INK ... by hilary slater
hilary slater lamont
A tale inspired by a 100 year old antique bottle, found yesterday, as we excavated my Cabbagetown garden to prepare the foundations for the building of my new studio.
INK
He was feeling mighty old and careworn. There had been so
many years of being dipped into, so many times he’d been re-filled. What kind
of an existence was this? Where was he headed? He had no idea what life was all
about, or why he sat here on this old wooden desk, day after day, and night
after dark night.
What was his destiny? He waited each morning for the first dip of the pen,
knowing that the master would dip the sharp nib into him, wiping it off on the
edge of his neck, and he would hear the scratching of the point of metal on
paper, wondering what important things were being written about today.
Some days the words were read aloud, and he was able to hear the things his ink had written. Those were his favourite days. Those days he felt a sense of importance, a sense of accomplishment. His ink had traced tiny filigree lines on the white parchment, which somehow made valuable sense to the master. He could read those lines and make sounds and sense of the work of his ink.
He knew he had an important role in this, sitting here,
holding the ink, containing it, making sure that he didn’t tip and spill the
blue-black liquid over the crisp parchment sheets. But what would become of
him? Where would his life go from here? Surely this wasn’t the only reason he
was here? He must have a next stage of existence, some higher level once he had
completed this initial job, succeeded and proven himself as an excellent ink
holder?
He waited.
The seasons changed, and there was white outside on the ground. The air felt cold and he knew it was that ‘winter’ season again. He had heard the master grumbling about the temperature change. He felt like grumbling himself, since his ink didn’t run as smoothly and when the drips were wiped on his neck, they lingered irritatingly before they dripped back inside him.
It was that festive season suddenly, and that secretive morning where things were wrapped in nice colourful paper, then placed beneath the indoor tree. He had once been packaged in such a way, he remembered, when he first arrived in this house.
The next morning, he noticed that something new had been placed on the desk beside him. It was beautiful, gold and black, blacker than his own ink. It had long clean lines, and a cap which removed.
He watched the master remove the cap. Ah, it was a nib, like the one that was dipped into his ink each day! He waited for the nib to need dipping, reveling at the thought of having that gold tip slide into his dark liquid ink.
But the master didn’t dip the nib! It didn’t seem to run dry
at all! How could this be? What kind of magic was this, a nib that didn’t need
ink? The master suddenly had no further use of him. This new nib object almost
seemed to have its own ink. It never seemed to need dipping, never became dry.
How could this be? And more important, what would become of him now?
He grieved as his role in life changed. He felt himself pushed to the back of
the desk, collecting dust. He often cried himself to sleep now, unable to
accept his own uselessness.
One day there was suddenly a great commotion, and he saw the master cleaning and organizing, putting things into great boxes and trunks. He wondered which trunk he would be put into.
Suddenly he was put into a small metal bin, then later that day he was taken outdoors! Outdoors! What a sudden change! The air was clear and the sunshine blinded him as it sparkled through his glass walls.
And then the light disappeared. He felt himself go flying through the air into nothingness. He fell into a dark tunnel, it felt like. What was happening? Why was he being brought here? Was this what ‘hell’ was? He had heard the master writing about hell in his parchment paper writings. This fit the description he had heard, certainly.
He waited. Later that day the dark increased, and some loose brown moist material was thrown on top of him and he was suddenly very alone in the damp and the quiet.
He waited.
He waited for 100 years, not asleep, not dead, not able to function. He just waited.
He sometimes heard noises of great change overhead, felt the ground shake, but there was always darkness. With no light, he saw nothing. He felt the brown material press harder against him over time, and he knew there were no spaces left around him.
Suddenly, one day -and it was so much time later that he had
no way of measuring how much later it was- he heard noises of steel hitting
stone, getting closer. He felt the motion of the earth around him. He was
shaken from his peaceful entombment. What was happening? Was he being brought
out again to make new ink for the master? Why had he been left here for so
long?
Suddenly he saw the light. There was an exclamation of delight, and he was
lifted out of the brown and up, into the blinding sunlight, and then slowly,
back into the house. But the house had changed so much! Oh, it was lighter and
brighter! There were new things, and new rooms, even the walls had changed!
He felt himself being washed with warm liquid, it seemed
like a warm colourless ink, and then he was placed on a shelf. He did so long
to be opened again, and used for his ink, but he knew that the ink inside him
had long since dried up and was now only a black dried powder.
He felt joyful though. He was once again filled with sunlight, and he could
hear the voices of happiness exclaiming at his beauty and value.
Once again he had a reason for being. He knew now that he had survived hell and had at last arrived in heaven, to rest safely here for all eternity.
--
H i l a r y S l a t e r
Sustainable Landscapes
oilsdragon
Great concept! I really like some of your phrasings. Do you have any
idea where the bottle in your garden came from?
As an aside, would you please post your stories in future in the
weekly thread with the appropriate date? It keeps this forum more
organized if we're all posting in the same place, and makes it easier
for all of us to navigate and to tell which stories are new and might
be in need of feedback :)
~V
On Jul 24, 8:30 pm, hilary slater lamont <hilarysla...@gmail.com>
wrote: