Prologue
Dear Reader: Let me commence this tale by stating that the following account herein, however fantastical in its appearance, is true and accurate. It is my intention to neither mislead nor deceive, but to relate to you the true and impassioned story Mr. Kite passed along to me. Consider this the fulfillment of my oath.
The Account
The morning after a particularly violent autumn storm, I ventured into the park for some exercise. As I passed a certain grove of maples and oaks, and ventured into the park’s great plain, I spied what seemed at first just a colorful mash in the mud. There was no form to it and it was wildly out of place in the browning grass. I walked up to it, curious to make sense of it for my own understanding.
It was a child’s kite, or at least it had been formerly. But now its form was far diminished from whatever glory it had once possessed. Its wooden frame cracked. Its skin torn. Its once grand tail now one with the mud, trampled by many passers by.
The sheer ugliness of this site made me wonder what kind of negligent and abusive child would treat a kite in this fashion only to litter the park with the carcass. I must have wondered this thought aloud, because a voice spoke up from the ground and said, “It is because of foolishness that you see me in such a state.”
I looked around to see who spoke, but saw no one. I was about to pass it by when the voice came again, “Mr. Christopher, it is I, Mr. Kite, who speaks to you. It is I, Mr. Kite most lamentable, who dare to whisper its plight.”
From what I could see, the mangled kite before me had no mouth, no ears, no faculty of senses that could be detected by mean observance. Yet it was clear the voice was indeed originating from this disfigured kite. I dared to ask, “What happened to you that you should be so maligned as to be left out in the unforgiving elements?”
“Do not think me abused, Mr. Christopher,” came the voice once more, “it is I who have brought this calamity on myself. I was created by a boy, with great skill and care. He had made many other kinds of kites, but with me it seemed he took particular care.
“He framed me with only the lightest and straightest rods; ones perfect for deftly negotiating many unexpected currents. My skin was affixed with measured accuracy; with the proper firmness and flexibility to stay aloft. My tail was designed to be both gloriously beautiful, but also to keep me positioned properly in the sky. To my frame he tied a thin but sturdy string, which was wrapped on its other end to the large spool he controlled.
“Many of the days of spring and summer he took me here. When the sound of wind would come rushing through the crisp leaves, he would toss me deftly in the sky and I would stretch myself into the breeze until my skin was taught. I would rise and rise over the park.
“Oh, the beauty of the park…” Mr. Kite’s voice broke and I thought I detected a drop of rain fall from one end of a broken rod.
“Forgive my emotion, sir,” he said, “but you have not truly known the full measure of grandeur until you have seen this park from the heights from which I have.”
Mr. Kite cleared his voice and continued, “But not just the park. I saw birds of every shape and color in detail. I danced in clouds. Sometimes I think I may have even seen the ocean.
“At first I was timid, flying so high and free, but soon I was confident doing tricks. I would fly in loops and swivels, I could plummet to the ground and at the last moment zoom to my former height. And from the ground I could hear cheers and laughter. I could see the boy smiling and having the best time. It was my pleasure to see him so joyous.
“Over the course of time the most evil of thoughts came to me. It did not seem evil at the time of course, but reasoned and proper. The thought was this: ‘You were made so beautiful and strong, you are like no other kite that has ever been fashioned. You can fly higher, fly longer, and perform tricks that make even the birds envious. But all the while you are tied to this string. How much higher and farther could you fly if completely unencumbered? What kind of new tricks could be invented? You would be able to fly all the way to the ocean itself! How you deserve to be truly free.’
“I lament that I did not reject this thought outright. In my feeble defense I am but a young and foolish kite. I entertained this thought day after day until I began to despise the boy for imprisoning me to this string, and I devised a plot whereby I would separate myself from my string and be truly free.
“It wasn’t easy since I was not created with arms, hands and fingers like men, but once I had applied much thought, I devised a way and it was devilishly perfect – more perfect than I had hoped. Daily, while performing my tricks, I would allow my tail to snap at the string repeatedly. It was so simple. Over the course of weeks and months the bonds upon me began to loosen. I could envision all of the glorious things I would see, forests, mountains, and oceans. I pressed on in my diabolical plot until that fateful day.
“The day was a perfectly sunny and windy day, not unlike many of the days previous. The boy tossed me into the breeze and up and up I soared. I looped and swiveled all over this plain until I felt the string had grown sufficiently loose. Then, just as the boy started to reel me in to go home for the day, a great gust of wind swept in. I lurched my frame into it and jerked hard and felt the string break. I was truly free.”
“The gust carried me up and up. I had never been that high before, so great was the disdain I held for the boy that I decided to perform one of the grandest loops any kite and ever seen just to mock him. But I was never able to perform it.
“I found I had no control over my movements. I discovered I was at the mercy of the wind, which became so violent and bounced and threw me all over the atmosphere. Soon the clouds above, which had been so peaceful, became enraged and tossed great bolts of lighting at me. Large drops of very cold rain assaulted my skin till I was so heavy with water it was difficult to think. I continued to go up and down, spinning this way and that. My frame shook under the booming vibrations of thunder. Into the most perilous of circumstances had my wisdom brought me. I was utterly helpless.
“Then, with one last blast of wind from the storm, I was shattered into the ground where I now lay; stripped of any glory, in complete humility.”
He paused for a moment, this kite most pitied, and then he continued. “It is only now that I see that it was the string that made me free. It held me on course. It allowed me to display all of the glory the boy placed within me. Without the string, without a foundation by which my movements were guided, I was lost, aimless and unprotected.
“I am the most foolish of kites, Mr. Christopher, for not recognizing the gravity of the situation but entertained an illusion. If only the boy would come back to me, I would not rebel again.” Another drop fell from Mr. Kite’s broken frame and he seemed to diminish just a bit.
He asked me to tell his woeful tale to as many people as I was able. I have done so with great attention to accuracy and detail.
Sincerely,
Paul Christopher
Post Script
As I turned to leave this miserable kite and continue on my walk, not more than a quarter mile down the lane, I passed a young boy headed in the opposite direction. He carried with him a bottle of glue and a spool of twine.