Fable
The Forgetful Man
In a small village long, long ago, there was an old man who could not remember. The village regarded him with pity, helping him to complete the tasks of a young child. The man, of course, could remember the simple things, how to eat, to talk, walk, and blow out his candles at night. Often times he could recount days on end, while others he was left confused after a few minutes. Most of all he remembered his past, and often sat rocking on his front porch on the far end of the village, reminiscing of the days he once had. But the morning would come and the man would forget, waking up to new faces which offered to keep him company. These were faces that he might have known once, but were now as blurry as the far end of the village’s river.
On festival days, crowds would gather around the elder’s dwelling, and await the great stories he recited, tales that spoke of the olden times, before the times of the young villagers. Some days the man would not speak, caught in the world of memories, unable to interact with the people, and the parents would say to their children, “the elder man is not to be disturbed today,” and the child would run off to play and the old man would continue to forget what had happened. But not on the days of storytelling. The children of the village would sit in a circle around the man as he retold stories of their people, of the great settlers who fought beasts and armies to create the home village. Often the man lost his train of thought. With the encouraging word of a youngster, however, he would remember, and pick up with the tales.
“What an imagination you have!” the adults would laugh.
“They are real stories!” the man fought, but along the way he would forget just what he was arguing, and continue on with the festivities.
After storytelling the village people honored the season with a great feast. The old man would come along. And every year the old man would protest the ceremonial eating of the dark root, a native vegetable.
“They are poisonous!” he would yell, remembering the great fever outbreak of his youth.
And every year, the villagers would pacify him, saying “do not worry, elder, for we do not eat the leaves now, it is a spiritual practice.”
The man would be calm at first, but as he forgot, he saw the men and women chewing on food he knew to be fatal. “Stop, you will be sick!” he cried. And yet, the adults spoke to him like they would a child in a tantrum, and he forgot again.
One morning in that same village, the man heard a steady clicking far away. Roused from sleep, he lumbered outside to see a large group gathering in the center of the town. People began pouring out of their dwellings, and peered over each in a squirming crowd other to get a sight of what was coming. Rarely did the village get visitors, and a shouting man on horseback coming with speed was a very unusual and intriguing event. The horse was tall and a dark mud brown, and its black hooves clopped loudly against the hard ground, kicking up dust into the clear air. The old man figured he had probably forgotten a special event, as he always did, possibly the messenger was coming this year. But despite his amnesia prone mind, the old man was sure there was no predictable reason for the intruder. In the time of the village, no man would send such a magnificent creature if it were merely the mail.
“Evac…” The man yelled frantically, voice lost in the wind
The people in the crowd looked to each other mouthing, “What?” as they moved forward intercept the horse rider. The old man was ready to figure out what this mysterious visitor was talking about, when his memory of the morning began to fray, to fade out until it was cloudy and blurred once again.
And like always, the man saw things like new. The he became lost, confused and dazed over like the sheep those in the village raised. Why were all of these people here again? The old man glanced up, and saw again the great horse, muscles pounding as it almost reached the crowd. Why would there be a messenger here? He racked his brain, but again could find no reasonable explanation for this intruder.
The horse had finally reached them and stood, chest heaving, as the crowd gaped and pressed the man with questions. The old man squinted, and was hit with a burst of recollection, for the uniform of the man was from a time long forgotten. The others of the village knew of no such thing, and squinted to see the simple badge on his chest. The elder had been allied with the people of horse rider, a town not far that lived up by the mountains.
“You are of that town!” the man shouted, surprised by the clarity of his own war memories, but still struggling to find the words, “Ah ah, North?” The crowd turned to the man, mouths open, for they had not expected him to be out at the hour, let alone recognize someone, something at all!
The horse rider wiped sweat from his brow, gasping, “Yes, The Northern Hills, but” he took a few breaths, “that doesn’t matter. You must evacuate! A great mudslide has wrecked havoc on our land, and it is coming down the land. You,” he hopped off the horse, hands on his side, “you must leave now.”
“Impossible! We have not had a flood in years, why should trust you?” A general of the town yelled, stepping forward, and the rest of the villagers began yelling and whispering to themselves incomprehensibly.
