Rebecca and the Penguin's Egg
Once upon a time there was a not so little girl named Rebecca. Rebecca was thirteen years old. She lived part of the time in a house in the woods with her mother, and part of the time in an apartment in the city with her father. She was the oldest of all her brothers and sisters and cousins, because she had no brothers or sisters or cousins.
One night Rebecca fell asleep and had a dream. In the dream she was exploring a cave full of all kinds of fascinating rocks. Some of the rocks would tell her their name when she touched them, but not all of them were so polite. Since her mother had told her about saying “please” and “thank you” Rebecca made sure to always thank the rocks that were gracious enough to tell her their name. Since her father had told her about how to offer strange dogs the back of her hand to sniff in order to introduce herself, she always introduced herself to the rocks by saying “Here I am.” Since her grandmother had told her to always stand up straight and be proud of herself, Rebecca always told the rocks, “My name is Rebecca.” And since she was curious and friendly, she always followed that statement with the question: “What’s yours?”
In this dream Rebecca came across all sorts of places and rocks. Everything seemed most real, and the memories she had in the dreams were of an entire world of experiences and places. It was almost as if she was at home, except for the one element common to all dreams: a pervasive wonder at the absence of strangeness, and the concomitant lack of reality. Possibly she could ask her grandmother to explain how it all worked. In her dreams, her grandmother often tried to tell her things like that. But when she woke up bursting with questions, the only thing she could remember was that her grandmother was dead.
One night in her dreams she found the most beautiful, most precious stones of all. They were translucent, radiant, and full of color. This was back in the cave where she used to go with her sisters (except she didn’t have any sisters). Or sometimes they were in a display case and she could buy them. No matter how the dream went, these rocks always became the focal point for the whole dream. If it was a good dream, she’d be able to hold and touch them. Even when she couldn’t touch the stones, though, it was always a good dream; it was good just to see them. They made her happy with a joy that came outside of herself but seemed to be already present inside of herself. They were beautiful, riveting, perfect, even though they were just colored rocks. The way that they were special and priceless didn’t need words to tell it at all, anyone could have seen it. Somehow, though, when she saw the rocks, she was the only one present.
Even when she held them in her hand, she woke up with empty hands. Rebecca didn’t think much of her dreams, except for those. If she dreamed about something so beautiful and right, it must exist, she reasoned. If it exists, it must be worth looking for. If these dreams are mine, I must search for it.
Rebecca dreamed she was in the country. A beautiful music was playing, and it hypnotized her. She opened her eyes and looked up from where she was laying in the grass into the treetops that filled the sky. Birds tumbled and flashed through the leaves, birds of incredible colors and distinct designs. Rebecca took out her sketch book and began to paint the birds. She had never seen these many different birds before. Surely it was important to take some visual notes on how they looked. If only she could remember the delicious cascade of sound coming from them as well. But her hands were too busy with the charcoal. It grated softly across the stone, then suddenly broke off in a deep crack. Rebecca looked up from her work and realized she had made a mistake. She had been trying to make a rubbing of her grandmother’s gravestone, but all she needed to do was to read it. It said “Loving Mother and Husband” with pictures of penguins. Every time she looked closer at the stone, all she saw was more penguins. All those lines of tiny engraving that looked like something from a story book were, upon closer examination, carvings of penguins. Rebecca leaned up close to the stone and touched the lines of text; each time she touched a word, it dissolved into penguins. The stone held a mirror that showed what was inside of the earth, and Rebecca saw a giant casket of shimmering jewels balanced on the shell of a huge, hoary tortoise. In the dream Rebecca flung herself at the earth and started digging with her hands, digging as if she was swimming downward through the earth, to the precious stones of water, when suddenly the tortoise turned its uplifted head and caught her eye.
Rebecca was standing alone at the South Pole. It took both of her hands to hold the penguin’s egg. The penguin – it was an Emperor – was visible off in the distance, receding. Its head was turned just enough that she saw a final glint from its eye as it raised a wing, in farewell? Dismissal? The bird disappeared into a mirage of a rookery thronged with penguins and nests. Rebecca knew it was a mirage because she could feel she was alone. She was totally, absolutely alone, and as far from anyone or anything else on the planet as it was physically possible to be. That final mirage had just been . . . a kindness? Had that been her thought, or someone else’s? Whatever the case, the day was long and empty and cold, was leading into night; she was alone here, and now she had this egg to take care of.
“Damn” said Rebecca.
It was the first time she ever really swore.
S. Johnson, June 12, 2003