auctor vitae

There are always a million different alternatives, pathways, things said and left unsaid. A million routes for a million journeys, each co-existing in this peculiar thing called life.

Let’s go back to the beginning.

Soft shadows pirouetted upon the path, leaves twirling in a carefree dance with the sunlight. The sunlight penetrated the bubbling water, sending its rays in clouded beams to the bottom of the swirling pools of light.

She continued in a trance, hands brushing the coarse bark of the trees she passed. Today, she had decided to empty her mind; her thoughts were nothing. She felt the urge to cry, but let it slide off her shoulders instead; the shadow of emotion was cast to the ground. She continued walking.

Her feet cried out with tiredness, so she decided to sit down upon a log, a log overgrown with weeds, lazy and sprawling, hiding a patch of the tiniest mushrooms. Her hands rested upon the wood, fingers outstretched. Her weary fingers found a small hollow in the wood. An entrance to another world - for she noticed that resting in the small hollow, under a pile of dusty leaves, lay something small and dark. She reached out and brushed the leaves off. Underneath lay a small, black, leather-bound book.

Her heartbeat quickened. She glanced around, then picked it up. The smooth sable leather felt cool to the touch; she traced the tiny grooves in the soft material of the cover and imagined the journeys this little book had been on, up and down valleys and mountains. Her fingers brushed over the embossed letters – Moleskine. How beautiful, she thought. Carefully, reverently, she slowly undressed the book, lifting the little strap that held its secrets together.

The cover fell open and flicked to the third page. On it was written, ‘turn to the next page for the meaning of life.’ Her eyes widened.

Her fingers moved under the paper, ready to turn – when something caught her eye. A little white bird had alighted upon the bough of a tree at eye-level across from her. It began pecking at a small envelope stuck in a crevice of wood. On the front of the envelope, printed in black - $20 000.

Then she noticed a tiny note taped onto the corner of the third page. On it was written: your choice – the money or the next page.

Here, what I said about a million pathways. There they all were, laid in their infiniteness in front of her.

She fingered the page absent-mindedly, staring at the $20 000 printed on the envelope.

Before she knew what was happening, she had reached for the $20 000, tearing it open. The little black book fell to the ground, the only sound emitted a small thud. A few small leaves fluttered away in its wake.

The money felt cool in her hands, as she turned the banknotes over and over. She glanced down at the ground at where the little black book had fallen, but there was nothing there.

The Author watched the girl glance around, clutch the $20 000 to her heart, and trudge away, back the way she had come. The Author felt a slow sadness, but it was something they knew would happen. The hand had been offered, but it had not been taken.

The Author turned away, holding the little black book gently, and took out a feather quill pen, the feather as white as could be. The white bird alighted gently on the Author’s shoulder and preened itself quietly.

The Author began to write. The pen glided along the paper, creating a symphony of words, a crescendo of letters that rose and fell like ocean waves. Ink spilled in an untamed yet beautiful artwork – each word was meant to be. Not a stroke was out of place. Not one letter, not one iota.

The Author smiled as he completed the work. And now he set about finding the next place to hide this little black book. The Author chose the next path in the million he had created, to offer life to another.

There are always a million different alternatives, pathways, things said and left unsaid. Known and unknown. Seen and unseen. Yet to be discovered.

And the little black book smiled softly to itself, holding within itself the greatest treasure of all time.