The little boy and his animals

There once was a small boy of about three to four years in age. No one knew exactly how old he was for no one knew who he was or where he came from. He was small for his age and kind of scrawny with messy hair, but he had that wonderful twinkle about him that little boys of his age often do. The way he disarmed strangers with a cheeky grin or a sorrowful look was beguiling to say the very least.



I had the pleasure of meeting him once, you know. It was a cold December day in the centre of town. Business people were hurrying to and fro on their lunch hour from work, trying desperately to unwind before the afternoon's toil commenced. Mothers and unemployed people milled around with little to do but spend what the government had handed out to them. School children that should have been at school dared to flaunt themselves in the fountain area in full view of truant officers.

No one really seemed to notice the small boy at first. I had the honour of watching him from the start for I was close by when it happened.

One by one he lined them up on the stone bench which sat alongside the square. There were about fifty in all, I guess. It was hard to tell since I was busily fixed upon the boy and his intense, methodical manner. Each animal was set down in front of the preceding one in a kind of farmyard conga. I imagined them coming to life in chorus at the child's hand but no such thing happened.

It was then that my eye captured that of another. Another soul had wandered into this boys trap and become a hapless watcher; an old woman as equally transfixed as I.

The mind of a child. Who can say what dwells therein? We may have vain imaginings yet we see nothing of the truth. Might as well ask to solve one of the great riddles of the ages such as the secrets of life and death or some other riddle of which we have no chance of grasping. Yet what was clear was that this particular child had motive. Each plastic creature at his fingertips was a player in a greater game as though the child were God himself arranging the lives of men.

By now there was a small crowd of adults watching. Not one asked as to the whereabouts of his parents. Not one knew or noticed that there were none to be found.

As the animal parade took shape it interested me to ponder the meaning of their placement. Was it significant that no two cows for example, were within two spaces of each other? Or that the pigs were either in twos of threes but never on their own. Hens seemed to be the only farm creature missing from his line-up for there were geese, cows, pigs, sheep, dogs, cats, horses, donkeys, crows, and even an elephant that was somewhat smaller than the rest so I surmised that it was not of the original collection.

The line was now about eight feet in length. Quite an accomplishment for a small child, and yet still he continued to line them up. By now there must have been almost a hundred animals adorning the cold white concrete. My past thoughts of order and pattern had been dispensed with, since every rule I had formulated had been transgressed on several occasions.

The silent crowd had become rather sizable. Each person just watched and waited; waited to see what would happen and where this magic would take them. By now we were hemmed in so much that we stood shoulder to shoulder, pressed tightly against one another. The line of plastic animals wound around in all directions, occasionally crossing itself and tying knots about the procession.

Tighter it grew. Tighter we grew. Tighter...and tighter...and tighter...and more pressed and hemmed and pushed and shoved...and yet...silence...stillness...rigidly we crushed around the boy and his plastic animal world.

Then it happened. The lad looked up as if in a trance. He scanned all our faces for a second and then, with a giggle, pushed the first animal over. I jerked slightly, as though coming out from a dream. I blinked several times and realised I had pins and needles in my left foot. Moving it, I noticed that others too were shaking themselves as if they too had been dreaming. The silence now broke with the sounds of yawns and sighs and coughs and groans as people stretched free.

The boy and his animals had gone. My face tingled warmly as it does when you regain composure having drifted off to sleep for a second. The people had begun dispersing. I breathed in, deep and cold through my nostrils, and began walking off in my original direction.

It was only when I got home that I found the small plastic sheep in my pocket. I like to think it was a gift from the boy. I have since heard of others that have the same tale to tell. Each received their own unique gift. Each has their own theory. Each...each has...well I guess I don't need to tell you the rest, or do I…?