Of Spring and Silver

Spring came with many delegates. And although these delegates were perhaps too many to count, I have grouped them into three separate categories. The first appealed to your eyes. Any child could see that the clear skies, stretched days, blooming trees and strikingly colored birds meant that winter’s harsh grip had softened into spring’s coddling embrace. The second appealed to your ears. You would know spring had arrived when the proud song of a flame breasted robin echoed through the forests before dawn. Or when you could hear young’uns running and dallying long past the sun’s zenith. Even the farmers’ haggling and arguing over pregnant mares and unsown crops were a delegate of spring’s great tidings. The final few delegates are much harder to group. I suppose you could say they appealed to what you feel. But it was so much more than that, don’t you see? It was in the way your arm hairs rise when the air is dense with dew, the way a crocus’ scent tickles your nostrils, the way a newborn sun caresses your skin.  Yes, these were indeed the delegates you saw, heard and felt before you knew it was spring. But I knew from something you have never seen, something you have never heard and something you, most definitely, have never felt. It saddens me to say you will most likely never experience something like this. Or rather, someone. 

I knew next to nothing of him. Not of his stature, his family, his journey - nothing. I was only sure of two things. First, his name. Silver. And even that was hotly disputed. No one could remember him ever introducing himself or referring to himself as Silver. The most obvious explanation of this title would be his appearance. For he always shuffled into the village leaning over his silver cane, heaving behind a great travel sack clanking and blinking with countless silver totems and trinkets. His silky silver hair draped to his knees and his braided silver beard swayed gently as he took his measured steps. We believed he was blind in both eyes. And I mention both, for his left eye was a silver marble, always looking up at the sky. It swung frantically from one corner to next, unaware of what was in front. Always searching, never looking. His right eye never moved. It was bloodshot, deeply red with spots of blue and grey scattered throughout, like a rotten grape. When he would blink with his left eye, his right eye would stare on, never closing. If more than one person stood before him, they would all swear that his right eye was unflinchingly fixated on each and everyone of them at the same time. His left eye reminded me of quicksilver, skittishly fleeing and bolting every time you tried to grab it. His right eye was ironclad, holding your gaze until your eyes watered.

But others would argue that his name came from an old saying. Speech is silver, silence is golden. As if he was synonymous with speech itself. Some even said that the term silver tongued was derived from this very man.  And as implausible as that sounds, it was hard to challenge that notion. His voice seemed sweeter than black honey, more pleasant than an infant's laughter, brighter than a loved one’s smile. His cadence was as clear as a fresh water spring. Every breath was deliberate, every vowel and consonant was given its right. Fittingly, his voice was best described as that satisfying clink sound a silver coin makes when stacked on another. 

Silver was a storyteller unlike any other. There was something unexplainable about his tales. Or rather, the way he told them. He would make tales we had heard a thousand times over seem like they had been conjured up for the first time before our eyes. Hearing Once upon a time come out of his lips was as if these words had only just been spoken into existence. His voice seamlessly went from villainous, cold command to earnest, child-like innocence. He would speak quickly without inhaling during tense moments, so we would emphatically hold our breath. He would pause just long enough for us to feel that undeniable craving for more, but not to the point where it would frustrate us.  He wasn’t just a master of storytelling. He was a master in making us listen. 

Perhaps most amazing was the way a seemingly blind man looked at us. His left eye seemed to wander and explore new perspectives to stories as old as dirt. Its unbothered liveliness filled the listener with hope and spirit during the darkest moments in a story. And as morbid as his right eye was, that unwavering beacon of stillness, that dimmed lighthouse in a restless sea always gave us something to hold on to. It was a tight grip that never let go. A knowing look that saw us to the bone. Always looking, never judging.

When the glare of his trinkets came around and when his pure voice rippled through our streets, it was as if a thick fog had lifted. ‘Come, come’, Silver would say. And at these words, as if they had been some magic spell, the people seemed to wake from slumber. From every corner and crack, human life seethed toward his voice. ‘Come, come,’ Silver would repeat. Shopkeepers would leave their wares and smiths would drop their hammers and follow that blind emissary of warmth and prosperity.  Trees seemed to sprout children and elderly seemed to pop out of windows. The very stones he walked upon belched forth excited spectators. And when he deemed a spot fit to tell his tales, he would promptly drop to the ground, and we would promptly follow. Spellbound and entranced, we would listen with no grasp of time and no need of sustenance.

I was only sure of two things. First, his name. Second, I was sure that when I saw that unseen sight, when I heard that unheard voice, when I felt that unfelt trance of enlightened bliss, that spring - nay, Silver- had arrived.