Some Kind of Wonder-full…

The Story of the Little Elf (Chapter 3)

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he observed a woman striding purposely towards him.  She was tall and angular, with razor-sharp ebony hair.  The little elf peeked out from behind him and looked into the lady’s eyes.  What she saw caused her to shrink back in alarm – her whole body halving in size – the colour of jade, the features of a cat.  It was the Vicious Witch of the Vest.

She halted abruptly in front of the chartered accountant.  There was a silence . . . until, slowly, scrawnily she began to screech, ‘I Put A Spell On You.’  The chartered accountant was mesmerised; lost in a wonder that was hard to describe.  He started to fade into the murky grey of the night: translucent, transparent, gone.

The little elf trembled.  She was all alone and she felt so small.  Whatever the Vicious Witch wanted from her, she had come to take and to steal: not to give.

The Witch stood straight like a skyscraper before the little elf.  Craning her neck backwards as far as it would go, the little elf stuttered, ‘What do you want from me?’ in as strong a voice as she could muster.

The Witch uncovered a scroll from within her briefcase.  She started to read, with a vicious voice:

‘You are hereby given one minutes notice to vacate these woods where you have been trespassing all these years.  In the eyes of the law, you are a squatter.  You hold no rights to stay here and have no place to go.  You are ugly, untidy and a pseudo-elf!  If you stay here, I will compel all the elves of your mother’s family to surround you, to squeeze out your soul and pin it to the trees.  If you go from here, I will destroy all the humans of your father’s family, so that you will have nowhere to stay.  For I have only hatred for you and my blood boils over like the lava from a volcano: my wrath will know no bounds!’

The little elves eyes widened as she blinked back tears: she must be strong.  But, though her mouth curved into an ‘O’, she was unable to speak.  The ‘why’ was left unsaid.  Had she made too much noise playing in the forest?  Had she caused the witch harm in anyway?  She searched her memory for a reason, but she could think of none.  All she could hear, reverberating, drumming, skimming off the sides of her head, was, ‘pseudo-elf, pseudo-elf, pseudo-elf!’ (to be continued)

The Story of the Little Elf (Chapter 2)

A cup of tea, seems to me, to speak a silent language.  The little elf wondered whether the chartered accountant would hear its whisper . . . he was so square!  She could hear it, as she heard the whispers of the trees whilst he played in the forest.  It said, ‘welcome;’ it said ‘complete acceptance;’ it said pure joy and love, and that something unutterable more-ness of Life. 

But, and she cocked her head to one side as she thought it, would the chartered accountant grasp any of this?  The beauty, the magic dancing through every moment – like flowers struggling through the cracks in the cement pavement – or would he just see a cup of tea in a china cup?  She handed him his Earl Grey, watchfully, hesitantly.

The chartered accountant looked down from his great height and said fondly, ‘thanks ever so much.’  Well, maybe not fondly, maybe arrogantly, pompously: this sweet thing certainly didn’t belong to the world of intellectuals, spreadsheets and office Christmas parties. 

She was a phony. ‘Is she or isn’t she?’ he thought, (echoing the line from ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s'). 

‘Is she or isn’t she what?’

‘A phony?’

And what was the answer, do you remember?

‘She’s a phony, but she’s a real phony.’

And that, as we know, is rare: authentic phonyism.  Elves who actually believe in the lives they are leading, congruent with the values they hold dear: wisdom, wonder, tender-heartedness, nonviolence, playfulness and, most importantly, authenticity.

It was a world entirely new to the chartered accountant, and he was intrigued.  As he accepted the cup of tea, he searched his mind frantically for the right question to ask . . . (to be continued)

The Story of the Little Elf (Chapter 1)

Once upon a time, in a land of serendipity, there lived a little elf.  She wasn’t beautiful in a traditional sense – but the warmth and compassion in heart played out on her features.

Everyday, the little elf spent her time engaged in random acts of kindness, gazing at the stars and playing ‘tag’ beneath the leaves of green lace that floated above the forest.  (She also liked to see the dappled green effect on the path when the sun shone through these leaves).

One day, when she was gazing at the stars, a bubble appeared out of the nothingness.  She was not destructive by nature and did not seek to ‘pop’ it as many would.  But she was tempted to reach out and catch it in her hand.  Then she remembered that joy could not be grasped or caught and put in a bottle.  It could only be enjoyed in the present: no future, no past – only now, fully conscious of the delight.

Her wisdom was rewarded, for, as the bubble reached the ground, instead of disappearing into the infinite abyss, it bounced upwards towards the sky.  She watched it fall down again and again, ‘boing!’ . . . and again and again and again, until . . . a mini chartered accountant emerged from where the bubble had been.

He was dressed in a sharp suit and tie, but the shoes gave him away: they were brown and scuffed around the edges.  As the chartered accountant touched the ground, he began to grow – tall and thin and melancholy – until he reached 6 foot 1.

The little elf gazed up at this strange creature.  She felt tiny besides him, yet she felt safe.  In almost a whisper, and with a shy-Di smile, she stuttered, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

The chartered accountant glanced down absent-mindedly to where the elf was tiptoe – ing.  He sized her up – which didn’t really very long! – and said, ‘That would be spiffing!  I’ll have some Earl Grey.  Thanks ever so much.’

The little elf smiled to herself at the accountant’s very englishness, as she poured the boling water into a teapot.  Then she got out her tea-strainer, favourite of all her possessions, and proceeded to pour the tea into a cup.  The tea-strainer caught hold of all the impurities and leaves, enabling a pure cup of tea to be made.  It had a very important purpose, even though the other crockery and cutlery looked down upon it with airs and graces . . . (to be continued)