with gold. From her forehead to her toes, brilliant golden art was displayed, vast murals of scenery, faces, and emotions. Done by an artist who later poisoned himself with molten lead to stave off his nightmares. She would always glow in the night, though I always wonder if she came to regret the way she had been marked - like a brooch or chain, to be looked upon and worn by men but never truly loved.
The last of the gold was bestowed upon the jeweler's youngest son - a rare kind of boy who did not wish to carry on his father's business. He was offered me as a thirteenth birthday present - a modest thing compared to the man's other accomplishments - and told him to travel to his uncle's to learn the ways of fishing and boating. If not an artisan, he would be a working man, and the son was meant to be pulled in a wagon to the east, to meet with his relatives.
But we never made it. The boy desired, above all else, to be a scholar, and a philosopher. It was not something heard of where I am from, especially not by boys - unlike where you live, the women are meant to be wiser than the men. So clutching me in a small pouch, the jeweler's son fled the inn where the carriage had stopped for the night and headed north.
"And what was the son's name?"
It was a curious name, belonging to him. I believe it was Rainer. Which, now that I recall, means "deciding warrior" in Old German. I know this because it was mentioned by Rainer's mentor, a middle-aged dame by the name of Isabella Metin, a renowned philosopher in that time. And how appropriate it really is.
Rainer studied for six years under Metin, with me nestled between him and the many books and papers that he pored over. I became accustomed to the way he worked, from the way his hand moved against a pen to the way his thumb stroked the parchment. I witnessed how the hair grow under his nose, the way his hair grew long and would not be cut unless the boy was pushed to do so. And when all was done, I wondered what it was all for.
I believe by the seventh year, Rainer had grown tired of learning, but he never had grown tired of me. He now wished to teach, but Isabella warned him that the learning never ended. He had a small school constructed for her after she died a rather insignificant death - in her sleep, I believe, while reading a book for the twenty-seventh time to gather even further meaning - and called for a very special desk to be built. That desk is the desk you see here now.
***
Fernando's brow was pressing deep into his eyelids, so concentrated in the story he was. "But how did it end up abandoned?"
The elephant, as it had done throughout the extensive time it had taken to speak, sighed arduously. "That is a rather simple ending. Rainer did not endure far into his teaching. It turned out that the difference between a scholar and an adventurer is slight, but indeed crucial. One wishes to learn everything. The other wishes to experience everything."
"Can a scholar and an adventurer not do both?"
"Perhaps," the elephant replied. "But either way, now you know why I am here. And why I have been tucked away into his desk."
"But my mom wanted this desk," said Fernando. "And I'm not sure why."
Perhaps, if it had been able to, the jeweled creation may have smiled.
"Well, then," it said. "I think we must find out together."
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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