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ith quivering
hands, the old woodworker lovingly added the final details to the face. It was a
strange face, beautiful and enchanting in its strangeness, one that enthralled
and held its admirer captive with just one glance. How should I describe it?
Words will forever be inadequate but if I could paint a mental image, it would
go something like this.
It was a pale white face, shaped like a heart and tilted at an angle from the
body, to give the suggestion of thought. Azure eyes set into the wood gave it
(or should I say ‘him’) an unearthly quality, an inanimate thing that seemed to
demand that you think otherwise. The dark outline around the eyes made it deep
and contemplative. The lips were something else altogether. At first glance, one
would think that it was smiling at you, that mischievous grin that harlequins
often wear but on closer look, one would realise that it is just the red paint
that made the smile, not an overly luscious one, but enough to give the illusion
of happiness. Without all that paint, it would be a terribly sad face,
heart-breaking in essence. Staring upon it, one cannot help but wonder what
stories are laid to rest behind that mask.
The clothing worn by the puppet was at best inconsequential, at worst offending
in its gaiety- a stark contrast to the deep thoughtful face, as much as it was
skillfully sewn. I do not care for the clothes, but the face, oh the face…
that which has haunted me on many a waking nights, something that I believe I
will not easily forget.
The old woodworker placed the freshly painted harlequin puppet on the shelf, a
lone figure amidst an array of oddities. How lonely, I thought, if
only there was another like him to share his solitude… and as if reading my
thoughts, the old woodworker replied, “there was once another…” turning at the
same time to look me in the eye. I was struck by his nostalgic countenance and I
knew there was a story to be heard. Having a great thirst and curiosity for
stories, I found myself a seat uninvited, knowing for certain that he would take
it as a cue for him to tell his tale, as is the way of the elderly…
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A long time ago, in a town near
the mountains, there once lived a young man who was a harlequin by profession.
In those days, the towns were a little less busy and the roads less traveled.
People were more open in their expression as unfamiliar faces were far and few
between. Yet, the harlequin man, as he was called by the young children of the
town, was unreadable. Harlequins were not common then and neither are they now,
but they were great entertainment, with a wonderful ability to mimic those
around them, silently or otherwise.
In the day, this young man would dance the lives of the everyday for his keep
and on special occasions, he would dance, with the help of hand-puppets, the
story of two lovers. Now, these were no ordinary lovers. They were the son and
daughter of the two richest household in town and were the envy of the ordinary
folk. If anything, they were far from star-crossed. Their families were only all
too happy to be joined in marriage and all the town looked forward to that day
for they knew it meant consecutive nights of feasting. And so you can imagine
the movements of our young harlequin who depicted the joy and anticipation in a
mixture of long melodious moves that spoke of romance and successions of flighty
steps that depicted the excitement of the town.
And so the day of marriage came to pass and the town scrubbed anew for this day
that was to be marked by a great celebration. As was customary, everyone brought
gifts but perhaps the strangest gift of all was a pair of harlequin puppets, a
male and female. The puppets were perhaps the most exquisite the town had ever
seen, refined in woodwork and painted delicately. The giver was a stranger
passing through. These puppets, he said, had a life of their own and as long as
they were never separated, the newly-wed lovers would always be one. If the
people were not so caught up with the feasting and dancing, they would perhaps
have asked themselves why would such an unusual gift be given by a complete
stranger, or perhaps questioned the ability of puppets to have a life of their
own but in the good spirit of the occasion, the gifts were accepted in gratitude
without questions or doubt and the celebration went as well as any could go.
That said, being superstitious folk, the lovers proceeded to guard their
harlequins with care, afraid that any harm that should befall these puppets
would have implications for them. But, as with all great stories, happiness is
often succeeded by pain and tragedy the way pride comes before a fall. The
harlequins were lost soon after the birth of the first-born child. They had
mysteriously disappeared as if they were meant to curse the marriage. The couple
soon fell into despair and consumed by the thought that something would happen
to them, they allowed their sadness to rule their lives. Perhaps it was
coincidence or perhaps it was witchcraft; the stranger came again and to him
their woes they repeated, claiming that upon losing the harlequins they could no
longer feel the love they once had for each other.
