The Spirit and the Fool
There was once a man, as men there tend to be, and this man was walking, as these men often do. To where exactly he was walking, no one is quite sure, when he happened across an amazing treasure. How amazing it was, though, he had no idea. In fact, he was quite unaware it was treasure at all. This amazing treasure appeared to the man like an ordinary book, aside from its rather unordinary circumstance of lying on the ground. The man approached the book, looked around for who might have dropped it, and upon seeing no one, picked up the book.
Your Story it read on the cover.
Intrigued, the man opened the book and was disappointed to find only empty pages.
Suddenly, a spirit leapt out of the book and into the air. The man dropped the book and fell to the ground. He was afraid, until the Spirit spoke.
“Do not be afraid,” said the Spirit.
“Who are you?” asked the man.
“I am the Spirit of this book. Who are you?”
“I am just a man.”
“Well since you are the owner of this book, I am your Spirit.”
“This book is not mine,” said the man, still in a fright.
“Yes it is; it says so right here,” answered the Spirit, pointing at the cover.
“I’m very sorry,” said the man. “I just want to be on my way.”
“You are on your way,” countered the Spirit.
“So shall I just leave you?” the man asked, very confused
“Tell me what you want,” commanded the Spirit. “Unless your greatest wish is to be on your way.”
“You are a spirit who grants wishes?” asked the man.
“Only one,” answered the Spirit.
The man thought quickly.
“Can I ask for more wishes?” the man asked timidly.
“I can only grant one of them,” answered the Spirit. “If your wish is to have infinite wishes that I cannot grant, go on and ask for them.”
Flustered, the man responded. “You have appeared so suddenly and I have had no time to think. Must I answer right now?”
“You need not think,” answered the Spirit. “You need only to wish.”
The man thought for a few moments, and finally, came to a daring idea.
“Very well. My wish…Is that you will appear to me after one year’s time for me to complete my wish.”
The Spirit considered the man’s clever ploy. After quite some time, the Spirit spoke.
“After one year’s time,” was all the Spirit replied, and suddenly vanished in a trail of light.
The man was quite astonished, and also quite pleased with himself for cleverly buying more time to consider his wish. He looked at the ground, and found that the book was no longer anywhere in sight.
After a deep breath, the man dusted off his clothes and continued on his way.
The man arrived home that evening. He skipped supper and went right to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. He could only think of his strange encounter with the Spirit, and his wish.
One year passed, but the man hardly noticed. He had carefully thought about his wish many times, but had never decided on what wish he would make.
He was preparing his breakfast, unaware that this particular day was the anniversary of the Spirit’s visit, and suddenly, he turned away from his boiling oats and the Spirit was before him, in his very kitchen.
“Tell me what you want,” commanded the spirit.
The man was startled.
“Has it been one year already?” he asked.
“Yes. What is your wish?”
The man blurted out “I want to complete my wish after breakfast!”
The Spirit stared, frustrated. “Eat your oats,” he said dryly. “After you finish your oats, you must make your wish.”
The man began eating his oats in his kitchen while the Spirit watched, arms folded. He still was not sure what to wish for. He considered wishing for money, but he was a clever man, and he decided he could become rich on his own. He considered wishing for a beautiful wife, but he fancied himself a handsome and charming man, and decided he could find a beautiful wife easily enough. He considered wishing to become the king, but he realized everyone always seems to be angry at the king. He was completely dumbfounded. He couldn’t seem to find the perfect wish and time was running out. In fact, he only had one more bite of oats!
Then the man had yet another clever idea. He was afraid the Spirit would be angry, but he was desperate.
He looked down at the last bite of oats. And then he looked up at the Spirit. He looked down at the oats again, and then he sat back in his chair.
“Are you finished?” asked the Spirit.
“No. Indeed I am not,” said the man. He left the bowl on the kitchen table and got up.
“You said once I finish my oats, I must make my wish,” said the man. “Well, when I finish them, I will make my wish.”
The Spirit realized he should have chosen his words more carefully. He let out a boisterous roar, which shook the man’s house, and was gone again in a trail of light.
After many years passed, the man had grown old, and the bowl still sat on the kitchen table. The man had never touched it. He left it there while he decided on his wish.
The man was not rich, and he was not married.
One morning, the man wobbled into the kitchen, using his cane, as was his custom these days, and began to fetch his breakfast.
“I think I’ll drink some tea today,” said the man. “Just what an old man needs.”
He filled a teapot with water and placed in on the stove. He decided he would need sugar to add to his tea and he opened the cabinet, but the sugar was on a shelf he could no longer reach. The years had thinned his bones and shrunken his muscles.
He tried to reach his arm up, but his shoulder was too stiff, and tried to stand up tall, but his back was slumped over.
He moved a stool under the cabinet and slowly, crept on to it with one foot, then the other. He reached his arm up for the sugar, but promptly lost his balance and tumbled backwards onto the floor.
He felt several cracks in his back, as well as his wrist and his hip. The man cried out. He felt the pain all the way from his neck down to his big toe. He thought he might be paralyzed, but he found he could move his arms.
It was at this time the man decided he would finish his oats.
He needed to crawl about three feet to the table. He rolled over onto his stomach, feeling like broken glass had replaced his tailbone. He pushed with his arms on the floor, and moved several inches, but pain shot up from his thumb to his right ear. He dragged himself inch by inch, closer to the table. Sweat seeped into his eyes as his back felt like it was on fire.
He finally reached the legs of the table. He reached his left arm up, once again, this time straining for the edge of the table. He reached the table with his fingertips, but could not feel the bowl. He switched arms, this time with his broken wrist grasping for the bowl, and with one last effort, he pushed with his good arm the last few inches. He grasped the lip of the bowl, feeling the scrape of bones grinding against each other in his broken wrist, and collapsed to the ground once more, careful to cradle the bowl against his body. The spoon flipped out of the bowl and landed next to him.
The man peered into the bowl at the last bite of oatmeal. The years gone by had crusted the oats together and hardened them like a stone. Black fuzzy mold covered the surface of the entire bowl. He used his finger to scrape away several flies which had gotten stuck in the goop and died. He picked up the spoon and began using it like a chisel, chipping away at the oats. He banged harder and harder but the oats barely seemed softer than the bowl itself.
Finally, the lump came free of the bowl as one whole mass and clunked to the floor. The man picked it up with his good hand, used his shattered wrist to dust away some of the moldy growths which dotted the surface, and then put the oats in his mouth. They were as hard as a block of wood. He tried biting down several times but was afraid he would splinter his teeth. Many had chipped over the years on lesser hard substances than this. The man decided his only choice was to suck on the oats and let them moisten in his mouth.
After maybe an hour, what seemed like an agonizing eternity, laying on the kitchen floor, pain-lightning shooting throughout his body and filthy drool oozing down his throat, the man bit down on the oats and they gave way. He felt his teeth squish through some softer spots, severing a few maggots, he supposed, and chewed up the chunk of oats, trying not to gag.
When he had swallowed, he shouted out “I’m finished!”
The Spirit appeared suddenly before him, not a day older than the last visit. He peered pitifully down at the man.
“I wish,” the man uttered through fits of coughing and retching, “to be young again.”
The Spirit shook his head at the man, not in disagreement, but in disapproval and disappointment.
“As you wish,” said the Spirit, and was suddenly gone.
The man peered down at his arms, which now moved freely and without pain. His skin was thick and strong. He stood up quickly and easily, sturdy legs carried him now. He ran his fingers through thick hair on his head.
“Sweet youth, how lucky I am,” said the man. “How clever a young man am I. I will be rich one day. And I shall make such a handsome husband for some beautiful wife.”
