The Wizard – The Tale of the Silent Gift
by Fokion Triantafyllidis
at radio highway pirates
Once upon a time, when the last rays of the sun painted the Black Forest in gold and crimson, the old and wise wizard sat upon the wooden veranda of his little cottage, gently rocking in his weathered chair.
The birds had grown silent, and only the whispering pines still spoke to the evening wind.
As the first stars awakened above the forest, the little elf appeared upon the narrow path.
His clothes were neat, his hands were clean, and around his neck hung a small leather pouch.
Yet his face was heavy with sorrow.
The old wizard smiled.
“My little elf,”
he said,
“your feet have found my cottage once again. Tell me, what troubles your heart?”
The elf sat upon the wooden step and sighed.
“Master, I no longer understand this world.
I help the poor.
I comfort the lonely.
I share my bread.
I mend broken fences.
I carry water for the old.
Yet no one thanks me.
No one remembers.
No one seems to care.”
The wizard looked at him for a long while.
Then he slowly rose from his rocking chair.
“Come.”
Without another word, he took his walking staff, and together they disappeared beneath the ancient trees.
They walked until the moon stood high above the forest.
At last they came upon an old apple tree.
Its branches were heavy with ripe fruit.
Beneath the tree sat an old woman whose basket was empty.
She stretched her trembling hands toward the fruit, but the branches hung too high.
The elf smiled.
Without hesitation he climbed into the tree and filled her basket until it overflowed.
The old woman thanked him with tears in her eyes.
As soon as she had disappeared down the path, the elf turned toward the wizard.
The wizard merely smiled.
“Come.”
A little farther on they found a bridge.
One of its planks had broken.
An old traveller stood before it, unable to cross.
The elf took wood from the forest, repaired the bridge, and helped the man across.
The traveller thanked him warmly and continued his journey.
The elf looked proudly toward the wizard.
Again, the old man simply smiled.
“Come.”
Before dawn they reached a lonely clearing.
There sat a little girl.
She was crying because the wind had carried away the ribbon from her hair.
The elf searched through bushes, climbed over rocks, crossed a little stream, and at last found the ribbon caught upon a thorn.
The little girl laughed with joy.
She embraced the elf and ran home.
The elf smiled.
Surely now the wizard would praise him.
But the wizard only said,
“Come.”
At sunrise they returned to the little cottage.
The elf could no longer hide his disappointment.
“Master,”
he said,
“I have done everything a good heart should do.
I helped the old woman.
I repaired the bridge.
I found the little girl’s ribbon.
Surely now you can tell me that I have done well.”
The old wizard poured two cups of warm herbal tea.
Then he quietly asked,
“My little elf…
How many apples did you pick?”
The elf frowned.
“I… I do not know.”
“And how many planks did you use?”
“I did not count.”
“And what colour was the little girl’s ribbon?”
The elf thought for a moment.
“I cannot remember.”
The wizard smiled.
“Then your heart has finally become lighter.”
The elf looked at him in surprise.
“I do not understand.”
The old wizard leaned back.
“When you first came to me, you counted every good deed.
You counted every thank you.
You counted every smile.
Tonight…
you remembered none of them.
You simply helped.
That is the greatest gift of all.”
The elf lowered his eyes.
Slowly he understood.
The wizard continued,
“A tree never counts how many travellers rest beneath its branches.
The river never counts how many thirsty mouths it has refreshed.
The stars never ask who looked up to admire them.
They simply give.
Because giving is their nature.”
A gentle breeze stirred the leaves around the cottage.
The first birds began to sing.
The little elf rose.
His leather pouch was still hanging around his neck.
Quietly he opened it.
Inside lay a small notebook.
Upon every page he had written the good deeds he had done and the names of those who had thanked him.
For a long while he looked at it.
Then he smiled.
Without a word, he tore out every page.
The wind carried them high above the Black Forest until they vanished among the trees like autumn leaves.
The old wizard watched in silence.
At last he nodded.
“Now,”
he said,
“your hands are empty enough to receive wisdom.”
The little elf bowed deeply.
His heart felt lighter than it had in many years.
And as he disappeared into the morning mist, he no longer wondered whether anyone would remember his kindness.
For kindness had become part of who he was.
And the old storytellers still say that, on quiet mornings in the Black Forest, a cheerful little elf may sometimes be seen repairing a broken gate, gathering apples for an old widow, or carrying firewood to a lonely cottage.
No one knows his name.
No one hears him speak of the good he has done.
Yet wherever he passes, hearts grow lighter.
For the truest gifts are those that are given…
and then forgotten…