Jack jump over
the candle stick.”
Everyone is silent. Then, a soft applause cascades across the seated audience. It seemed to all, that it was a good tale to bring the curtains down on. The Last Story bows, and exits the stage, left.
(Interval)
In the wings, the First Story of the Year begins fidgeting his buttons. “You’re going to be alright, son,” says the Matron quietly, as she dusts invisible spiders off his suit. “Just say your lines like we rehearsed. You’ll do splendidly.” In the pits, the violinists begin tuning their instruments, a starting signal for all to assume their seats once more. Here and there, whisperings, murmurings. “I heard he’s a pipsqueak little fellow.” “Size doesn’t matter Henry, it’s all in the telling.” “From what I heard, boy was brought up in…” “Goes to show it takes all types these days.” “Doesn’t know a thing about idioms, quite peculiar…” “We’ll know soon enough Abigail, we’ll know soon enough.”
(Spotlight)
A small, scrawny thing walks up to join the lonely microphone stand, on stage, centre. A spattering of claps. A cough is heard from the back. The man-boy looks terrified in the spotlight, as though in front of a firing squad. In the wings, he makes out the blurred eager face of the Matron, urging him to go on. He begins fidgeting his buttons. And then he sees her in the audience. Left aisle, middle section, fourth row. She notices, smiles and nods. It makes things all better, suddenly, like morning sunrays on crumpled bed sheets, like falling raindrops across reflective windows, like gentle waves along undulating vast oceans. The First Story of the Year clears his throat. And then, he speaks.
(Act I)
He was born premature, and like all things borne before their scheduled prime, remained a smallish and insignificant figure, slipping in and out of the corners of the world at large. It mattered little, that his mother and sisters loved him so, and treated him with great kindness and gentleness, for his father had taken him to the front porch one mid autumn’s night, when the harvest moon was bright and the evening was still warm, and spoke the truth to him. “You were adopted. Someone had placed you on this porch, and we took you in the best we could. I’m sorry son, but it seems your life will be one presented with unfulfilled wantings and erstwhile futilities. For this, you must be steadfast, Patience. All good things come to those who await their turn.” With that, his father shook his hair, leaving it in a tangled mess.
So Patience waited. He waited at bus stops, and at train stations. He waited in lines and queues. And he waited for things to come his way, for people to stop by, to say hello, and to follow through.
One summer’s afternoon, as hot showers pitter-pattered away on the tiled roofs and manicured grass, young Patience, who was quietly waiting in the kitchen, noticed someone across the backyard in the northern overgrowth waving to him. It was a young redheaded girl in a purple raincoat and bright yellow Wellingtons. Pat waved back in response and in return, the girl beckoned for Pat to come out. Young Patience considered this with a pause, before shaking his head vigorously and going backwards, indoors.
(Act II)
For years onwards, Patience would think about the girl in the forest, of what could have or could not have been, if he had followed her through the woods. He could not say what exactly had kept him from stepping out that afternoon, only that upfront hesitation and obtuse cautiousness would forever seem as immediate and comfortable enough answers to his life’s manifold questions as anything else. Still, the redhead girl would always remain at the back of his mind, as Patience grew up and moved on.
By now, Patience was alone. His mother had fell sick one winter’s night, and he had taken care of her until her last days. His father’s funeral soon followed; the candlelight of his life extinguished and gone. Patience watched in silence as they scattered brown earth and dark soil onto the lowered coffin. He took over guardianship of his sisters, who eventually met boys who became lovers, and then husbands, and whose life paths would take them far away from their only brother. Sometimes, Patience felt the loneliness of being too small.
It was on a Sunday morning that Patience saw the girl again. This time, the rain clouds had passed, their last remnants hung tethered to the sky, casting trivial shadows across the weed-ridden yard. Patience was in the area, gathering old memories and picking up lost mail, when he had decided to wander to his family’s old house once more, and to look out the kitchen window, across the backyard. She was all grown up now, but had kept to her yellow Wellingtons. And she was still waving excitedly when she caught his eye. This time, he walked out.
(Act III)
The girl said nothing at first, but smiled a nice smile, a warm one; one that invited Patience to follow her through the green wood paths and azure river streams beyond. The cold air smelled of freshly fallen rain. Onwards she led him, until they had come to a clearing of old rock-stumps, worn-out and smooth from weather and age. Twelve rocks arranged in a circle. She had noticed his quizzical look, and spoke words of calmness to him. “You are safe here, Patience.” Her voice, a reverberating song of clarity. And from the other paths, the other creatures emerged.
A centaur. A griffin. A wyvern. A hippogriff. A minotaur. A peacock. A centipede. A basilisk. A raven. A unicorn.
“He’s bigger than I expected,” observed the centaur in his low, husk voice. “And less hairy too,” noted the raven, as she inspected Patience incredulously. Patience stared back. “Where am I?” he asked the girl, who had now taken her place on the circle stones with the others. “Ah, introductions, the most beautiful part. My name is Ériu, of the elves. And these friends,” indicating the row of seated creatures, “are delighted to meet you, Patience…of the dwarves.”
(Act IV)
Patience sat very still, as he waited and listened. “We tell stories,” begun Ériu. “Each, taking our turn.” Quietly, like the waning sunlight, her gentle voice faded into a soft murmur…
Some stories have Hope (Griffin scratched its wings); others have Despair (Basilisk rattled its tail). In the end, they are all human stories. Each, a unique tale unto itself, embodying all the cosmic qualities bestowed upon the human-folk. “Bloodlust,” cried Minotaur; “Peace,” sang Peacock. The tales we tell echo throughout history, and are repeated each second, every hour, every day, every…moment. Do you understand this?
Patience considered this with a pause, and he nodded.
(Act V)
With twilight shining through the silhouetted trees, the storytellers gathered themselves. Wyvern started the fire in the middle of the circled stones, and Centaur blew the Horn of Ramiel. Unicorn neighed a tale of Joy, and Raven cawed a parable of Caution. And then Centipede shook his many legs, and indicated that it was time for a story from the elvenfolk, to which Ériu bowed humbly and begun a rhyme of Reason and Reflection.
She hymned about an abandoned prince who was lost in the rain but was found in the sun, and who grew up in waiting and in wanting. He, who took his time with everything, appreciating the passing of life and hopes and dreams; he, who had dedicated a portion of his soul and spirit to the care of his adopted family; and he, who remained, throughout it all…immovably, patient.
Soon it was all over, and everything was quiet. For awhile, the air of expectation drifted amongst the crackling firewood and smoking darkness. Patience stood up on his rock, and cleared his throat. And then, he told a story of passing Transience.
(End)
The First Story of the Year stares blankly for a moment, into the abyss of still faces. Someone starts to clap. Then, they all stand in unison. The hall is filled with thunderous applause. “Bravo!” Someone cries. “Bloody good,” says the Matron to a stagehand. The First Story takes a step back, and bows. In the audience, a redheaded woman in yellow Wellington boots blows a kiss at him. And he smiles back. Left aisle, middle section, fourth row.