“You must, if you care for the fate of you people! I did not race miles to save you with no reason my friend, you must trust me.”
Even the proud shoulders of the General slumped when he accepted the fate of the village.
“Where do we go? We are at low ground, and any landslide will be carried downriver! No mudslide has come for years and years!
We are trapped!” a frantic voice spoke out of the crowd. The old man watched all of this with determined concentration, he could not forget, he could not forget, he must remember.
A chorus of of defeat reached the old man’s ears, and he stood with a loss for thought. He closed his eyes put his shaky hands up to his temples.
“Elder! You must have undergone hundreds of mudslides, you must know what to do!”
The old man jolted back to the present, and was struck was fear and anger, but he did not know why.
“Who are you?” He answered gruffly, “Why do you ask?”.
“He has trouble remembering, do no listen,” a man of the town spoke to the horse rider.
The horse ride furrowed his brow, “He remembered my uniform! Why does he not remember me? He must know what to do, the elders bring wisdom in my town”
“The old man is stuck in the past, he can’t be trusted!”
The old man vaguely recalled the horseman, but could not place who he was. Every time he wrote something down, his old forgetful mind was already erasing it. He only had a few sentences that could be preserved within ink. However, mudslide was one one those words.
“I know of mudslides!” He coughed over the bickering adults.
“There is a huge one coming, Elder! We must go, but there is nowhere to flee.”
The old man held his head in his hands, trying to remember, trying to remember, he needed to think, mudslide, mudslide, mudslide.
“We cannot listen to this man, he is practically senile!”
“He is our only hope! He must know a cave or, or something!”
A cave! From somewhere deep within the library of the man’s memories an old volume was retrieved, dusty and fragile, but the man had it, he could remember, he need to remember. Wait, why did he care about caves again? He felt the book crumbling with each second he held it.
“No no no!” he shouted, “Tell me now! What am I doing! Tell me!” He was shaking, eyes blurring, he needed to do something, the whole village was at stake, but why?
“We need to escape the mudslide Elder.” Mudslide! The memory was back. I can remember I can remember I can remember, he chanted, I must prove them wrong. His old heart thumped with in his chest. What do you do when there’s a mudslide? You need to hide, you need to get on high ground, the man knew this much.
“Don’t listen to him, he cannot tell one face from another!”
The man closed his eyes and calmed himself. He had felt this fear, this panic before, but he had not been alone. His head was soft against his mother’s skin, and he felt the pain of it bumping up, and down against her bony shoulder. He heard the constant roar of water and mud far beneath his feet, the shuffling of tens of people pushing through the woods. He saw, though little cloudy tears, the passage up the mountain.
“I remember I remember I remember!” The old man was brought back to the real world, and shouted. He could hear a distant roar, even with his failing ears. The old man scanned the line of trees in near the village. Why was he looking at the trees? Wait, he needed to find the mountain passage. The old memory was solidifying with each second.
The people of the village had no other choice but to follow him. They had no choice but to walk with the forgetful man through branches and rock and hard rock hills for miles while the roaring became louder and louder. And they had no choice but to trust the old man’s failing memory, to trust that his idea of the past was a strong as he led on, and to remind the old man what he was doing every few minutes.
Finally they reached an steep rock face, leading to a small cave. With determination, the old man led the party to the side, where a rough staircase was cut out. Carefully, they climbed up the steep rock onto open ground.
Instead of dusty old food containers and an moss covered ground, the old man saw the his mother placing him down on the elevated cliff face, hugging his father and others in the old village. He was huddled tightly, and felt the warmth of a hundred bodies, and he felt the same feeling of safety that he now felt.
The old man looked to see a women of the village crying softly, a newborn girl wrapped tightly in a scarf around the woman's chest.
The scared little boy from the past had saved the village
On festival days, crowds would gather around the elder’s dwelling, and await the great stories he recited, tales that spoke of the olden times, before the times of the young villagers. Some days the man would not speak, caught in the world of memories, unable to interact with the people, and the parents would say to their children, “the elder man is not to be disturbed today,” and the child would run off to play and the old man would continue to forget what had happened. But not on the days of storytelling. The children of the village would sit in a circle around the man as he retold stories of their people, of the great settlers who fought beasts and armies to create the home village. Often the man lost his train of thought. With the encouraging word of a youngster, however, he would remember, and pick up with the tales.
