The Woman Who Loved an Idol

There are many kinds of magic in our world

One day in a dark forest, a woman came across a tiny clearing, where the only shaft of light rested on a stump. She found it odd to find that stump lit up, as though it were in the spotlight, so she decided that the wood must be special, something about it must be pure magic...

The woman carried with her an axe, and used it to carve away at the stump, exposing the core. This, she carefully removed, and sat down in that shaft of light, and took out a pocket knife. For many hours she whittled at that wood, unaware what it was that she was creating, just allowing the wood to take its own form. Before the sun set, she had modeled a figure of a man out of that hunk of wood. He seemed perfect to her. His form, his face, were quite appealing, in a way no real man had ever appealed to her. She took her new statue home, and placed it in her windowsill.

Day after day, the young woman stared at her little idol; sometimes, she even spoke to him, when she felt alone. In time, she held long, one sided conversations. Her attachment to this idol was profound. When she came in the door after work, she came immediately to that window sill to see him, to say hello. before she could sleep, invariably,  she visited him to say goodnight. He did not have a name, her idol. He did not need one.

Comfort, the woman found in the presence of that little man of wood. When she needed to weep, she wept to him. When she needed to shout for joy, she shouted for joy in front of the windowsill, all alone. Around her other people made relationships with breathing, talking men. But, none of these were good enough. The figure, the silence, the expression on the face of her oaken warrior, was all that the woman found she needed.

Years passed, the young woman's beauty faded, but her little idol reamained a true companion. Her child bearing years were gone, she rarely spoke to another living being outside her work, when necessary, but she was content.

One day, however, she had a thought. The woman wished and wished, in her dreams, for her idol to speak with her, to not be such a silent friend. The house had grown so quiet. She could not remember a time when it was filled with the laughter of another soul. So, out loud, she said to her little oaken God "Speak to me. Oh, won't you please speak to me". Of course, he did not, and she wept into her empty hands.

Daily, a ritual became to beg the idol to speak, and always the result seemed to be the same. Until, one spring morning, many months after this ritual began, she asked him again "Please speak to me, love, let me hear your voice, just once. I am so alone, but I have been faithful to you through all of the silence."  And, finally, she heard a sort of whisper, that began as a sigh...

"What do you wish to speak of, my dear..." a low, barely audible voice rang out from the windowsill.

The aging woman nearly jumped from her chair. He had spoken! She was overjoyed, and tried hard to get him to utter another word, but to no avail.
For days, there was nothing from his mouth. Then, it happened again. "If you are lonely, you should seek the company of a man of flesh." The idol told her.

"Oh, no, no love I cannot find a love as perfect as what we share. I created you, with magic and care. There can be no replacement in my heart and soul."

For weeks, the idol and the woman held this same conversation. And then, one day in the first week of summer, she opened the window in which her idol sat a bit wider than was her custom, as the house needed a bit of fresh air.

She was tending to the house chores, and humming to herself as she worked, her little hero in plain view, in his window, when she happened to glance up to see him. She sang a song of love to him, with a voice once young and sweet, which had become strained, and haggard, and a tad off key. She stared at her little mate, lost in her song, when suddenly, he vanished from the window. She did not see the cause, and ran to the window, hoping to see him lying there in the grass below her window, so she could retrieve him. She had to be more careful with how open she made his window, it seemed. Yet, he was not there.

Terrified at the thought of losing the one friend she had in the world, the old woman ran outside, to make certain her eyes had not deceived her in their antiquity. She ran round the corner of her cottage, and straight into a little old man. "Pardon me, sir," she muttered, in a fluster. She brushed past him, knealt on the ground below the windowsill, thrust her hands into the grass, achingly, searchingly, and finally brought them to her face, as she sat down to weep. As a widow at a funeral, thus were her tears.

In a little while, the old man, whom she had all but forgotten, came to sit beside her, silent and with a searching look, gazing at her face. She looked up and sighed, meeting his eyes for the first time. There was something magical there, something not unlike the feeling of that old stump in the wood. Her sobs faded as he took her hand and helped her rise to her feet.

next chapter

© 2008 Constance

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

The story is very good. I like the description of how she found the idol. How they became friends and when the idol spoke. Wise words were spoken. A very good ending. I will read on. A very good chapter.
Coyote

[Libby McKeown]

This is such a wonderful story! The strong insinuation is there, but the old man popping up could have been a coincidence...maybe. I like that this story could either be dreamy tale, or wish fulfilment, or a fable of faithfulness. What an elegant write!

[Samuel Dickens]

What a sweet little fairy tale--or maybe it's fable? I don't know what to call it, but I like it. A very good one, Constance. It reminds me of something that might have been written long ago.

[Constance-Outspoken]

I wrote this several years ago. It has a meaning only I know of, save one other person who has nothing to do with the story at all. In fact, I myself didn't realize it's meaning until after I had reread it several times, wondering where it came from. Take it as you will... a fairytale, a love story, a fantasy, something real yet to be?