He could smell the remains of the charred meat from last night’s meal. It was barely there since it emanated from the sticks that were held over the fire to cook the meat, but it was definitely there. Noticing it made him hungry for the first meal. He tried to ignore that feeling and return his focus to what else he could perceive.
He could smell the people. That was another odor that was always present and then faded out due to its constant presence. He could smell their old sweat. It wasn’t the same as it was just after they had labored. It was strong at those times and assaulted the senses. Now it was the way they smelled some time later after they’d relaxed and it had dried.
His sleeping place was far from where the little ones slept, but still, he could smell that some had released their waste during the night and needed to be cleaned. This was the worst of the smells, and it was strong, even way back here. He was sure that the wind carried it all the way to where he slept.
He thought he detected a trace of the much nicer smell of the women, some of whom rubbed the pleasant scent of flowers on their skin, but the nice scent was overwhelmed by the odor of waste from the babies. He would like to be alone with a flower-smelling woman and have the opportunity to fully enjoy that pleasant smell untainted by all of the others. But so far, that was just a wish.
Among the people, he was almost as revered as their leader. He had a special duty, and because of his high status , women did not approach him and speak to him as they did the other men. When he spoke to them, they smiled and looked away. They enjoyed his attention but none could return it as his equal. His status was too high, and so they adored him, but feared him at the same time. It was a sad irony. He was gifted with the adoration of everyone, and yet he was equal to none, and therefore, he was set apart, excluded from so much that was a normal part of life with the people. He had never coupled with a woman. The desire to do so grew stronger every day. Perhaps he should discuss this with the leader. He was wise and could probably offer a solution. But no, he knew what he would be advised: Take one when you need one. He could, and he should do that, but for some reason, he only wanted one who wanted to be taken by him.
Just as he was about to shift his focus to sounds to see if he could detect anything behind the chorus of respiration between his place and the entrance, the wail of a baby who had just woken filled the cave. Most of the clan would wake now. The normal sounds of the day would take over as the people got up and performed their morning tasks and started a new day. The time for practice was over.
He shifted his focus from what he could perceive around him to thoughts of the day that awaited him. He stretched out on his fur and yawned. He looked forward to the day and the excitement it promised. The hunters were going out. He and one woman would accompany them. Their responsibilities were no less important than that of the hunters.
Before he rose, he mentally expressed a wish. May the hunters find food quickly and safely, and may the medicine woman heal any who become injured; and may his mind be sharp enough to bring the story back to the people well enough so that they could feel the excitement of what it was like to have been there. He added one more secret desire. May the hunt and the story of the hunt be good enough (and told well enough) that the leader would command that it be added to the cave wall.
Such a story would outlive him and it would be there for those not yet born to be read and enjoyed long after he was gone.
***
The storyteller placed the wedge on the table alongside all of the other wedges. He was relieved that his work was complete. It was tedious, boring, and in his opinion, barely useful. Maybe someday people would actually want to read about the daily activities of the king, but not every day included anything worth writing, or reading. He wished some days could be skipped, or that he could at least be able to write, “Nothing important happened today.“
But how would he even write that? Maybe he could write the words for rising sun, the king, and then the rising moon. With nothing in between, maybe people would understand that the king was simply king for another day, and the absence of anything else would be the clue that there was nothing significant to write that day.
Although his job was often tedious and boring - chronicling every day in the King’s life - he was well aware that it was a far better job than his fellow scribes had. Most of them worked for merchants and they toiled day after day, recording transactions. He thanked the gods he didn’t have to write receipts each day. Being the King’s scribe was certainly a better post in life. But it wasn’t one filled with glory and prestige as his merchant scribe friends assumed it was. It was often as dull and routine as their own jobs.
He cleaned up his work area for the night, wrapping his wedges in a long piece of leather and tying it off before placing it at the edge of his table. He carefully moved the tablets one at a time over to the drying rack. He returned to the table and used his hands to sweep the clay debris into one spot on the table then carefully brushed it with one hand toward another hand pressed against the edge of the table. He dropped the small pile into a basket to be given later to a vegetable grower who used the small dried pieces to throw at birds who descended on his fledgling crops.
After cleaning his work area, he returned to his room and lay down, letting his mind wander. He was still thinking of his friend the farmer and he imagined a bird like none in existence coming down to steal a tomato. He imagined this bird being so huge that it was undeterred by the pebbles hurled at it by Ur-enki. He watched the story play out in his mind.
The giant bird of the air took one tomato after another into his mouth, swallowing them whole. He suddenly becomes aware of Ur-enki and the steady barrage of pebbles pelting his left wing and turns to look at Ur-enki with eyes that reveal no emotion or soul. They are cold and unfeeling, but alive and glaring. Suddenly the bird hops toward the man who is attempting to assault him, flapping his wings just a little to aid in his forward progress, but not enough to take to the air.