As is usually the case when dealing with the powers of magic, the couple’s
happiness could be redeemed at a cost—that of their first-born. They were
horrified at the prospect and wanted to drive the stranger away, adamant in
professing that the love for their son was more valuable than anything in the
world. But the stranger stayed and requested them to remember their days of
happiness, telling them also that they could conceive again and one son was no
loss. The seeds were sowed and they eventually succumbed. The son was given and
the illusion of happiness restored. The couple believed they were happy but they
never conceived again. Over the years, the seeds of doubt about the exchange
grew in them until one day, the thought grew so big they went mad and died.
It was a morbid performance to be playing at festivities but the crowd loved it
for it had all the earmarks of a storyline they enjoyed: love, magic, the
lurking of evil, mystery and the irresolute. The story always ended with the
couple passing away but puppets were pretty figures and it was hard to feel sad
while staring at the always-smiling face of the harlequin man. There was no
doubt that he was good at what he did, his movements always conveying the
emotions he depicted to pin-point precision. But while the crowd was willing to
allow themselves to be swept up in the whole romance of the performance, they
never carried it beyond that and the magic of it ended when the curtain fell.
Yet, unknown to them was the truth behind the story, the impulse of the
harlequin man to perform that story again and again.
Unknown to all, he was the young son that was taken away at a young age, trained
as a curse to be a harlequin. While he owned the male harlequin puppet, he had
not the female and until he finds the female puppet, he was destined to be a
harlequin, his truth lost to the world and his emotions forever concealed,
unknowable and unknowing. The connection was not something simple town-minds
could easily make and that was part of the curse, to perform until the person
with the female harlequin revealed herself (and it would be a ‘her’ as his
prophecy dictated). The town he was currently at had not shown much promise and
it was only a matter time before he moved again.
In his mind, he was doomed to love and doomed to fail. He could love no one but
the phantom image in his mind. He did not know what she looked like but he could
only love her and no other. The years went by and still she remained as part of
his imagination. How could he not see himself as doomed? He had become the male
harlequin—the lover but not the loved for who could ever love a harlequin? To
all he was just a mask, a façade that filled himself with the lives of others he
acted out so much so that in time, he too would lose a sense of himself,
becoming truly an empty shell whose only purpose was to be filled.
Such was the prophecy given to him:
It was quiet in the clearing as
the harlequin danced,
Once for the memory and twice for the One
Whose image plays as a phantom’s shadow,
Doomed to love and born to follow
Sheltered in the shadows of the over-reacher,
Trees whose branches go each the higher
The silence of infinity that stretches beyond
A time that traps and renders forlorn
The dancer in the middle counting his steps,
Burning with fervor against time’s threat
Basking in the moonlight as upon a stage,
Turning with grace as each move is made
For each is a memory that has no end
Telling a story that could not be penned
And so life’s path the harlequin takes,
Until the day his debt his paid
Find the girl who has the other,
And outside time he’ll cease to wander.
The harlequin lover existed
outside time. He had no memory of his family or village, and few memories of the
enigmatic master who raised him without revealing his face, choosing instead to
live behind the mask. He only knew that his parents had left him a debt he had
to pay, incurred by the loss of the puppets and made worse by the selfish love
of his parents. In return, he was doomed to seek for love in silence, wandering
through the years, never aging and always lonely, trapped within time yet living
outside it. He was not allowed to tell his story in writing nor in words so his
only way was to dance and hope that somehow, it would lead him back to the path
of life. The dance of the harlequin was both the curse and the gift of his
master who turned him out at the age of puberty, never to be seen again.
