The Nick Klaus's Fables (2 page)
Read The Nick Klaus's Fables Online
Authors: Frederic Colier
Tags: #fable, #frederic colier, #nick klaus, #children literature
When We Grow Up
(#10)
The Martians in Times
Square
(#11)
The Girl, the Echo, and the
Trampoline
(#12)
Two Crabs in a Boxing
Ring
(#13)
The Conch Shell Goes To The
Courthouse
(#14)
The Toad in the Snakes’
Bathroom
(#15)
The Plough
Horseplay
(#16)
The Blueberry
Dad
(#17)
Worm Pumpkin Pie
(#18)
The Lost Little
Girl
(#21)
The Doorman Bear
(#22)
Three Elephants on
Tricycles
(#23)
The Prophet and the
Snails
(#24)
The Wolf Must Run to the
Market
(#25)
I first met Nick Klaus in 1993. Back then he was
already a strapping boy of maybe 9 or 10 years of age, full of life
and smiles, eager to learn and satisfy his endless curiosity. But
he was also terribly mischievous and, as a result, had gotten
himself into a tricky situation. From what I understand, he had
managed to get stuck inside a photo album, where, to free himself,
he had to discover the Outmoded Landscape, where the children of
the ruthless Mr. Crutchfield had gone missing. The
slip
, as
he called it and told me, started after he came across a forgotten
camera in Mr. Crutchfield’s stable. What happened then? The picture
becomes blurred. If I understand it clearly though, he was supposed
to discover the Outmoded Landscape to free . . . Hold on a minute.
I’ve just written that . . . Now you can see for yourself what
sorts of mind pranks I have to deal with when I deal with Nick
Klaus.
Anyway, since getting stuck in the photo album, I
don’t believe Nick has grown older. How do I know this? For a
start, I don’t believe anyone has ever gotten older by having his
or her picture taken. For a second start, I do believe that once
the picture is taken, whoever has been photographed remains the age
he or she is in that picture—forever. And for a finishing start,
I’ve noticed over the years, especially as the end of the year
draws near, how Nick Klaus seems to grow restless. His increased
activities consist of writing me numerous letters. They are always
hand-written with the same noticeably shaky bubbly letters of a
young writer. Now if that is not the most irrevocable evidence of
someone not getting older, I don’t know what is.
You may ask too, why does he write to me towards the
end of the year? I haven’t been able to figure that one out, yet.
Maybe it is because Nick Klaus rhymes with Santa Claus?
Be that as it may, when I wake up in the morning, I
find his letters on my desk. His letters are really stories, even
though they arrive in envelopes with my address on them. There are
all types of stories. Some are funny. Some are absurd. Some are
baffling, some discomforting or outrageous, and some even really
truly sad. But they share certain undeniable features. To begin
with, all the stories are one page long. No more and no less.
Actually, let me rephrase that. Most are. Some do stretch beyond
the single page. But never more than two. And all the stories end
with the same question: “And the moral of this story is?” So I’m
tempted to call Nick’s stories fables, because even though they
only take a few minutes to read, I often find myself reclining in
my chair for hours, wondering and pondering over their meanings,
what Nick Klaus wanted to say and me to learn.
If I recall from my years as a student of
literature, the goal of a fable is always to make a statement and
to teach a moral, another word for a code of behavior. Now I don’t
know if you fancy learning how to be, but if you don’t mind, I
can’t wait for you to tell me what you think of them, because I’ve
noticed that morals are just like fish. Just when you think you
hold them tight, they slip through your fingers. This happens
especially when someone says something you had never thought of
before.
Before we go further, we have to clear something.
You may ask why would he choose to contact me rather than you. This
is a valid concern. I can tell you in all certainty that his choice
was not random. I have grown over the years used to deciphering
children’s writing, not only the challenging shape of the letters
but also all the dubious spelling of words. When you come across
words such as
jimnastix
iz speshel
, you know that you
need a genuine decoding specialist to transcribe them back into a
more mundane idiom. My job has been to rewrite these fables so that
you could understand and fully appreciate them. Nick Klaus knew I
could tackle such a monumental task.
Still the question readers ask me the most, apart
from the ones tackled above is:
Where is Nick Klaus now?”
No
one knows for sure. I certainly don’t know. But he must be on his
way to solving his problems. He has to be. His parents have been
waiting for him ever since he
slipped
, and I’m sure that he
can’t wait to see them again. Who wants to remain stuck in an album
of photos forever, without getting old and forced to deal with
eccentric creatures? For the moment, all I know for certain is that
one day (and I don’t mean two this time) he will come back . . .
Though, I have heard some unpleasant rumors too. Nick Klaus may
have been turned into a frog. I personally remain skeptical. Do
frogs write fables? I never heard of one who does. Mind you, I’ve
been told that in the land of fables spotting a frog writing fables
would not be unusual. So if you do come across a frog writing
fables you may have found Nick. I beg you to inform me at once.
Before turning my attention to Nick Klaus’s writing,
I have to make a confession. This collection of fables is not
entirely all from him. I could not resist the temptation to try my
hand at writing one. So I have inserted “The Fabulist’s Fable,” as
a way to introduce you to the delicate tightrope walk that
fabulists expose themselves to. The fable’s merit (and it does have
some) is to explain the effective ways that fabulists use fables
and to what end. I hope that you will indulge me this little
detour.