Ur-enki jumps up and runs, at first not knowing where he is going. His only thought is to run away; to reach safety and escape the pursuing bird. Then he thinks in terms of fighting this beast. If he doesn’t, it will eat his entire crop and Ur-enki will become a beggar. He turns and runs toward his farming tools. He spots the best possible weapon which he hasn’t used since the beginning of spring. He reaches the row of farming tools and grabs his harvesting sickle. He turns and braces himself for confrontation with the beast-bird.
The bird is undeterred by the sight of the harvesting sickle and charges Ur-enki, bending his long neck and leaning forward, his snapping beak coming in for the kill. Ur-enki swings the sickle, embedding it in the large bird’s neck. The bird screams out an awful squawk as it falters, turning its eyes upward to look at Ur-enki as it falls to the ground. Ur-enki then imagines the king and his guests having a feast with the bird as the main course. It’s delicious and everyone praises the unlikely hunter who provided this remarkable and rare feast.
Late that night, Ur-enki sneaks into his workroom, walking slowly and concentrating to keep from spilling the oil in his lamp. He fetches his tools, then goes down into the cool room and takes some clay. He is aware that this would count as stealing since what he is about to write does not involve any activities of the king, and even worse, this is nothing but the product of his imagination. How could he justify the waste of materials for a story that has no truth? It is like scribing a dream. He laughs. He’s about to scribe the dream of a scribe.
He quickly imprints his story on tablets and places them in the window to dry quickly. The idea thrills him despite his fear; to tell a tale that never even happened, and to do so just for entertainment. Maybe one day he will be bold and offer it to the king as a gift. He might be applauded and gain status for this rebellious act. Or he might lose his head.
***
Stephen finished reading the latest edition of Malory’s Le Morte d'Arthur and extinguished his lamp. As he lay in bed with his mind swirling wit
h thoughts of Arthur and Merlyn, he wondered if he could pen his own ideas someday, and then somehow find a way to get them printed. Maybe he would be lucky enough to have occasion to drive for the passenger he had driven earlier today; a man by the name of Gutenberg who talked about an invention of his that would revolutionize printing forever.
But even if he was able to get in touch with Gutenberg one way or another, he doubted the man would publish his ideas. Stephen was nothing but a carriage driver and he would never be a nobleman. His only chance of being recognized as an author and getting his work printed would be if he married into royalty or acquired friends in very high places.
It wasn’t fair. Malory was known in multiple countries, and everyone who could read talked about his tales of King Arthur - which weren’t even his own tales. Malory didn’t come up with them. Stephen however, had ideas that had not been told over the centuries. They had not been acted out on the stage. They were his original conjurations. He had thought them up.
Stephen decided that the following morning, since he was free of his duties for the day, he would spend his savings to purchase parchment, a quill, and ink in sufficient quantity to write down one of the story ideas that swam about his mind day after day. He had no interest in poems and he only thought of his stories as just that, stories, but he felt they were good enough for the stage, and possibly even good enough to be read – if he could get them printed.
The next day he returned home with his supplies. He couldn’t wait to get started. His only problem was deciding on which tale he would commit to parchment first. Eventually, he decided to write the tale of the thief who snuck into a Lord’s castle and ended up getting caught by the Lady, who became smitten with him and carried on a love-affair with him until the Lord died one day. The thief believed she would then allow their relationship to become public and perhaps even marry him, but in the end, she rebukes him for she first must mourn, and then after sufficient time has passed, she must entertain suitors to re-marry someone of noble blood.
The first half of the story was one of Stephen’s fantasies that he daydreamed about on long rides to pick up a passenger from far away. The second half was how he assumed such a scenario would eventually play out if it should ever happen in real life. But an audience could be led along by the story and hope for the hero to win the Lady’s love.
Stephen began writing the story. He infused it with frightful tension as the thief snuck into the castle. He imagined the audience being jolted with fear as the thief is caught by Lady Wexford. Then the mood would change and the audience would be shocked and outraged as the Lady falls for the thief and kisses him while the Lord lies sleeping not far from where they stand. He knew this scene would be controversial, but he felt the world needed something new, something modern, and something theoretically possible.
Stephen ended up using more parchment and ink than he had ever imagined. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he might make mistakes and have to start entire pages over again. But eventually, he finished the story and felt a supreme satisfaction that he had never known before. And now the truly hard work began; finding a publisher and praying that someday his story would make it to the theatre.
***
The old storyteller sat in his house and cursed the cold draft that chilled his stocking feet. He could not get them to warm up unless he dragged his chair over to the fire. He was born with the arrival of Halley’s comet and he knew for a certainty that he would die with its return in just over a few week. If his conviction was correct, he didn’t have much time left. With the house blessedly empty for a change, there were a few things he wanted to do before everyone returned and ordered him back to bed, which was the right and proper place to die as far as all were concerned.
He had enjoyed success around the world with his books and his speaking engagements where people gladly paid to hear him tell stories. But now at the end of his life, he did not derive pleasure from looking back on his career. He’d had a good run as an author. He’d made a lot of money, but he’d lost a ton of it too. Life was funny that way. He almost wondered for the millionth time, what if he had invested in the linotype instead of the compositor, but he swatted that thought like a fly. He’d kicked himself in the head enough already. He no longer had the luxury of wasting time on fool’s errands; not even mental ones.
