Archive for the ‘Alex Dally MacFarlane’ Category
The Knitted Octopus and the Book
Friday, June 13th, 2008
“Book,” said the knitted octopus, reaching a white and teal-striped limb over the hard cover, “will you not accompany me to the postcards leaning against the wall, so we can admire forest-lined lakes and red spiralling staircases together?”
After a pause, the attractively illustrated book said, “Very well.”
They jumped from the hi-fi speaker on which they sat, they crossed the desk side-by-side, and the small journey made with the book made a smile crease the knitted octopus’ face under its black bead eyes.
From atop a letter handwritten on green paper and bordered with cartoons, they looked at the postcards.
“Those are very fine red staircases,” the book said after a time.
“Yes,” said the knitted octopus, its smile un-creasing.
“It is nice to be away from the chatter of the vitamins.”
“Yes.”
The knitted octopus glanced at its companion and wished the book would find better words than this empty commentary. Perhaps it will, when I offer it more than postcard-views.
“Book, I have something I would like to say.”
“Mmm?”
“I want to go exploring. Off the edge of the desk is a vast sweep of wood, where there are more constructions. There are corners that might hide secrets. I will take the cables lying across the desk and fashion a ladder, and use it to descend. And then… exploration!”
The book remained silent.
“And book, I… I have enjoyed our journeys to the other end of the desk, where jewellery and paper make a landscape that changes from day to day. I would like it very much if you were to accompany me in my journey.”
“I see.” Then, before the knitted octopus could think of a reply: “The world is not just full of lakes and staircase. There are dangers. I know this, from the stories inside me.”
Quietly the knitted octopus said, “Wouldn’t you like to see some of the wonders?”
“I would rather not be eaten.” Worry edged its voice like glue binding.
“I see.”
But on the morning when the knitted octopus lowered its ladder of cables, the book shuffled across the desk and said, “The vitamins are awfully loud. And dull too.”
“You are coming?”
“I have never been very good at finding the right thing to say to those whose company I particularly enjoy. Perhaps on this journey, I shall. Are you ready to descend?”
How The Cactus Got Its Flowers
Monday, June 2nd, 2008
“Listen. This is one of the tales told to explain the details of our world.
“When the prairie-people first came to the desert, they did not understand it. They tried to be cautious, to approach the new things with care.
“But among the people of one caravan was an over-curious child. Disobeying orders to stay near the wagons, this child slipped away during the late evening and walked on small legs over rocks, through crevices and along a fox-trail. Then, ahead, the child saw something new: a green plant covered in spines, a little like a thistle, but flowerless. It was far larger, with thicker limbs that grew up in three prongs from a main stem, like a fork. The child approached it, ever curious, and held out a finger to one of the spines, wondering if it would be soft or hard.
“The spine pierced the child’s skin. Blood welled up from the wound, bright red, and dropped down the cactus’ dust-muted limb.
“So striking were the stains left by the blood, a neighbouring cactus burst into red flowers in imitation, like a cockerel ruffling up his comb in response to another cockerel. All across the desert this happened, to the marvel of the prairie family and the native dwellers. Some cacti threw up flowers in different colours, as the exact nature of the stains being imitated was not communicated among the cacti, only the shape of the imitation. Within days, the desert was a stunning display of colour.
“But growing flowers drained the cacti. They could not do this all the time. So when their first flowers withered and fell, they waited for rainfall, when they filled with energy, before erupting into brightness once more. Gradually, each type of cactus settled on a type of flower it preferred — the tall, three-pronged cacti now blooms white, while others bloom pink, orange, yellow.
“As for the child, well, the family-leaders had several ear-fulls of displeasure to give, but gave no great punishment. The scar left by the spine eventually faded. The flowers, however, remain to this day, blooming when it rains.”