Tuesday, July 31, 2007

A Fable

There once was a young lad who lived in the forest. He was a boy just like any other boy: friendly, a good sport, and courteous to strangers and elders alike. A dapper woodland cap could always be found atop a head of curly red locks (which he rarely ran a comb through). He feet were bare, but grew strong thanks to the small pebbles and bits of kindling around his house. His house in the forest was just like any other house in the forest: well equipped, functional, and within close proximity to the other forest-dwelling families near by. Yes, this young boy, along with the other boys in the forest, was living perfectly normal lives.

As the clock tower in the closest town struck twelve on the eve of his twelfth birthday, Cybele, a busty forest nymph, visited the young boy in the house in the forest. "Because you have grown into a proper young boy," she whispered through the crisp night air, "I will bestow upon you a magical pipe."

The young boy's eyes widened with wonder and rapture.

"The forest nymphs are entrusting you with this gift because you have shown strength of character and mind over the past twelve years. Once you have mastered its song, the wonder and euphoria it will bring may try to control you. Be warned: you must not play your magical pipe more than once a day."

The nymph reached into her satchel and handled him a small buttercup brimming with dew. "If the need to play more becomes too great, you must apply this magical buttercup dew to its valves, or else it will rust and ware. Farewell," she whispered, as the light blue glow disappeared from his windowsill.

The young boy cloistered himself in his room, mastering the ins and outs of his magical new pipe. After much turmoil and stumbling, he emerged after three days playing the most pleasing and rapturous tune. His fingered slid up and down the pipe, producing tunes in a song that vibrated from the highs and lows of his body. The other children in the forest laughed at the size of the young boys' smile, but upon hearing his tune, were entrapped and infatuated by its beauty. He had, indeed, received a glorious gift.

"Play me a special song!" a young girl asked him one day.

"I cannot," he replied. "I played my daily allotment earlier this morning for another young girl who wanted a special song. I cannot play my magical pipe more than once a day."

"Do not you have your buttercup dew? Please apply it to your valves so I can have a special song all to myself."

Seeing the potential joy deep within her eyes, the boy agreed to play her a song. He spilt three drops of the buttercup dew on his magical pipe and played a soulful, rapturous, and original song especially for the young girl. A song no one had ever heard before. A song no one would ever hear again.

The young boy continued on his way deeper into the forest.

"Play me a special song!" a young boy asked him later on.

"I cannot," he replied. "I played my daily allotment earlier this morning for a young girl who wanted a special song. I should not play my magical pipe more than once a day, but after applying my buttercup dew, I played another song for another young girl."

"Do not you have more buttercup dew? Apply it to your valves so I can have a special song all to myself."

Fearing Cybele's warning of rust and ware from overuse, the young boy did not want to use anymore dew in one day.

"I do," he began, "and as much as I would like to oblige your wish, I cannot afford to play you a special song. I will play tomorrow's song only for you."

The other boy's face began to sour. He spoke slow and crisply. "I have heard you play your songs for the past three months. Their notes hit me deep and I cannot get them out of my body. You are talented and I need you to share your magical pipe's song with me." He slowly approached the young boy. "I want a song for myself and I want it now!"

With this, the other boy shoved the younger boy onto the mossy ground. Losing balance, the young boy lost grip of the buttercup and all the dew spilt around their feet.

"Look at what you have done!" the young boy cried. "Now I can play only one beautiful song a day for the rest of my life! The buttercup dew is what allowed me to share my gift!"

"I do not care," the other boy said, hovering over the younger with rage in his eyes. "Play me a song now."

Feeling helpless and scared, the young boy mustered up the strength to play his fourth song of the day. Without the buttercup dew, his pipe began to squeak and twitter. The notes were sour and fowl. The young boy, embarrassed by his now wretched playing, began to sob, but the other boy forced him to play on and on and on.

After ten ear-wrenching minutes of pitchy tones and unmemorable melodies, something odd began to happen. The younger boy's fingers began to stick to his magical pipe. Then his lips. Then his arms and torso. Finally, his bare toes and legs began to take root into the earth below. The young boy, the magical pipe, and the forest around him, melded into one entity, forming a strong young tree. With one final note, the playing stopped.

The other boy simply stood and watched the transformation unaffected.

This tree will forge a fine pipe, he thought. Now I can produce wondrous and euphoric melodies of my own. Without remorse or compassion, the other boy broke off a branch from the new young tree.

From that day on, word let out that there was a strong young tree deep within the forest that produced the finest branches for producing the finest pipes that produced the finest melodies. Boys from forests far and wide would venture into wood and break off a branch from the fabled tree. Most eventually mastered their pipes, but would turn into trees when tempted to play once too often, causing the forest to thicken further.

Yet, a few knowledgeable good natured, friendly, courteous, and strong willed young men would climb to the top of the strong tree and snag a buttercup brimming with dew to take with them. Dew and branch in hand, they were prepared to master their pipes and produce memorable and soul stirring songs for anyone who requested one.

The moral of the fable:
Be forewarned of allergic reactions to personal lubricants.


A to the S said...

wait.... so much is in this story. where is this from? damn. make sure you lube and "master" your pipe.

-William said...

Based on a recent unfortunate incident, it's all original. I used the Basics of Threes (the one thing I retained from that fucking Grimms class) and peppered in some imagery. I was just being weird ... and maybe stoned.