I land by the stream somewhere in Samos. He’s cleaning pots, scouring them, till they scatter the light like bronze suns. After a while, “Can I help?” I ask, wanting to show willing.
“No,” he says. “Now that you’re here, you can wait and watch, sometimes you can talk. But you can’t impinge.”
So I watch. I listen. Perhaps he’s thinking of the stork on the far bank or of the fox watching the stork, or of the water hen lurking in the reeds with one eye on the fox and the other on him; but he isn’t. He’s thinking about chores. I discover that it’s only at night when he can’t sleep that the stork reappears and talks to him. I can hear what they’re saying.
“Had dinner at Fox’s yesterday,” Stork begins conversationally.
“What, in his own home?” Aesop sounds jealous. It’s been a while since anyone has invited him for anything.
“You should have been there! The food was served in an earthenware dish and it smelt heavenly.”
“What did it taste like?” inquires Aesop. In his heart he knows that it must have been good.
‘“Wonderful!’” replies Stork. “At first I couldn’t eat it. My beak kept skidding on the at plate, but Fox poured the food into a jar – you know, red Samian pottery, with an incised pattern and really rather nice.”
“In that case let me be the first to congratulate you on the start of a beautiful friendship.” There’s a sarcastic edge to his voice, which Stork doesn’t notice. “And will you be inviting the fox in return?”
“He’s coming tonight!” burbles Stork. “I’m making a crab stew for him.”
It’s clear the conversation is annoying Aesop. “Will you be serving it in a vase?” he asks.
“Oh no, in a flat dish. I have just the thing,” replies Stork.
“Why are you telling me this?” Aesop demands.
“So that you can write about it,” Stork answers promptly. “I thought you’d be interested.”
“I see,” Aesop replies. Of course, he does write about it.
Aesop sleeps. He’s brown, not black. I don’t think he’s African. He’s short and sarcastic – like me! I think he comes from the west coast of India. Somebody kidnapped him! Alexander’s soldiers! No, not early enough. A trader perhaps? When he’s feeling more expansive I’ll ask him about it. In the early hours a small figure creeps up to Aesop. It’s a middle aged woman. I make noises like the wind howling and that drives her away, or perhaps it was Aesop’s snoring. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that? After all, it’s not my business. Next time I won’t. Next time I might go elsewhere. It might be good to be somewhat discreet. And anyway, it’s not his private life I’m interested in.
The days go by. Aesop slaves. I watch. One day a young slave called Androcles tells him that he, Androcles, has been promoted. He’s to work in the house. No more heavy duties for him, at least not outside.
“What did you do to please the Master? Or was it the Mistress?” asks Aesop slyly.
“I think it might be because I can play the flute and have a pleasing voice,” replies the young man, smiling diffidently. “I’m not sure. It could have just been the Master’s whim. Who knows? If I please them, one day I might be free.”
Aesop knows perfectly well what it was: it was the young man’s appearance, his winning smile, his blue eyes, his blond hair, and the fact that he gave the Master a good massage. For a while Aesop doesn’t say anything, then he mutters, “Well, good luck with it,” and continues chopping wood, heating water, sweeping the courtyard, clearing the leaves and doing the rest of the day’s chores. At least he hasn’t been sent to work in the fields. I can see he’s disturbed.
That evening, just before mealtime, when he has a few minutes, he peers at himself in a puddle. He mutters, “What if I had a good voice? What if I could sing? Would I be free?”
One of the slaves, a woman called Arachne, overhears him. (I think it’s the same one who crept up at night.) “You!” she laughs. “You’re as black as a crow and as sly as a fox! Who do you think you’ll ever please?” He’s not black, he’s brown. It’s just that he doesn’t get a chance to bathe often. Perhaps he would clean up quite nicely.
Aesop doesn’t bother to answer the woman, but that night he makes up a fable about a crow who thought he had a singing voice and a fox who wanted a piece of cheese. The next day he tells it to his Master. The Master is amused, and Aesop too is booted upwards. When Androcles sees him, he asks Aesop how he got there. Aesop tells him the whole story.
“Does your story have a moral?” asks Androcles. “Yes,” replies Aesop. “If you can’t get your supper by singing for it, try using your native god-given wit.”
“What about, ‘Flattery will get you everywhere?’” offers the young man.
“That too,” agrees Aesop.
I intervene. After all, I’m allowed to talk once in a while. “And here’s a third. ‘Sing with your mouth open. Eat with your mouth shut. And only do one or the other at any given time.’”
The two of them laugh. They go about their duties. In their spare time they think about how they might gain their liberty.
Excerpted with permission from Foxy Aesop: On The Edge, Suniti Namjoshi, Zubaan