Steven George & the Terror
17
The Bowl of Light
ONCE UPON A TIME, there was a blind man who walked in darkness all his life. He had been blind from birth and had learned how to cope with his life. In fact, he functioned so well, that upon first meeting him, you would scarcely know he was blind.
He ran his own farm. He milked his own cows. He raised his own chickens. He cooked his own meals. All things that a man would normally do for himself, Rodda the Dark did for himself. And if, occasionally, his choice of clothes did not measure up to the standards of the sighted, or if he missed a bit of his face while shaving, those around him accepted him as one of themselves, and the fact that he was blind was nearly forgotten.
Forgotten, that is, by all but Rhodda the Dark. While Rhodda accepted his blindness and made the best of his life, there was always one thing he could not fathom. He did not understand the concept of light.
Rhodda knew how close a person was by the sound of their voice or the echo of their footstep. He knew the shape of his wife by touch as well as he knew his own shape. He knew the feel of heat from the fire and the scent of bread baking. But Rhodda yearned to know what light was. It was the only thing he could not smell, touch, hear, or taste. Rhodda heard people talk of how light the day was, how the light played tricks on them, the quality of light in a painting, but he did not know what light was.
And thus Rhodda’s life would have ended if it were not for a peculiar happening. As Rhodda rode his horse one day, he sensed that one of his cattle had gone astray, and directed the horse with his knees to go and cut it off before it went too far. As the horse wove in and out of the cattle to drive the stray back into the herd, Rhodda sat confidently in the saddle, directing the horse according to what he heard and smelled. In no time at all, the errant beast was back with the herd.
But it was not long before the same animal broke away from the herd again, determined to make it to greener pastures elsewhere. Again, Rhodda guided the horse as expertly as any sighted person could do and drove the calf back to the herd.
When the calf broke from the herd the third time, the horse was more prepared than Rhodda was. Being an expert rider, Rhodda kept his seat on the horse’s back, but was unprepared when the horse galloped under a low branch that swept Rhodda from the saddle. He landed hard on the ground and struck his head a sound blow on a rock where he landed. Such a blow might have killed some men, but Rhodda was found by a laborer and was carried to his home. His wife nursed him back to health, through fever and delirium.
Then one morning Rhodda opened his eyes.
A new sensation washed over him. He could see his wife before him twice. Once was as he always saw her, with his nose, his hands, and his ears. And once was with his eyes.
It was a disorienting sensation. He saw everything as he normally ‘saw’ it, with his other senses, but now he was with his eyes as well. The double ‘vision’ made it difficult for Rhodda to judge where he was, how far a person was from him, and even where the step was on the ladder he climbed to the loft every day. He often closed his eyes so he could ‘see’ normally.
The town near Rhodda’s farm held a great celebration of Rhodda’s miraculous healing. Rhodda’s wife was thrilled with the news that he could see her and see their children, but Rhodda was miserable. For all that he had his full senses, he found it harder to do his work, and he knew in his heart that something was missing. Rhodda could not see the light.
Rhodda went to the town hall where a great artwork hung. He had listened to people comment about the light in the picture. Rhodda had gone over every inch of the painting with his fingertips and knew every brush stroke. He thought, surely now he would be able to see the light in the painting. But when Rhodda looked at the painting, he saw only the brushstrokes that he had long before felt and memorized. He simply could not see ‘the light.’
At night, he could see the moon and the stars, but could not identify the light. In the daytime, he could see the horse and cattle. He could tell when he had clothes of the same color. He saw his children run to play. But he could not see the light.
“Where, oh where,” Rhodda moaned, “is the light? Have people played a cruel joke on me? Why can I not see the light?” Rhodda was miserable. He began to wear a cloth tied around his eyes so he would no longer be confused by his extra sense. People were sad for Rhodda, and the poor man became more and more reclusive.
Still, Rhodda tried to maintain his work, his farm, and his family. He rode out on his horse each day, but as soon as he was out of sight from his house, he tied the blindfold over his eyes. And each day he rode farther away from his home. One day, he failed to return at all.
Rhodda had begun his quest for the light, and he never turned back.
For many years, there were rumors of the blindfolded horseman who rode all the trails of the world searching for light. He was said to have shown up in this village, or to have ridden through that city. But wherever he went, he asked the same question: “Can you show me the light?”
