THE MAGIC STONE

(A FAIRY TALE FOR ADULTS)

Once upon a time there was a little boy, a very trusting little boy.

    He believed all the nice things he was told and, because the nicest things always seem to appeal more to the emotions than to the intellect, he became incurably sentimental and romantic.  It was so reassuring to believe in goodness and honesty, and that right must always triumph, and that faith could move mountains, and that the knight will always be victorious over the dragon.  So very reassuring, in fact, that he began making excuses and finding reasons for his beliefs when, occasionally, they became hard to accept.

    He even believed in Santa Claus.

    One night, one Christmas eve, when he was already quite grown up, he succeeded in remaining only half asleep in his bed.  It was the first time he had managed this.  Every Christmas eve he had tried, but long before the witching hour of twelve struck its sombre chimes on the church clock he had always been sound asleep.

    This year he made a very special effort and – lo and behold! – at one minute after twelve a faint scuffling at the door handle roused him fully awake.  He opened one eye very gingerly and saw the handle slowly, softly turning.

    For a moment he was surprised.  Father Christmas was supposed to come down the chimney!  Then he remembered that the house was centrally heated and, of course, Santa could hardly be expected to squeeze down a hot water pipe.

    Then came his second surprise.  The figure which came through the door bore a remarkable resemblance to his own father.  Yet it had to be Father Christmas for heaped high in his hands were large numbers of exciting-looking packages, all gaily wrapped, which were placed at the foot of his bed.  But when Santa Claus leaned over the bed and gently kissed his cheek he knew it was more than mere resemblance, for the smell of tobacco and beer, and the prickle of moustache whiskers, were undoubtedly his father’s.

    So he had to un-think his previous belief.  And quite soon he found the answer.  And it was even more wonderful than he had imagined.  Of course!  His father was Santa Claus!  And obviously he had already delivered his presents to all the other little girls and boys, for he had changed back into his un-Christmas clothes and had shaved off the long white beard.

    I tell you this story to show you just what a trusting, believing, sentimental little boy this was.

    Now, when he was a very little boy he had been told of the magic stone which we all must look for: the fabulous stone that brings its finder all the happiness, all the success, all the love and beauty that his heart desires.  He was told that there were a great many of these stones, of all shapes and sizes, of many colours and complexities; some harder and some softer; some seemingly hard, but soft inside like a chocolate cream; some seemingly soft, but with cores of iron.  He learned that some glittered brightly, but that the gloss could rapidly wear thin; and that some seemed terribly dull, but could be polished until they shone like diamonds.

    He knew, too, that while there were many such stones, there would be only one stone that was created just for him and, unless he was very, very lucky, he would have to pick up many, many wrong stones before find his own.  So he began his search for the magic stone.

    The little boy grew up and became a man.  And the man who had been the little boy carried on the search for the magic stone.

    He knew that it must exist, for he had been told that it existed, and his heart would not let him believe otherwise.  Yet some days his heart would grow heavy with sorrow as the search for the stone seemed so hard and so long.  Still he would not despair, for he had faith and trust; he believed, and he knew that everything comes to him who patiently seeks.

    And finally his patience and trust were rewarded.  One day he found a stone which shone with such a sweet and magical radiance that he knew it had to be the one.

    So he gathered the stone to him, and he cherished it, and for a long time he was made exceedingly happy.  This was indeed his stone, he thought, for how else had it come to pass that all his dreams were coming true?

    It was a hard stone which somehow seemed to soften on the outside with his touch.  It was never so bright as when he held it in his hands.  It came to life at his touch and brought him joy such as he had never believed possible.

    Oh, he thought, if only I could make sure that everyone finds a stone as perfect as mine.  How happy the world would be.

    And then, one day, a change seemed to come upon the stone.  As he held it in his hand the softness started to peel away.  For a second it shone with an extra brilliance, then the glow faded and it turned to ashes, and he was left holding a lump of coal which was hot and painful and made his hand terribly black.

    What torture!  What agony!  What a cruel and horrible trick to have had played on him.

Yet such was his trusting nature, he very quickly realised that the stone had been a test of courage, of the strength of his belief, and that his must stiffen his shoulders and continue his search.

    So he put his heartbreaking disappointment behind him, took a deep breath, and went on seeking.  The right was his; the victory had to come.  His faith was as strong as ever; the mountain had to move.  He pointed his lance and . . .

    He found the stone.

    This time it had to be the right one for it was so different from the other.  Instead of sparkling it was dull but warmed to a pink glow at his touch.  Instead of being soft outside and hard within, it was soft right through, and therefore had to be genuine.  A perfectly perfect stone.

With one unhappy difference.  The love, the kindness, the warmth and the joy which should have come to his heart from possession of the stone did not appear.

