the whittler

The whittler\\



I’ll open my hand slowly so you can see it.  Look quick!

\You see a small … unsure what.\

Look again. Watch as I open my hand.  It’s made of wood.

\The hands are older even than the man talking.  As if they were made of moldy leather.\

If I keep my hand open too long, I fear it’ll get away.

\You see a small bird, bat?, looks like a bird that starts to flap its wings.\

Wait a second and I will give you another look.  Watch carefully.

\You watch but his hands remain closed.\

Wait a second.  It’s wiggling a lot.  Now!

\It’s a small bird. And it does look like it’s made of wood. His hand closes quickly.\

That’s all.  There are two of them.  I caught one as they flew by. Every now and then I see the other one.  He … or she … is afraid to come too close for fear I will catch him … or her … as well.

\You feel sorry for the little creature.  You must show it on your face.\

Don’t feel sorry for it.  It’s made of wood.  You see, the story goes as follows:  If you whittle two animals that are identical from the same piece of wood, and I mean exact duplicates, they will come to life. 

\You wonder if it can be true. You must show the doubt on your face.\

Look again, quickly.

\He opens his hand. The wooden bird almost gets out this time.  You wish it had. It should be free.  Wooden or not wooden, birds are not meant to be kept from flying.\

You see?

\You nod. You did.  It was a tiny bird made of wood.  No doubt about it.\

See?  And I have been trying to make two more birds for years now.  I don’t know who made this one, I mean these two, but it must be true that if you whittle them exactly the same, then they come to life.

\You believe you can do it.\

It’s not so easy.  Oh, it’s easy to whittle two creatures from the same piece of wood.  Two pieces that look alike, but for them to come alive, they must be exactly alike.  Every little knife cut.  Every little knife nick and scratch.  Exact.  Twice.  And then…

\He opens his hand and this time the bird almost … so very close! … gets out.  He closes his hand quickly. But you get a good look at the tiny wooden bird.  You could do it.  You could carve it exactly as you saw it.\

No you can’t.  You can’t do it.  It’s too hard.

\You say: “If I do it, will you release the poor little bird and let him join his pair?”\

Yes, Yes. I will. But you won’t do it.  You can’t.  It’s too hard.  Every scratch and every nick.  Must be perfect.  Must the perfectly the same.

--

\Years pass.  Many years. You have whittled many hundreds … thousands … of bird pairs.  But none came to life. They all looked exactly the same, but they all remained stationary.  Not even a wiggle. You wondered if the story were true.  The picture of the trapped wooden bird started fading from your mind.  You could no longer see it exactly as it was.  Yet you kept carving.  And then…\

--

It’s not possible.  You couldn’t have.  No one could have made two carvings perfectly the same.

\You say: “What about the bird in your hand?”\

It was a perfect moment, who knows how long ago by who knows what monk or master who spent his entire life.  Or maybe had hundreds of monks trying.

\You open your left hand and a small wooden bird flies out.  It looks just like a real bird.  Only smaller and made of maple.  You open your right hand and its exact pair flies out.  The two fly next to each other, in perfect circles.  They are made of wood, but they look so happy.  So free.\

I am a man of my word.

\The old man nods and opens his hand.  The wooden bird flies out.  It is smaller than yours. Only slightly. And it is made from a lighter colored wood. It joins the other two, for two loops, and then lands on the windowsill. It waits.\

And now for his pair.

\The old man shuffles to the window and ... with much effort ...  raises the window just slightly. Enough for the wooden bird to hop onto the outside sill.  It’s outside.  Then a second wooden bird appears, loops twice.  The first bird joins the second one … and they are gone.\

I didn’t think it was possible.

\Then he reaches up, faster than you ever imagined possible, and grabs one of your birds from the air.\

Make another pair and I will release this one. 

\You gasp. But he smiles… warmly.  Moldy leather gums and brown teeth.\

I am kidding.  I will let him go, but I wanted a closer look. 

\He opens his hand. The wooden bird flies out. It’s free. It should be free.  Wooden or not wooden, birds are not meant to be kept from flying.\

It’s perfect he says.  Very little in life is perfect.



-fin-