First Telling: The Man with a Great Nose

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.