    He tried everything. He cherished it and warmed it; he loved it and nurtured it. But it produced too little response and, bit by bit, he found his heart growing heavy once more within him.  In the end he had to fact the fact that he had made yet another mistake.  The stone so incredibly perfect, so desirable, so clearly a good stone, was not for him.  He could feel nothing but regretful shame at the thought that he was depriving its rightful owner of the bliss and blessing which was the stone’s to give.

    With tears in his eyes and a hammering in his heart he took the stone out of the snug, warm casket in which it had lain, fondled it for the last time, and carefully, tenderly placed it where its true owner might perchance find it.  And, as if it realised exactly what was happening, and wished to thank him for it, the stone suddenly shone with a blinding lustre and then as swiftly faded into obscurity.

    The joy of knowing he had done the right, the honest thing, sustained his spirit for a while.  But it did not last.  He grew sad and listless, weak and weary.  Rather than risk a third shattering experience, he stopped longer for the magic stone.  He immersed himself in other activities, lest too much time to think would merely be time to doubt.  And he did not want to doubt; he did not want to lose his trust and faith.

    Time went by too quickly; the essence of his previous existence, the search for his own, special, private, magic stone faded in the recesses of an unprovoked memory so that when it came, when it happened, he was helpless, defenceless.

    But happen it did.

    He was engaged in a completely different activity than stone-seeking at the time.  So different, in fact, that the stone was in his hands for a long time before he recognised it for what it was.  And then his heart gave a lurch, and there was a pounding in his temples like a pneumatic drill on a cobbled street, and ten thousand angels were chanting in his brain.

    He was, as I have said, helpless and defenceless when it happened.  Nothing could have been further from his thoughts than a magic stone.  So he behaved precociously and unthinkingly.  He forgot all the lessons of the past. Rapture and joy and heartwarming bliss were his for the taking, and were to be taken without thought and without examination.

    The stone of course he examined; himself he did not.

    It was of a delightful shape and texture, unlike any he had found before.  (He forgot that this was always the case.)  It was warm and comforting and thrived on warmth and comfort.  (Is this not a prerequisite of all magic stones?)  It could make him forget the bitter disappointments of his previous experiences, just as he could repair the ravages wrought by some of the unkind hands through which the stone had passed.  (He overlooked the fact that magic stones, too, can have bad experiences, and that they too may sometimes clutch at straws.)

    But for a time, for a brief, wonderful moment of time, he was able to reap the fruits of all the years of belief and faith.  For an incredible instant his romantic, sentimental trust was repaid one hundredfold.  Did you not know that an instant of bliss may compensate a lifetime of despair?

    Yet the reckoning must always come.  And the reckoning came.

    It was the stone itself which first became aware that, delightful and desirable as the situation was, it did not fulfil the essential requirements of a stone and owner relationship.  There was something lacking, something incongruent in their liaison.  The stone became worried and fretful.  It felt deeply for its new owner.  It did not want to cause him any more pain and woe than he had already suffered.  Yet it knew that the situation could not be allowed to continue.  For a magic stone, too, will suffer from misuse and, eventually, they could both end up shattered.

    We must sometimes be cruel to be kind, as the cliché has it.  This is also true of magic stones.  The magic stone tried to explain, it tried to help, but at the first rumbling suspicion of what was to pass the man wept and fled.

    Yes, after all the years of faith and trust, the man ran away from what he had always previously faced in a forthright manner.  He ran straight into the depths of hell.  His heart and soul burned with the torment of doubt and disbelief.  His tears of self-pity hissed in the fires of self-disgust.  He could think of nothing but his own hurt and shame.  He forgot completely the joy and wonderment, the ecstasy and thrill that for a brief time had been his.

    And then the period of mourning, of self-immolation, passed; it drained out of him and left him limp and empty.  And into the vacuum that remained, a stray thought, a faint reminiscence returned, a pathetic memory of the magic stone.

    What had it tried to tell him?  That trust must be tempered with reason?  That belief must be bound by responsibility?  That faith must be fathered by judgement?

    Why had he not listened?  What could he do now?  He had leapt from wild acceptance into blind rejection.

    And what of the little stone?  Had it not also earned the right to patient approval and consideration?  He had twice been mistaken, but each time he had permitted himself a lengthy period of probation before admitting his mistake.  Could he not have shown the same generosity to the magic stone?

    For that matter, perhaps the magic stone had not been mistaken.  Perhaps it had merely been too hasty.  Perhaps it was his magic stone.  How could he ever find out?  He could look for it again, that’s what he could do. He could find it, if he were lucky, and beg for a second chance . . . this time to probe their relationship properly, sedately, thoroughly.  No, luck did not come into it, but faith and trust, tempered by reason and judgement.

    He would start looking now.

    Dear reader, all fairy stories start “once upon a time . . .” and end with “they lived happily ever after”.  But this fairy story is for adults, and our little boy is now a man, and we cannot say that he will live happily ever after, for this is not the end, and he is only now at

The Beginning.