He glanced over at his vanity bookshelf that held one copy each of the books he had written. He felt a calm and grateful assurance that Clara would not have trouble providing for herself. Intelligence is not hereditary, but money will suffice in its absence, he thought, resisting the temptation to ponder another age-old mystery. He second-guessed his decision to allow Clara to publish his most controversial manuscripts which he could never bring himself to burn. The Christians will probably dig up my corpse and give it a lynching. Man loves to hate as much as he loves to love, and the object of one is equally good for the other.
As he thought of his long-awaited good fortune at finally being relieved of this confounding coexistence with a populace consisting mainly of idiots, he shook his head and resolved to turn his last thoughts to the few good things in life. The bad things had consumed his energy and good will for far too long already. He took a deep breath and let the force and lure of negativity deflate along with his lungs.
He thought of sunlight flashing like diamonds on a stream. Roses startled and trembling under assault by drops of rain. Gay smiles and fairy laughter from pretty and still innocent girls. Ah… his Angel Fish. Now there was a fine place to lay his mind to rest in advance of his body doing the same. A sad smile slowly reshaped his face, pushing through the resistance forged by anger, grief and melancholy.
His Angel Fish girls were among the few things that could him smile since the loss of his wife and two of his daughters; the second one just several months ago. Dorothy. Sweet Dorothy. His favorite Angel Fish. She deserved a goodbye letter from him. And if he was wrong about the comet and still alive after it passed, he wouldn’t post the letter. Best to write it now, no matter his fate. What if he did survive Halley’s comet, regained his health and took a walk, then got smacked into oblivion by one of Ford’s motor-cars driven by a jubilant friend racing over to celebrate his revival? The raspy sound pushing through his whiskers would’ve once been recognized as laughter. Best to write the letter now to be safe.
My Dear angel-fish Dorothy,
It is with the utmost regret that I must inform you that your upcoming trip to Redding, should you decide to follow through with it after reading this letter, will not include a visit with me in which I will be able to engage in conversation. It is not for lack of desire, nor physical illness, but for the reason that (I believe) I shall no longer be an animated member of the human race.
I implore you to not feel sadness at this news. By the time you hold this letter in your hands, I will already have been deceased for several weeks and be finding the experience quite enjoyable. Consider me to be re-united with Jean and Susy. If there is an afterlife, and the evidence suggests that there must be, I will not rest until I find them. No man or spirit will have sufficient strength to prevent such a reunion.
Before my departure which (as I indicated to you on your last visit) will coincide with the departure of Halley’s comet, I wanted to convey my immeasurable gratitude for your friendship, the joy you brought to my final years and the light that still shines in my heart when I merely contemplate that someone as wonderful as you exists and breathes and lightens this world which can be such an awful and cruel place for some.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, dearest Dorothy.
I will be leaving something behind for you that is not mentioned in my will. (Jervis will contact you directly.) In addition to that material token of my love, I will attempt, if the metaphysical landscape in which I find myself allows for it, to watch over you and keep you safe.
You are in my heart as I leave, and I hope I remain in yours.
Love eternally,
***
The storyteller knew that he was born to be a writer. He had always been one, although not one who could point and say, “There. That is a book that I authored. See it on that bookstore shelf.” He knew that writers were born and not made, and that he was born one. To the world though, he was nothing and nobody. Few people knew he was a writer. Those who were most acquainted with his manuscripts were the editors of the publishing houses who sent him rejection letters over the years. He might never be known as a writer to anyone else – at least not with his track-record of rejection.
He sat in the guard shack looking at his laptop screen. He had just completed his fifth, and he insisted to himself, his final revision of his latest novel. He felt an absurd mixture of emotions. On one hand, he was elated. This was his best work ever. He loved the story, and he was sure that others would too. A lifetime of escalating skill had gone into this book. He felt he had reached some sort of peak in his creative ability.
But that meant it was time for the next step – submitting it to publishers and living with the ensuing hope, fear, and eventual depression that came from the rejection. Did editors even read his submissions? It was true he did not have an agent and his submissions were unsolicited, but did they ever think that there were talented people in the world who were capable of writing a good book but who were perhaps lacking in the skill of acquiring a literary agent?
This was the source of the other half of his feelings which countered his happiness. He was elated at the completion of what he was certain was a great novel, and yet facing the ridiculous task of trying to find someone willing to give it a fair reading and whether or not it would be allowed to see the light of day; to let readers have a chance to make their own judgment of it.
“Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” had been rejected 121 times before someone finally decided to grant Robert Pirsig access to readers by publishing his book, and then it sold over 5 million copies. Was Pirsig’s book of poor quality before the 122nd publisher accepted it? No. He just wasn’t given a chance. The first 121 people who looked at it decided for the reading populace that they wouldn’t be interested in it. And thus Pirsig was not a good author, or even a real author until William Morrow Publishers signed him on.
Undermind: Nine Stories Page 14
