by Julie Lawson
They laughed nervously, still a bit uneasy.
“Of course,” continued the old man, “everything I told you about the wishing stone is true. It just doesn’t work all the time. Sort of has an off-day, you might say. Now … I could try again tomorrow! But you needn’t worry. I’ve got plenty of sand for sifting, and that’s the honest truth.”
He put the stone in his pocket, and picked up the sieve again. Pearly-gray and misty blue, the grains of autumn streamed their way into the pail. And as the children slipped away he sat there, sifting, sifting.
Jessica was the last to leave, as always. “Goodbye,” she said. “And thank you for the stories.”
“Here!” He held out the agate. “Take this, Jessica the wealthy.”
“Oh!” It gleamed in the palm of her hand, smooth and shimmery as still water. She had never seen anything so beautiful. “Thank you! Oh, thank you!”
“Now you be careful, Jessica! Be careful what you wish for, ’cause your wish may come true!”
Then he winked at her, and went back to his sifting.
10
That night there was a terrific wind that came whistling and wailing from across the sea. Jessica lay awake, worrying about the old man. As soon as it was light she got up and raced along the beach to the dunes.
But his tumble-down home was gone. Now there was nothing but the dunes. Afraid that he had been buried, Jessica frantically began to dig. But she found nothing. Not a trace.
“Maybe it’s the wrong place,” she thought. “I must have got it wrong.” So she began searching—the next dune, and the next, and the next. But she found nothing. No footprints, nothing. Not a trace.
Then suddenly she saw him. High on a ridge, striding along with his pails and sieves hanging from a knapsack on his back.
“Wait!” she called, stumbling up the dune after him. “Wait! Please!”
He reached out a hand and helped her to the top of the ridge.
“Are you going to build a new home?” she asked. “I’ll help you!”
“Thank you, Jessica! But no, I’m not building a new home. I’m moving on.”
“But why? Why couldn’t you just build an-other home and stay?”
‘Well, I could. But I won’t. It’s the time, you see. The sands are shifting and it’s time to move on.”
Then Jessica remembered the stone gleaming darkly in her pocket. “Will it come true if I wish for you to stay?” she asked, holding it out to him.
“Ah, Jessica … there are some things too big for wishes.”
“Then I wish you’ll come back!”
He put one hand over hers, gently enfolding the stone.
‘I will come back, in one way or another,” he said. “And I’ll leave a dream or two for you to remember.”
Jessica felt tears prickling her eyes, and brushed them away. “But … but I don’t even know your name!”
“Just remember me as the Sand Sifter,” he said with a wink. Then he patted her on the head and, with a wave of his hand, was gone.
Some time later, Andrew found Jessica crying on the beach.
“What’s the matter, Jess?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Where have you been?”
“Nowhere.”
“How come you’ve got sand in your hair?”
“Never mind.” She would tell him, probably. Sometime maybe, but not now. Now she hugged the secret to herself.
“You’re going to get it.”
“I don’t care!” And she didn’t, either. For the sand in her hair was the sparkly kind, meant for the finest of sieves. And it came from the sifter of sands, the teller of tales, the maker of dreams.
Where had the old man come from? No one knows.
Where did he go? No one knows.
And no one in Jessica’s village ever saw him again.
But somewhere far and away or close in time he sifts his sand and tells his tales.
You won’t find him if you go looking.
But you might come upon him by chance one day, as he shifts in and out of the shadowy land of myths and dreams … sifting, sifting.
And if you do, stay for a moment and listen!
Author’s Notes
Myths
The art of story-telling is older than written literature, older than recorded history. Through myths, the story-teller expressed what early man knew about his world and what he believed to be true.
Since story-telling was— and is—an oral tradition, many tales are changed in the telling. Each story-teller enlivens and enriches the story in his own way— adding here, interpreting there. The result is a tremendous richness of stories, often with the same theme but with many variations.
So it is with the sand sifter, whose stories were taken from early sources but adapted to fit his tales. His re-telling of the creation myth is adapted from “The Beginning of the Haida World”, found in Indian Legends of Canada by Ella Elizabeth Clark (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1960). Raven the Trickster-Creator is the central figure in many West Coast Indian myths, with different versions explaining how he created the world and mankind. The sand sifter’s version is yet another.
The sand sifter’s second story is an old Japanese tale containing elements common to many myths: magic, for instance, and the “goodness is rewarded” theme. Certain aspects of the story also bear a resemblance to the “Rip van Winkle” tale.
There are many versions of this story, the oldest going back to the 8th Century. The events are said to have actually happened in the year 477 to a fisherman named Urashima. The version told by the sand sifter is adapted from “The Young Urashima” which appears in Japanese Tales and Legends, retold by Helen and William McAlpine (London: Oxford University Press, 1958).
A Word About Sand
Sand is made from rocks, worn down over millions of years by water and wind. Grains of sand really do come in different sizes, shapes and colours, with dull bits and sparkly bits— although perhaps the sand sifter has a few varieties known to him alone!
But there are golden-white dunes at Long Beach, British Columbia, waiting to be climbed. On the Hawaiian Island of Maui there are black sand beaches, while on neighboring Kauai, round pearly grains of beige and orange trickle through fingers. Yellow sand drifts down from the Gobi Desert in Northern China, and on the beaches of Canada’s West Coast, wet gray sand is perfect for building castles.