Now in the village of Grand Upman, there was an old madman. When he was a young madman, people were disturbed by his presence and feared his insanity. Children tormented him and adults shunned him, and more than one dog bit him. But as he grew older, he became commonplace. People ceased to notice him or his madness because he was always there. Even the dogs ignored him.
It was the habit of this madman to take his stone bowl to the river each day and polish it with sand. He did this until the bowl was worn so thin and was polished so brightly that it reflected everything that was seen in it. Of course, the people of Grand Upman did not notice the condition of the stone bowl.
What the people of Grand Upman also ceased to notice was that after the madman had polished his bowl, he would hold the bowl in his cupped hands, and after a few moments, rush with the bowl, carefully to the stable where he slept, and pretend to pour the contents of the bowl into a rain barrel. No one noticed and no one cared.
What the madman saw was that when he held the bowl just so on a sunny day, it filled with the light of the sun, reflected off its glassy surface. This bowl of light, he quickly carried to the rain barrel, lifted the lid, and poured in. Then he clamped the lid down again. But the madman always complained that the rain barrel leaked, because whenever he went for some light on a sunless day, the barrel would be empty. This did not deter him, however, from running from the stream to the rain barrel several times each sunny day to save light for the winter.
One day, as was perhaps inevitable, the blind horseman met the madman of Grand Upman. Not knowing it was a madman, the blind man stopped near when he heard a voice chanting, “A bowl of light. A bowl of light. Save it for a rainy day. A bowl of light.”
Rhodda slid wearily from his old horse and lifted the blindfold from his eyes. His senses were assaulted by all the visual input and it took him a moment before he could focus on the madman and his bowl.
“Friend,” said Rhodda, “do you have a bowl of light?”
“Oh yes,” said the madman. “A bowl of light. A bowl of light. Save it for a rainy day. A bowl of light.”
Rhodda began to weep and the tears clouded the vision of his eyes.
“Can you show me the light?” begged Rhodda.
The old madman was so surprised at someone asking him a ‘sensible’ question that he stopped what he was doing and looked at Rhodda. He saw someone he felt was nearly as mad as he was.
“Yes, stranger,” said the madman. “Come look. I have a bowl of light right here, come look.” Rhodda made his way to the madman and stood beside him. “Take my bowl and look into it. It is filled with light!” the madman exclaimed.
Rhodda took the bowl and held it in his hands, peering into its shiny depths. He sighed heavily, and then he saw it. The sun reflected off of every surface of the polished bowl, piercing into Rhodda’s eyes. It hurt to look at it, but at last Rhodda knew he was seeing the light. The bowl held his eyes captive and Rhodda stared without blinking all afternoon. When at last Rhodda handed the bowl back to the madman and looked around him, all he could see was the light. The maddening images that had kept him confused and off-balance since he had gained his sight were gone. All that was left was the light—bright, unchanging, blinding light.
Rhodda thanked the madman profusely. He remounted his horse and rode back to his farm. He greeted his wife with his eyes wide open. His children had grown, but he recognized them at once. He navigated his farm the way he had always done, without faltering or stumbling.
Everyone thought that Rhodda had finally accepted his sight. But what no one knew was that all he could see with his eyes was the light. He was as blind as the day he was born.
Rhodda lived to a very old age as a very happy man, and it is said that the light never faded from his eyes.
Steven was mesmerized by the sound of Cherissé’s voice. He had heard many stories in his life, but few voices like hers. He wanted nothing more than to listen to her speak forever, and understood how Rhodda had felt when he saw the light. Steven slept and awoke the next morning craving the sound of Cherissé’s voice. She sent him to feed the geese, to tend her fishing lines, and to cook her food. Each task he did willingly just to hear her give him another. And at evening he came to her with his story.
“What?” Cherissé demanded. “You want to tell a story?”
“I must,” said Steven. “I owe you a story.”
“But we have a long time for you to pay your story debt,” said Cherissé.
“It is only fair that I repay your kindness,” said Steven. He was becoming a little unsure of why Cherissé would be so reluctant to have him tell his story.
“Why don’t I tell another story, instead?” she said.
This was a great temptation to Steven. To hear the beautiful woman tell another story would be a delight he could not find words for. But Steven’s honor dictated that he repay his story debt before incurring more. He could not forget that he still owed Madame Selah Welinska a story that he had yet to pay back. He insisted that he tell a story and at last Cherissé consented.
Steven reached in the pocket of his sheepskin vest and pulled out three balls that he began to toss into the air and catch again.
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