A Jailhouse Tale I-3
1199 Words
I woke up early in the morning. The turnkey started his round by banging his truncheon against the metal door of every cell. He was making a deafening noise. He did that every morning to remind us of where we were, lest we should imagine that we were in a resort, enjoying our leisure time. The prison regulations stated that on hearing the knock on the door, one had to get out of bed and sit up. That’s how we “reported” that we were still alive and kicking. That must have made the warden on duty even madder. He forcefully slammed the door against the wall, to wake up all the prisoners. He was raging mad that we were holding on, that we were still there, making him pass by our cell doors again on the following day, to breathe in the whiffs of foul air that punished him for the loud kicks every time he opened the door.
None of those disgraceful things impressed me. The beautiful thoughts that had visited me that New Year’s night were back.
I paced the cell the whole day long. It was a small place of barely six square meters. Night found me in the same state. I felt that I had to write, I wanted to write, I could write… but how was I supposed to start?
I was standing at the window. I could see the Sun going down, leaving room for the Moon to do its night shift. I was again the prisoner of darkness, all by myself, between four cold walls in which winter secretly cached its frosty feelings lest they should be unveiled by its sister seasons. Through the bars of the window I could see the barbed wire, ready at any moment for the bloodiest encounters. A single look at it gave me the shivers. My feelings made it seem once more the undisputed mistress of that horrible place, but I had certainly improved its humour, for I immediately saw it dance in tune with the gruesome howling of the old Wind.
I went back into the cell and lit a Candle. I liked watching her. In the “music” of my breath, she gently swayed her playful flame from side to side, responding to my every move. I no longer felt alone. I sat at the low wooden table, with corners jaded from supporting the elbows of many a destiny that had passed through that place before me. I slowly opened the notebook. I wiped the quill carefully, cleansing him of the ink that had “bloodied” him. I tried him nervously, to see if he still had enough strength to write. HE DID! The quill was also ready to take part in the birth of my story… Even the clean white sheet of paper seemed to be waiting anxiously to host my tale! It seemed to be like a young mother, looking forward to feasting her eyes on the baby to which she had just given birth. All I had to do was to get to work. I was moved by a boundless exhilaration.
The flame of the Candle was reflected by the cracked glass of my watch, which was on the table. As always, she wanted to admire her own reflection, to see whether her eyes were tired. The sparkle drew my attention. I looked at the watch: it was six in the evening. The seconds were running out like drops of water leaving the body of an icicle to quench the thirsty lips of the earth. One more hour elapsed without my realizing it. All of a sudden, an incredibly bloodcurdling and heartbreaking creak came from the hinges of a door whose mercy had been gnawed away by rust reached my ears, jarring my eardrums ruthlessly. It was a creak I haven’t forgotten up to this day, so clearly was it recorded by every cell in my brain. I had heard it daily before that time, even several times a day, in the years I had spent in there, but that night, when the warden opened the iron door that was probably ungreased, the sound was shriller than ever. It was the door of the passageway that closed the row of forty cells of prisoners. Forty cells teeming with our sorrowful thoughts. Forty stuffy narrow cells.
The door must have been left ungreased on purpose to disturb our peace of mind, which was pretty shaky at all times. It was the time when the night warden came to check on us to see whether, by any chance, one of us had managed to escape. Holding the quill in my hand, I was tormented by my thoughts when I heard the creak of the rusty door run along the prison passageway with a warrior’s axe in its hand. It stopped at my cell, rushed in madly through the keyhole and, with all its savage might, hit my brain furiously, as if I had provoked it. My brain opened its wide, hospitable gate, excited at welcoming the new Story which was coming in wearing her Sunday best, in a fairytale carriage, ready to cater to her new host.
That is how my Story was born. The squeaking of the prison door unlocked the rusty door of my Mind, troubled by anxious thoughts. All of a sudden, everything turned to light. That very night.
I finished writing an entire notebook. I lost count of the time. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. I didn’t recognize myself! It was as if someone else was guiding my hand, writing line after line on the sheet of paper. My Mind and my Soul felt so free... travelling freely in a fantastic world, full of adventures, unconfined by any barriers. My Soul was flying!
I grasped the reason why God had intended me to go through this trouble. I realized that I had wasted a great many years, away from the writing desk. A story was born in unimaginable conditions, with novel heroes who had not been featured in other tales, heroes that I hope will be welcomed by children keen on reading.
I had been sentenced to serve eight years for a cause which, in another age of our history, might have turned me into a hero. Nonetheless, our present day Justice considered me a highly dangerous, world-infamous economic canker. But I will dwell upon that in my forthcoming memoirs.
I was also duly charged with a host of other things I had not done. It was just like a fantastic story, when a thief is caught stealing a duck, but ends up being judged and sentenced for the disappearance of the entire dinosaur species.
The “Frog Heart” series, which will materialize into a forthcoming animation film, offers you a journey into the world of Love, Friendship, true Faith in God, the power of Sacrifice and, last but not least, the beauty of Childhood.
I would like children to join us in this Story full of surprises, accompanying our characters in a simple world teeming with traditions, history and, at the same time, with the… unknown, a thing you will see for yourselves while reading the forthcoming volumes.
“A Jailhouse Tale” will continue throughout the “A Little Frog's Heart” series.
Yours sincerely,
The Author
- Writer
