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Mariana's Pygmalion
Hopper Stories: Excursions into Philosophy Chop Suey
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A tale set in rural France early in the 20th century
The Storks
Jean Paul stood in the yard of his little cottage and glanced up at the sky. It had darkened suddenly as if threatening a storm but it was nothing more than the rising of a huge flock of storks swirling up on magnificent wings, their red beaks and legs gleaming in the afternoon sun.
He had listened all morning to the chatter, the grunts, the peeps of their voices as they sat up on the rooftops about their elders, solemnly discussing their affairs. Now they were off at last upon their autumn voyage. It was always a sad time when the storks left, a signal of the winter and the cold biting winds that swept across the Alsatian plains. ‘Come and see, Bernadette’ he called, 'our friends are leaving us again.’ His wife, a tiny, wrinkled old creature joined him in the yard, rubbing on her apron hands that smelt of the garlic she had been chopping. She looked upwards at the fast disappearing flock of birds. ‘Well, they haven’t brought us any luck yet,’ she grumbled, ’I thought we might be in for a good spell at last when they built a nest in the old barn - but, bah! - if anything I think the vine crop was worse than ever this year while the potatoes are scant and poor and we shall have a hard enough winter of it.’ ‘Why aren’t you women ever satisfied?’ her husband sighed, ’that wasn’t the fault of the storks - it was the weather this year. Storms and rain, rain, rain. No don’t blame the storks or they won’t come back where they don’t feel welcome. Blame the weather.’ The weather!’ her voice trembled a little, ’The Weather as you say, took our dear boy from us. Yes, always the weather’s fault!’ Jean Paul put an arm about her thin shoulders. ‘Come, come, don’t keep remembering it and making yourself sad.’ ‘How can I help it? Just at this time of year, wasn’t it?...just as the storks were leaving us…his foolish little boat capsized on the Rhine. It was just as the storks were going for I watched them setting off in the sun as I’m doing now. Jean…he would have been thirty-six now.’ ‘I know, I know…but it’s so long ago now,’ murmured her husband consolingly. ‘We would have had grandchildren, bonny little faces and laughter about the house…but what have we got to look forward to now but lonely old age? Sometimes I hate the storks, Jean. They bring all these sad old memories. Watching them come and go each year makes the time go so slowly. I can’t help it…a mother never forgets.’ ‘What can we do about it?’ asked Jean Paul sadly, ’we can’t stop the birds from coming back where their home is. It’s their home as much as ours.’ ‘Well, we could get rid of the nest for a start. It’s brought us no luck. Then at least they won’t come back to this house.’ Jean Paul looked at his wife and shrugged a little. He thought her notions were odd but he knew how bitter the death of their only son had been to her and how her mind had never been quite the same since. He went round to the back of the cottage and looked up at the dilapidated old barn. Its roof had been half blown away in a winter storm one year and he had never mended it. It was seldom used these days except as a shelter for the mice and birds. In the corner of the roof just under a jutting remnant of covered timber, two storks had built a nest earlier that year and reared their young in peace and quiet and with loving care. The nest would still be there, a huge construction of twigs and odds and ends of straw. Personally he had been glad to have the birds there, it was a good omen. To destroy a nest purposely seemed almost a sacrilege to him. Jean Paul loved the noisy creatures. It had been amusing to watch their grotesque mating dances where the birds would hop about on their long ungainly legs, their wings spread out, clattering and rattling their beaks like castanets. It was like a parody of a Spanish folk dance and never failed to make him laugh. Inside the dark, musty barn, he groped about for the ladder that led up to the trap door in the roof which he kept permanently propped up there. As he began to climb up, he paused half way as a strange sound came to his ears. There was something up in the loft, some animal perhaps, an animal in distress making little whimpering noises. Pulling himself up through the opening, Jean Paul looked about him. The midday sun dancing through the holes in the roof dazzled him for a while but as his eyes adjusted he saw that the loft was empty and still. Then the little mewling sounds began again and he looked around, startled. The sounds seemed to be coming from the direction of the old, abandoned stork’s nest. He went over to it. Lying there amongst the weavings of straw and twigs lay a tiny baby wrapped in a grubby white shawl. Jean Paul stared at it in amazement. Was it real? On seeing him, the baby began to wail loud and insistent with hunger. It was real enough. But where on earth had it come from? What the devil was it doing here in his loft? Rushing to the ladder he called to his wife eagerly. She came running out of the house and into the barn in some alarm, thinking he had fallen from the ladder but looking up she saw his excited face peering down at her through the trap door. ‘What is it? You gave me such a fright!’ ‘Come and see!’ Alarmed by the agitation in his voice, she clambered carefully up the ladder and came over to him. ‘A child!’ They looked at one another in bewilderment. ‘But how could it have got up here?’ said Jean Paul, puzzled. Bernadette’s face suddenly cleared. ‘It was the storks of course! They left us a child…they left a child because we lost our Henri!’ Jean Paul was dubious, ’A child with clothes on? I thought they only brought new born babies.’ ‘They know we’re poor,’ said Bernadette triumphantly and lifted the baby up in her arms, murmuring sweet words to abate its tears. The child looked up at her and stretched forth a little hand and seized her thumb tightly. ‘Ah, ah! It’s adorable, the little one! And after all I said about the poor birds. Wasn’t this good of them? Oh, Jean, we must leave the nest here now and next year you must catch as many frogs as you can for them in payment, to show out gratitude.’ They took the baby back into their cottage where Bernadette prepared some milk for it. The baby once fed and freshly washed, kicked up its little legs and crowed endearingly. They were both entranced. ‘It’s a little boy, you see, they brought us another boy,’ said Bernadette. Jean Paul’ simple heart was full as he looked at the tender scene of his old, wrinkled wife bending over the little baby, her face full of happiness. He suddenly threw up his hands in the air and clapped them ecstatically to relieve his feelings. ‘I want to tell everyone of the miracle that’s happened to us. I want to go to the church and pray in gratitude,’ he exclaimed happily and seizing his cap, he set off down the road in search of someone, anyone, who might listen to his tale. The first person he met was old Duforge, the grocer, on his way back to his shop from lunch. ‘I say, old friend, listen, just listen to what’s happened to me! You’ll never believe it!’ Duforge, always a sceptic, didn’t believe it at all. Another friend joined them and Jean Paul repeated his story with further embellishments. ‘I’ve heard of such happen, you know,’ said the other friend, ’after all, who can question the miracles of God?’ ‘True, the stork could be an agent of God,’ agreed the grocer with a wise nod. ‘Why not come and see the child, then you’ll believe me.’ said Jean Paul, his face beaming,’ if it didn’t come from God where else can it have come from?’ The others couldn’t find a proper answer to this so they turned back with Jean Paul to see the child. ‘It looks very well formed for a newly born,’ said Duforge with a frown, ‘and fully clothed too! It looks at least a month old. Surely it hasn’t been lying up there all the time?’ ‘Of course not,’ said Bernadette indignantly, 'the storks only left yesterday.’ ‘And so heavy for a stork to carry,’ said the other friend in wonder,’ what marvellous creatures they truly are. But where do you suppose the stork brought the baby from? It must have found it somewhere.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the grocer, looking at Jean Paul accusingly, ‘maybe it stole it from some poor woman who’s in despair even now, some poor woman in another part of the world…Paris, Lyons…’ ‘No, no! It brought the baby specially for us. Perhaps from an orphanage,’ said Bernadette in alarm, clinging to the child. ‘That could be true, I suppose,’ said Duforge with reluctance,'that could be true.’ ‘I think it’s an amazing thing, a wonderful thing!’ said the other friend, 'I’m off to tell all the others.’ Before the hour was up the whole village seemed to have heard of the miracle and crowded into Jean Paul’s cottage to see the new child. As they stood about the baby admiring and commenting on its pretty face and well formed limbs, a sudden commotion was heard in the yard and an excited young woman came bursting through the crowds, a small frightened looking little girl clinging to her skirts. The woman took one look at the baby in Bernadette’s arms and screamed hysterically. ‘Why, you thieves! You’ve stolen my child!’ And she tried to seize the baby from Bernadette who leapt back with amazing agility, still clutching the infant to her breast with a frightening possessiveness. ‘That’s my baby!’ sobbed the young woman wildly. 'These mad old fools have stolen my little Georges.’ 'But they found it in the stork’s nest in their loft,’ said a bystander. 'How could they have found it in their loft if it’s your child?’ ‘Oh, the liars…so that’s what they’re saying! Why they stole it from my Annette who was looking after him,’ and the young woman pushed forth the little girl who hid her face in her mother’s skirts and began to wail loudly. ‘She took her little brother out this morning and when she came home for lunch there was no pram, no baby and she said some people had taken him. I’ve been going mad with fear…and here was my little Georges all the time! With these crazy, old creatures! I shall call the gendarme!’ ‘I think it is her child, you know,’ said one of the village matrons, pushing nearer to have a look at the baby. ‘Why, it is - it’s her little Georges!’ said another. Everyone looked at the old couple accusingly. Bernadette began to cry but she still clung to the child. 'The storks brought it, the storks. We found it in the stork’s nest, I tell you!’ 'But how could it have got up there, tell us that?’ said Duforge. ‘Perhaps Annette put her little brother up there, eh?' suggested a wiser voice. At this the little girl looked up and began to wail even louder. Dragging her out from behind her skirts, her mother shook her and said, 'Did you put your little brother up there, you wicked girl, did you?' ‘Yes,’ sobbed the child, 'I was tired of him. I only wanted to leave him there for a minute while I played with my friend Marie in the fields. But when I came back for him, he was gone. I was so frightened.’ Everyone looked at each other in relief. So that was the explanation of the mystery…miracles, storks indeed! How simple those two old peasants were! Bernadette handed back the baby slowly to the mother and the tears rolled silently down her cheeks. Nobody could bear to see her suffering and one by one they all turned and went away. ‘I’m sorry I called you a thief, Madame, said the young mother,’ but you know how it is when you think you’ve lost your child…you go and say and do the silliest things. I’m really sorry.’ ‘It’s nothing,’ mumbled Jean Paul,' all a mistake.' ‘Can I... can I come and see Georges sometimes? asked Bernadette. ‘But of course, Madame,’ said the young woman politely. She took her small daughter firmly by the hand. ‘Come on you bad girl. Now we’ll have to go and find the pram. You’d better find it too, or you’ll get such a beating tonight when your papa comes home!’ The old couple watched them walk away and turned to one another sadly. ‘Shall I go and throw out that old stork’s nest?’ asked Jean Paul Bernadette reflected for a moment. ‘No, no don’t.;’ she said after a while, 'the stork made a mistake this year and took the wrong baby. But who knows, Jean. He may bring us another next year …one that no-one else will want this time.’
The End.
(c) Loretta Proctor 2000
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