“What an imagination you have!” the adults would laugh.
“They are real stories!” the man fought, but along the way he would forget just what he was arguing, and continue on with the festivities.
After storytelling the village people honored the season with a great feast. The old man would come along. And every year the old man would protest the ceremonial eating of the dark root, a native vegetable.
“They are poisonous!” he would yell, remembering the great fever outbreak of his youth.
And every year, the villagers would pacify him, saying “do not worry, elder, for we do not eat the leaves now, it is a spiritual practice.”
The man would be calm at first, but as he forgot, he saw the men and women chewing on food he knew to be fatal. “Stop, you will be sick!” he cried. And yet, the adults spoke to him like they would a child in a tantrum, and he forgot again.
One morning in that same village, the man heard a steady clicking far away. Roused from sleep, he lumbered outside to see a large group gathering in the center of the town. People began pouring out of their dwellings, and peered over each in a squirming crowd other to get a sight of what was coming. Rarely did the village get visitors, and a shouting man on horseback coming with speed was a very unusual and intriguing event. The horse was tall and a dark mud brown, and its black hooves clopped loudly against the hard ground, kicking up dust into the clear air. The old man figured he had probably forgotten a special event, as he always did, possibly the messenger was coming this year. But despite his amnesia prone mind, the old man was sure there was no predictable reason for the intruder. In the time of the village, no man would send such a magnificent creature if it were merely the mail.
“Evac…” The man yelled frantically, voice lost in the wind
The people in the crowd looked to each other mouthing, “What?” as they moved forward intercept the horse rider. The old man was ready to figure out what this mysterious visitor was talking about, when his memory of the morning began to fray, to fade out until it was cloudy and blurred once again.
And like always, the man saw things like new. The he became lost, confused and dazed over like the sheep those in the village raised. Why were all of these people here again? The old man glanced up, and saw again the great horse, muscles pounding as it almost reached the crowd. Why would there be a messenger here? He racked his brain, but again could find no reasonable explanation for this intruder.
The horse had finally reached them and stood, chest heaving, as the crowd gaped and pressed the man with questions. The old man squinted, and was hit with a burst of recollection, for the uniform of the man was from a time long forgotten. The others of the village knew of no such thing, and squinted to see the simple badge on his chest. The elder had been allied with the people of horse rider, a town not far that lived up by the mountains.
“You are of that town!” the man shouted, surprised by the clarity of his own war memories, but still struggling to find the words, “Ah ah, North?” The crowd turned to the man, mouths open, for they had not expected him to be out at the hour, let alone recognize someone, something at all!
The horse rider wiped sweat from his brow, gasping, “Yes, The Northern Hills, but” he took a few breaths, “that doesn’t matter. You must evacuate! A great mudslide has wrecked havoc on our land, and it is coming down the land. You,” he hopped off the horse, hands on his side, “you must leave now.”
“Impossible! We have not had a flood in years, why should trust you?” A general of the town yelled, stepping forward, and the rest of the villagers began yelling and whispering to themselves incomprehensibly.
“You must, if you care for the fate of you people! I did not race miles to save you with no reason my friend, you must trust me.”
Even the proud shoulders of the General slumped when he accepted the fate of the village.
“Where do we go? We are at low ground, and any landslide will be carried downriver! No mudslide has come for years and years!
We are trapped!” a frantic voice spoke out of the crowd. The old man watched all of this with determined concentration, he could not forget, he could not forget, he must remember.
A chorus of of defeat reached the old man’s ears, and he stood with a loss for thought. He closed his eyes put his shaky hands up to his temples.
“Elder! You must have undergone hundreds of mudslides, you must know what to do!”
The old man jolted back to the present, and was struck was fear and anger, but he did not know why.
“Who are you?” He answered gruffly, “Why do you ask?”.
“He has trouble remembering, do no listen,” a man of the town spoke to the horse rider.
The horse ride furrowed his brow, “He remembered my uniform! Why does he not remember me? He must know what to do, the elders bring wisdom in my town”
“The old man is stuck in the past, he can’t be trusted!”