But I must stop here. The editor of this book is
hitting my desk with her ruler. I’ve gone on too long. My Foreword
is already more than two pages long, which was my limit.
However, finally I would just like to add . . .
Ouch! Ouch!
Frederic Colier
Once upon a time, a happy King woke up in the safe
tower of his castle. The sun was bright, high in the sky. “What a
beautiful day for a promenade,” the King said (that’s the French
word for a walk). Eager, he opened his window, only to turn quickly
pale. He held his breath for a long time, unable to utter a word.
When he could breathe again, he summoned all his counselors at
once. They came rushing down in a large cavernous hall, some still
slipping their boots on, others buttoning up their shirts.
“Something grave just happened. My royal life has
been threatened,” he said with rage. Now all the counselors were
holding their breath. “The wild animals from the zoo have escaped!”
The King cupped his hands around his head. “They are running around
town, roaming across the country.”
The counselors scratched their foreheads in
disbelief. “What must we do? What must we do?” they ask each
other.
“What good is a King who is not free to go on a
promenade?” said the King.
“This matter is truly serious, your Majesty,” said
one counselor. “These beasts could overthrow you and bite your head
off,” said a bearded counselor.
“They could tear you to pieces and then eat you
alive,” added another, watching the King roll his head on the
table.
“I suggest we take pictures of those wild creatures,
put them on posters, and shame them to death,” said with great
authority the first counselor.
“I suggest that we put them on skewers and roast
them like marshmallows,” said the second counselor.
“Whoever deprives me of my promenade will pay
dearly,” added the King raising his fists at the ceiling.
A little girl, who had been listening, and who
happened to visit the castle because she thought it was a museum,
tugged at the King’s regal gown.
“Your Highness, all you need is a fabulist,” she
said.
“A fabulist?” repeated the first counselor. “What
kind of weapon is that?”
“Fabulists know how to talk to wild animals. It’s
written in my nursery rhyme book,” she said with a preaching
voice.
The counselors groaned, grumbled and groused for a
while. So the King lost patience and hammered the table with his
fists. “Find me a fabulist now! My promenade is awaiting me!”
The army searched the kingdom inside out, while the
wild beasts slept. They searched every house and stable, galloped
through every hill and waded across every valley. But no one knew
of a fabulist. No one had even heard of one. Defeated, the army was
bringing the king the bad news, when a general spotted a strange
man under a bridge, whispering into a dog’s ear. At first the foot
soldiers thought he was just a wild beast from another kingdom. His
hair was long and matted, his beard dropping below his navel. He
only wore rags for pants, and his body looked as bony as the
starving dog he was talking to. The foot soldiers captured the man
and, in a cage, brought him back to the King.
The King looked pale and sleep deprived. “Can you
help me with my promenade, all these wild beasts are ruining my
health? I’ll give you your own castle and food for life.” The King
opened the cage. The fabulist looked around lost and said slowly:
“These beasts, you’re afraid of, are trying to tell you something.
But since you live too high in your tower, you cannot heed their
cry.”
The King’s eyes brightened for the first time in
months. “I have been ill-advised, asked to live in the clouds.” He
sat next to the fabulist. “Tell me the truths you’ve learned in the
wilderness.” The fabulist rose and opened the front door: “Why not
just go for a walk?” he said. So the King rose and walked out.
In a land not so far away, a frail stalk was
sprouting from the ground. It was hot, and the ground was dry,
cracking in places.
“Give me some water, I’m so thirsty,” the
stalk said imploring a little girl skipping by.
The little girl took a look at the drying
stalk and ran away to the river to fetch water, and then with the
water she watered the stalk.
“Thank you and thank you,” said the stalk,
relishing the moist soil. The little girl sat by the stalk and
watched it grow. The stalk grew big and became a small tree. But
the weather was cold and often cloudy, and the tree was
unhappy.
“Could you chase those clouds away for me,
so that the sun can reach my branches and my leaves, and I can grow
really tall and strong,” asked the tree.
The little girl who had grown tall too built
a giant fan, and with her fan, she whisked the clouds away. She
then sat back down and watched with wide eyes the tree grow tall
and strong, with branches lush with leaves.
Years passed, and the little girl became an
old woman, who could barely walk. The weather was windy and damp,
tough on her bones, while the tree was tall and strong.
“Can I take shelter under your branches,
tree?” she asked. “I wish I was tall and strong like you, but the
rain is too much for my old back.”
“Of course you can,” answered the tree. “But
I wish you hadn’t spent your life watching me grow and instead had
become yourself a tree.”
The old ailing woman nodded with a little
girl’s smile for a minute, and then she poured a jug of water over
herself.
A starving monkey came across a well-dressed
lion eating a sandwich on a street corner, near a train
station.
“Give me my sandwich,” shouted the monkey
abruptly.
“No way,” answered the lion. “It’s mine. Go
and get your own.”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” replied the
monkey with rage. Surprised, the lion glanced around and seeing no
one stared at his sandwich.
“Good try, but my sandwich doesn’t have a
sandwich,” said the lion.
“Surrender now. I promise I’ll eat you
without a fuss, with a fork and a knife.”
The lion chuckled and took another bite.
“Well
it
isn’t complaining at the moment
that I’m chewing it,” said the lion with a mouth full.
“How can it complain? You just bit its head
off, and it can’t hear me,” said the monkey clasping his hat with
both hands.
