A Little Frog's Heart: The First Steps Towards Maturity

A Jailhouse Story II-1

A Jailhouse Story II

Morning had broken.

I had already filled all the pages of the first notebook with thousands of lines with bent backs, lines that knew the “weight” of the contents of the story being born. My hand used the biro with uncommon skill, while during the course of the entire night I let myself become subject to a dizzying flight through the story world which had started to take shape.

Emotions had overwhelmed me, they were now masters of my whole body. Rifling through all the nooks of my mind and heart, I was discovering waves of thoughts and feelings, which my hand laid down on paper with terrifying enthusiasm.

I wrote without realising, until my impetus was cut short at a given moment by an unforeseen event: I had reached the notebook’s last page. I grew so sad that the flame of the candle which had kept me company loyally for the whole night grew afraid. My face, which until then shone with an indefinite joy, instantly darkened. I noticed the way that the candle watched my states of feeling as if they were some sort of prey, feverishly observing the creases that appeared on my forehead, moving restlessly, like hungry snakes. But my worries were well founded. I had no other notebook, I had nothing on which to write any more…

My story was fully in the process of being born in a cold cell… And no “doctor” or “midwife” was around. I had no-one with whom to share the joy of its coming into this world, no one, either, to share the pain of my inability to carry on with it.

I had an urgent need for clean sheets of paper to embrace and swathe the new born. Just as young parents wrap up that little bundle of joy who will change their lives by being born, in new, snow-white swaddling clothes, trying to offer protection, keeping unsullied the warmth and love the baby enjoyed inside the body which gave it life… The only way to try and feel a little better was to breathe deeply. A rending sigh flooded my soul. I placed the biro carefully in the depression between the last page and the notebook’s cover. I spread my fingers slowly; several joints cracked, admonishing me for depriving them of the biro’s touch.

I looked absent-mindedly at them. My resignation had made me pay no attention to the demands they raised. I knew they were tired, but eager to work… They had just worked for the whole night. Especially the three fingers on the right hand. The thumb, the index and middle fingers, now wore a pleasant dimple in their rosy cheeks. I noticed how they threw discreet and loving looks at the biro that was at rest nestling on the notebook… The biro smiled at them from under his moustache, content that he had managed to offer those dimples to the fingers. He’d done this on purpose, so that the fingers would think of him until they were together again. It was exactly like a wise little boy who always wishes to make a good impression before leaving a circle of girls, so that the girls should miss him until they see him next.

This is what my biro had done to my fingers: that night he had provoked them, taking them through the story’s mysterious glades, and now the fingers were feeling important. Looking at them, I smiled; I caressed lightly those cute dimples with the fingers on my left hand, so that they would be visited by a little warm blood which would pet them tenderly and prepare them for the sleep that for a long time had waited in patience.

A light smile passed over my lips and its breeze made a straight route to the candle’s flame. Frail and delicate, it bent lightly and the movement attracted my gaze. A thought of gratitude emerged from the recesses of my mind, and went towards her. She had sacrificed herself the whole night, staying beside me, yet she still found strength to draw a playful shadow on the worn wooden table. Yet, I was seeing the candle begin to lose her magical powers. The light of day had started to make room for itself through the bars of the window, as the sun began to prepare for his daily enthronement in the vault of the sky.

Inquisitively, rays of light flooded the cell without asking anyone’s leave. On the contrary: the beautiful rays ignored everything, sliding in fearlessly and full of pride; aware of how welcome they always were, and advancing towards my table, towards the candle.

Although she was gentle and had a big soul, I saw her being overwhelmed by jealousy for the uncontested power of daylight, in front of which her own light obediently declined, aware of its powerlessness. I looked at it insistently, from under my eyelashes, so that the candle would not notice and feel inadequate. I felt pity for her: more than one half had burned off, and worried, she cradled her yellowed face in her hands and pinned her gaze to my frowning forehead. She didn’t like to see me like that, and her stare seemed to be telling me off for accepting the appearance of the savage creases.

I guessed the source of her discontent and, to please her, I smiled widely, chasing away to their beds the creases that had worried her so. On seeing this, the candle glanced quickly at me. She smiled in her turn, happy that I was not indifferent to her. Somehow ashamed, she let her arms hang on the sides of her body, stopped her flame from swinging and, shyly, made it tiny; so small I could barely see it. For a moment, I even had the impression it had gone out. But I was wrong: it was still flickering. This was what she always did once the sun’s rays arrived. The candle was wise, she used her flame in extreme moderation, wishing to extend her life for as long as possible. She was loyal to me, and I felt her readiness to sacrifice herself for me, taking care to be able to serve me with her magical light for as many nights as possible.

