For HJR, who inspires and encourages stories in all around her and who recently told me (roughly) that "even when you're not writing, you're writing," and for the cloud that floated across my sky, looking so much like a man with a great, long nose that it birthed a character.
There once was a man with a very
great nose. Now, it wasn’t “great” so much as to mean “distinguished,” though
it certainly was, as to mean “abnormally large.” It left his face at a
precipitous angle before striking a course straight forward, reaching to his
toes and then four times again beyond. Seen from the front it looked
unremarkable but from the side it struck one as being like the whippy,
low-hanging branches that one must suddenly duck to avoid. He carried always on
his back a bulging, round pack containing what to him were handkerchiefs but
which another person may consider a tablecloth, and which were useful also in
keeping him upright as the weight served to counterbalance that of his nose.
This state of affairs was at once
the most natural and most tedious thing in the world for the man: natural, for
he had grown accustomed to it as it was his nose after all, and tedious, for he
never quite grew used to others’ reactions. It came frequently in his way, too,
as you might imagine. Despite his great setback—or stick forward—he was
considerably kinder, gentler, and less self-centered than his peers who yet
struggled to see beyond the end of their averagely-sized noses.
Hearing one evening of a young widow
too ill to gather sticks for her fire, he wrapped up and set out. He gathered
sticks for some time at the edge of the forest before thinking that perhaps
fresh herbs to sweeten her fire or to make tea may also aid the widow in
healing. And thinking nothing of the dwindling hours of light remaining, he
walked deeper into the forest’s embrace, his pack of handkerchiefs weighing
more with the addition of each stick.
It was early in the season for the
plants he wanted though some eager few may have blossomed. He walked slowly,
intent on his purpose, and so it was some time before his ears passed their
information to his brain. Their information was this: a young, reedy voice was
crying plaintively and trailing after him at a distance as though equally
afraid to be too near or too far from him. Immediately when the sounds
registered he stopped and turned, finding its source in a small magpie.
“Young magpie, why do you follow me?
Why do you cry?” he asked (for conversing with animals, though rare, was not
impossible in his land).
“A great wind came and stole me from
my home,” the little bird replied. “It blew me I don’t know where and I can’t
fly. I am lost!”
“Little magpie, do not cry. I am
searching also for something and you are welcome with me. We will look for your
home as well.” He knelt and offered his open hand to the little bird, who
hopped in with relief. The man placed the magpie gently on his branch-like nose
and the two continued on together. They found neither herbs nor nest that night
before the light ran out.
They rose with the first rays of the
next morning’s sun. A great many more sticks were found and added to the man’s
pack but neither nest nor herbs had been discovered when the man and magpie
were startled by piercing shrieks.
“He found us, he found us! Oh, he
will eat my children and murder us all!”
“Mother Rabbit, who threatens you?
Who has found you?” the man asked.
“That fox! He drools after my
children. Many nights have I lain awake, listening to his nose brush the
grasses of my roof in search of us. But look there—! He discovered an entrance
last night and will not be long in following it to the very heart of our home.”
“He will not find your family,
Mother Rabbit, for we will confuse him. Take me to each entrance and I will
place one of my handkerchiefs by it. He will smell a man and a man’s home,
covering your scent and keeping your children safe.”
And the rabbit, quivering with
gratefulness, did as he suggested and led him to each entrance by which a
handkerchief was placed to disguise the rabbits’ home. The morning was past and
the pack empty of handkerchiefs by the time the man continued on, a magpie on
his nose and only sticks for another’s fire on his back.
Much more of that day passed with no
sign of herbs or nest. The man was disappointed to not be able to offer the young
widow herbs but knew it was time to return home. He opened his mouth to speak
with the magpie but it was another’s voice they heard.
“Stop! By what right do you walk
here?” a voice of frost challenged. “You trespass on lands belonging to the
Queen of the Forest. You do not have her leave to enter.”
Indeed, a faint line could be seen
on the ground and across all living things. The man looked down; his feet had
not crossed the line, but there was no question a good portion of his nose now
rested within the Queen’s land.
“Your freedom and life are forfeit
to her. She will be your judge; come.” With the guardsman’s last word,
invisible shackles fell on the man and he could do naught but obey. The little
magpie had stilled at the guardsman’s mention of the Queen of the Forest and
now clung tightly to the man’s nose, his small frame tense with what seemed
more like awe than fear. So the trio arrived—stern guard, bound man, awed
bird—at the Queen’s throne.
Neither then nor ever after could
the man find words to describe the Queen in aspect or character, so neither
will we attempt it. For all that he saw and all that she was, the man knelt
before her in reverence and humbly sought her pardon.
“Your Majesty, please forgive me for
wrongly trespassing. For though I was unaware of the boundary until it was
pointed out, it would be a lie to say I did not cross it.”
The Queen regarded him silently for
a long moment before speaking. “Why did you enter the forest, man?”
“I came in search of firewood and
healing herbs, Your Majesty. One of my village needed aide.”
“And how came there to be an infant
bird on your remarkable nose?”
“He came to me while I searched,
Majesty, and also was in need of help.”
“Did you enter the forest so
unprepared, with no pack?”
“No, your Highness. But its contents
were needed by a mother rabbit, and so I am empty-handed before you. I have
nothing to offer for my pardon.”
“Nor could anything you offer
prevent the Law, which states whatsoever unlawfully enters my domain belongs to
me, from taking that which it requires. However,” and here she softened as
though Springtime herself, “I cannot overlook your heart and your service to
your people or to mine. For their sake, I claim only that which entered this
land.”
The man fell promptly onto his
backside—the weight of the sticks had pulled him over for, he suddenly
realized, his nose was gone. No, not gone, but of only slightly larger than
average size! His mouth open in astonishment, he stared at the Queen’s amused,
gentle smile.
“Nor will I see you leave
unprepared. Take this stick from my hearth, and you will have no more need to
gather wood. Its flame will not go out, nor will you require herbs, for the
fire will always be healthy and sweetly-scented.”
The man bowed with his forehead to
the floor (for now he could!) and thanked her, saying, “Your Majesty, these
gifts are too great. My thanks are a small thing to offer.”
“Ah, but perhaps not in my
currency,” the Queen replied. “Go now. You will find the magpie’s home near
where you entered the forest, and perhaps at your home you will find more than
you thought to look for.”
The man bowed once more to the Queen
and was then escorted to the boundary, a stick from the Queen’s hearth across
his shoulders in place of the bundle he had carried and the magpie, having lost
his perch on the man’s nose, instead sitting on the stick. All was as the Queen
had said. The little magpie’s nest was found near the entrance to the forest
and he was returned happily and thankfully home. The man who no longer had a
very great nose unexpectedly found a friend, and in time something more, in
the young widow. Their hearth burned ever sweetly and brightly, nourished by
small acts of loving service. And if shiny gifts were found on their windowsill
more often than chance allowed and rabbits stayed out of their garden—well,
perhaps that was just good luck.