The old man vaguely recalled the horseman, but could not place who he was. Every time he wrote something down, his old forgetful mind was already erasing it. He only had a few sentences that could be preserved within ink. However, mudslide was one one those words.
“I know of mudslides!” He coughed over the bickering adults.
“There is a huge one coming, Elder! We must go, but there is nowhere to flee.”
The old man held his head in his hands, trying to remember, trying to remember, he needed to think, mudslide, mudslide, mudslide.
“We cannot listen to this man, he is practically senile!”
“He is our only hope! He must know a cave or, or something!”
A cave! From somewhere deep within the library of the man’s memories an old volume was retrieved, dusty and fragile, but the man had it, he could remember, he need to remember. Wait, why did he care about caves again? He felt the book crumbling with each second he held it.
“No no no!” he shouted, “Tell me now! What am I doing! Tell me!” He was shaking, eyes blurring, he needed to do something, the whole village was at stake, but why?
“We need to escape the mudslide Elder.” Mudslide! The memory was back. I can remember I can remember I can remember, he chanted, I must prove them wrong. His old heart thumped with in his chest. What do you do when there’s a mudslide? You need to hide, you need to get on high ground, the man knew this much.
“Don’t listen to him, he cannot tell one face from another!”
The man closed his eyes and calmed himself. He had felt this fear, this panic before, but he had not been alone. His head was soft against his mother’s skin, and he felt the pain of it bumping up, and down against her bony shoulder. He heard the constant roar of water and mud far beneath his feet, the shuffling of tens of people pushing through the woods. He saw, though little cloudy tears, the passage up the mountain.
“I remember I remember I remember!” The old man was brought back to the real world, and shouted. He could hear a distant roar, even with his failing ears. The old man scanned the line of trees in near the village. Why was he looking at the trees? Wait, he needed to find the mountain passage. The old memory was solidifying with each second.
The people of the village had no other choice but to follow him. They had no choice but to walk with the forgetful man through branches and rock and hard rock hills for miles while the roaring became louder and louder. And they had no choice but to trust the old man’s failing memory, to trust that his idea of the past was a strong as he led on, and to remind the old man what he was doing every few minutes.
Finally they reached an steep rock face, leading to a small cave. With determination, the old man led the party to the side, where a rough staircase was cut out. Carefully, they climbed up the steep rock onto open ground.
Instead of dusty old food containers and an moss covered ground, the old man saw the his mother placing him down on the elevated cliff face, hugging his father and others in the old village. He was huddled tightly, and felt the warmth of a hundred bodies, and he felt the same feeling of safety that he now felt.
The old man looked to see a women of the village crying softly, a newborn girl wrapped tightly in a scarf around the woman's chest.
The scared little boy from the past had saved the village
Reflection
In this piece, I wanted to show a very interesting part of the concept of memory, memory loss. I researched different parts of how the brain reacts to age, shock, or injury. All of these things play a part in memory loss. However, forgetfulness, amnesia, and dementia are all different issues with memory, and every person responds differently. This fable is centered around a man with severe anterograde amnesia, in which the person “ can remember events in the distant past, but not the recent past. The person usually has difficulty learning new things and cannot form new memories.” This condition was very interesting to me, due to the fact that a patient is able to understand the past, but has trouble form new memories. This idea inspired the fable. Coming up with the idea was relatively easy once I had figured out who the man was going to be, and from there I tried to stick with the classic fable style in my piece. Hopefully, you enjoyed the story, while learning about some of the complexity of memory.
In this piece, I wanted to show a very interesting part of the concept of memory, memory loss. I researched different parts of how the brain reacts to age, shock, or injury. All of these things play a part in memory loss. However, forgetfulness, amnesia, and dementia are all different issues with memory, and every person responds differently. This fable is centered around a man with severe anterograde amnesia, in which the person “ can remember events in the distant past, but not the recent past. The person usually has difficulty learning new things and cannot form new memories.” This condition was very interesting to me, due to the fact that a patient is able to understand the past, but has trouble form new memories. This idea inspired the fable. Coming up with the idea was relatively easy once I had figured out who the man was going to be, and from there I tried to stick with the classic fable style in my piece. Hopefully, you enjoyed the story, while learning about some of the complexity of memory.