Three Stories
There, on my bookshelf, sits a rather worn and incomplete set of school magazines from my years in primary school. Each containing a collection of short stories, poems, articles, excerpts from children’s novels, letters to the editor (depicted as a fictional cartoon character named after the magazine itself) and a serial comic which unfolded over the course of the year.
For some reason I have been unable to part with them over the years since, though many other relics from my school days has been farewelled. During our last move I attempted, with some success, to employ the Marie Kondo method of deciding which things (books at least) should be kept and come to the new house. I had thought, at this point I might be at last be able to part with them. But no, when held, their glossy illustrated covers sparked joy, such that they had to be immediately packed to avoid further distraction.
Puzzled, I stuck to the program and kept the magazines, though I had been able to part with other items that seemed far more sentimental. As I unpacked those school magazines, I had to wonder if they really should be kept. They seem so… childish. I rarely look at them. But I found as I had before that they still sparked joy and I was surprisingly unwilling to part with them.
A practical thought intruded. What if I cut out my favourite stories? The four that still haunt my imagination and throw the rest out? That would save space. It had worked for interesting articles found in teaching or theological publications. But no, it wouldn’t do. Reader, it would not.
And as they often do, the stories sprang to mind, with their strangely compelling ideas, though I have not read their pages for many years.
The tale of Mighty Mountain, the strongest man in his village who, for some reason I cannot remember, must rely on the help of three women. A daughter, mother and grandmother, each smaller and yet stronger than the one before. They view Mighty Mountain’s comparative weakness with a kind of compassionate amusement.
The tale of the king’s broken bowl. Distraught, for this bowl was made by an ancient, revered artist who had died before passing on his skills, the king demands the bowl be fixed with no cracks to be seen. Failure means death for all the potters in the land. One agrees and a year later the bowl is presented to the king, perfect, without fault. Refusing reward and evading requests to pass on his skill, the potter retreats to his rural workshop. It is only his grandson who, upon finding the broken pieces of the original bowl in his grandfather’s workshop, learns it is only silence that can save the potter’s lives.
Finally, the story of a boy, determined to follow in his father’s footsteps as a master swordsman. His skills are lacking, so the boy seeks out an old master who agrees to train him, provided he does whatever he is asked and speaks of his wish no more. There is no Mr. Miyagi moment. The boy works for his master for years until he has forgotten everything he knew about the sword. Forgotten all techniques. Forgotten any desire to learn the sword. Now he is finally ready to learn the sword. He grows so proficient that his name spreads throughout the land, and his father, hearing of it, is ashamed that he did not see his son’s skill as a pupil.
They enchant me still.
I cannot pinpoint what it is about these stories that captured my imagination so completely. Was it the hints of far-off Asia? The coming-of-age moments? The humour? The humility? I do not know. But I can remember how I felt as read them for the first time. That moment of surprise, of possibilities that one had not considered sliding into place. The wonder of new ideas, perspectives, questions – the open mind. And the delight. For the delight of a twist that one didn’t see coming, one that fits into a story perfectly, just waiting to be discovered, is always remarkable.
What I had encountered was what my creative writing tutor was looking for. At the time I discussed C.S. Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia, as did several others in the class. And indeed, the first time I came across the works, read aloud by my mother, I had that same experience. But I realised, as I placed these magazines back in their rightful place upon the shelf, that this was the reason why they sparked joy, and why I had unconsciously chosen to keep them.
There are perhaps far more dramatic, more mysterious and more suspenseful stories that have crossed my path since I first read these three. Yet they remain. They remain for good reason. Little known, they remain fine examples of literature written for children. They remain as inspiration for my own writing. They remain as guideposts on the journey and as a reminder of the gift a good story is.
As I work at my craft, I will take the advice that the master potter passes on to his grandson –
“As long as you love your work, I guarantee your skill will surpass that of your grandfather by a thousand times.”
Father Usman | ‘The Broken Bowl‘ retold by Celeste Dulhunty
And the fourth story? That, dear reader, is a tale for another day.