From the mountain town the harlequin lover moved and he was to move for many
years before he came to a village near a forest at the other end of the
continent. At first glance, it was like any other village but something hung in
the air like a thick fog on a cold morning that would not go away. If there was
a word to describe it, it would be something close to despair. The people of the
village found no joy in living. They did their work well and lived well enough
but it seemed that that was all they did. They had no capacity to take in
entertainment and for once, the harlequin found himself at a loss. He felt for
them and understood despair only all too well. For the first time in his life,
the harlequin lover thought beyond his own situation and put aside his despair
that had been eating at his heart. He wished for happiness, not for himself but
for those around him. He danced his best and tried to bring them some semblance
of laughter. It took a while but one by one, the villagers learnt to put aside
their work to watch his daily performance. They started to smile and then one
day, someone laughed and with that one, the others followed.
What is joy if one could not share it? The harlequin himself felt joy that he
had never felt before and with that joy, his dreams of his phantom love went
away. In its place, another dream came. He dreamt of the woods beyond the
village, dark yet welcoming, full of shadows yet lighted and peaceful. It called
to him like a lover, caressing his sleep and warming his bed, coming to him each
night with a taste of indescribable bliss. Then one day, unable to bear it any
longer, he took his leave from the village and went on his journey to seek the
woods. They were sad to see him go but bade him well for from him, they had
received the gift of laughter, more precious to them than fruits of labour.
The closer he got to the woods, the more intense the dreams and it drove him to
seek the woods with growing anticipation. He had no idea what it was that was
calling him save that he had to go and seek. The journey was not long but for
the pining soul, it felt twice as long and rest was only a source of
frustration.
The woods were dark and menacing, not at all welcoming the way his dreams made
it out to be. In the nights, the shadows danced and the trees that surrounded
him with their far-reaching branches, filling his heart with fear, made bearable
only by the thought of what was beyond. In the nights, there were lights that
beckoned within the shadowy spaces between trees and along with these lights,
voices called. It was with great restraint that he did not leave the path,
lighted as well but dim to the point of invisibility. On the seventh night, he
came to a copse of trees surrounding a clearing, where for once, the moon shone
through in a direct beam of light, coming to rest right in the centre that was
empty of trees. He knew at once what he was to do and in that circle of light,
he danced. He poured his heart and emptied his soul, filling his steps with all
the years of pain and loneliness, each move more emotive than the last till it
climaxed in his parents’ death and with his eyes closed, he lay on the ground,
finally exhausted from all the years of dancing and puppeting.
When he opened his eyes, he saw her, she who was the dream that had haunted him
for most of his life, looking at him with a smile upon her pale but beautiful
face. In her hands she held the female harlequin doll and to him, she said, “I
have been waiting for you a long time. I have always been here and I have always
known you, seeing you the way you see me, in my mind and in my dreams. Like you,
I was doomed to wait for the other that had the doll, paying a debt that was
given to me by my parents. The wood is my home and in it, I am not confined by
time, sustained by what the wood could provide. I had to wait for the day that
you learnt to love that which was outside your own despair and beyond a selfish
desire to find me only for the sake of breaking the curse. You had to love me
not for the prophecy but for myself and now that you have, the curse has ended.”
With that, she took his hand and they crossed over the clearing together, away
from the dark and into the light.
As he ended the story, the old
woodworker slipped into his own world, staring at the harlequin doll and then
closing his eyes as if trying to hold on to the magic that he had woven for a
little while longer. The silence was pregnant, filled with meaning and if I may
say, magic. Not wishing to rupture the moment, I quietly got up and slid into
the street and away into the night for the story had ran beyond the setting of
the sun.
Some questions are not meant to be asked and not all stories can be explained.
In my heart, I thanked the woodworker for his story but as to why the harlequin
meant so much to him, I left it unspoken. Stories are better when you do not
know everything that led to its creation and sometimes we have to be content to
leave it as that, believing that all stories find their own place and time as it
always is in the magical ways of the world.
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