She followed me attentively with a languorous look. She knew I was going to extinguish the flame soon, as I always did once daylight came. I cared for each moment of her life. Day might have been lost, but at night-time, together with its friends, the candle had the chance to become mistress of the room which I willingly entrusted to her each evening. She was aware I had to do this every morning, but I felt her displeasure when she saw me approach and pucker my lips, getting ready to put out the playful flame of which she was so proud. She worried that I would be left alone for the whole day, pottering around the room in her absence. It was a kind of jealousy about all the other things in the cell which got hold of her, even if there were only a few of them. She grew sad knowing that they would stay on to keep me company while she had to go to sleep.

I felt pity for my dear candle. She looked at me with eyes reddened by fatigue, and her languid gaze forced me to take a decision:

“I won’t put her out this morning,” I said to myself.

I stood up slowly and went closer to the window: it was coated with a thick layer of snow. The little wind had carefully gathered the flakes and covered everything, leaving uncovered only a tiny spyhole. Through it, I could barely see what was going on outside, but I saw him. He was a youngish little wind, his back turned to me. Furious, he was throwing snow from one side to the other, rolling up big boulders of it, as if getting ready for a hard battle. Stubbornly, he did not allow the snowflakes to stay frozen, so the snow on the ground could not somehow be warmed up with its crystalline fuzz.

“Myes. This little wind is very angry!” I said to myself looking around, wanting to discover who had made him angry.

But there was nobody there. At a certain moment, it seemed to me he had got to be even more bitter, and he was lifting the small snowballs which he had crafted for himself with all his might, throwing them all around. I believed for an instant that he had probably seen me and wanted to demonstrate his capabilities. A great confusion had been created, which was soon transformed in a storm.

The young wind was more and more daring: it probably was one of the first winters he was confronting! I saw him trying to measure his forces against the barbed wire, which no-one really pitted their minds against, lacking the courage. Nobody dared to offend it or touch it! Many times I had seen some poor little birds who, in their purity, would have liked, possibly, to appease that rough wire by sitting gently on it … But, poor things, they found their end by touching it, and ended up rotting away there, at its feet… At other times I had seen some fine drops of water which had the audacity to allay the savageness of the barbed wire with their delicate touch, but still with no result… This was why, advised by the clouds, the drops deserted the barbed wire, leaving it to the hands of moist air, the only thing which seemed to do it some good. The barbed wire thinks moist air lacks strength, but the naive wretch does not realise that its end would come from this direction! Because, with time, without realising it’s happening, it will discover itself dressed from head to foot in a morbid coat of rust. Moisture is very cunning and deceptive!

The drops know that barbed wire would come to be at their mercy again! It will implore them with tears in its eyes to sit on its stiff body and caress it – even for one moment, giving it life and alleviating its suffocating pain.

It is aware it was created by cursed hands, its destiny being to take over their suffering and transmit it further to others, unceasingly. It is aware that it is made of the same materials as the scythe of Death which implants horror in the souls of those it encounters. These materials have the same character: they do not know how to forgive, they do not know how to love. They learnt their destiny in the dark schools of evil, lacking the light of life and the warmth of love. They only know how to scythe, completely and without mercy, the lives of innocent creatures whose hourglass of time has sieved the last grain of sand. The realm of death permanently needs new bodies to strengthen and thicken the ceiling between the two worlds, so that the rays of the sun would never penetrate into the Realm of Darkness.

The grotesque image to which I had given life in my mind made me shiver. I shook my head quickly, wanting to chase it away as soon as possible. Then I saw again the wind wrestling with nature in the prison yard, punishing the snowballs without mercy. It just happened that a conceited rook passed by. It seemed she was old friends with the impetuous wind, she was not even bothered by his presence! On the contrary, she seemed to have come to look around, to see how he was managing things down there… Or, who knows: the rook might have been on some special mission that morning, above the prison!

But I was wrong: because when he noticed the bird, the wind also took issue with the courageous rook. He hit her quickly with a snowball. He had taken aim and then thrown it at the rook with all his might! You could say he wanted to teach the doom-bringing bird a lesson so she wouldn’t dare to go out of her house at the time the wind was in negotiation with the children of nature. Just so the rook would remember the wind was not just anyone, and show due respect!

I saw how the snowball started towards the insufferable rook. I could hear the whistle that accompanied its furious speed. I think the rook heard it as well, because she turned suddenly, looking questioningly to see what was going on, and, crafty as ever, she managed to dodge when she saw danger lurching over her. Her experience protected her. But, cunning as she was, the rook was not content just with that. After the snowball passed her by, she had understood she was dealing with a youngster and, craftily, she put her hand to her heart as if hit. She even fell to the ground!

The naive wind was jubilant, but the rook was stalking him from the corner of her eye to see what he was going to do next. When she saw the wind laughing, the rook turned and, scornfully, showed him her bottom!