The elephant was kneeling on the bank of the river with an envelope of butterflies circling his head, nattering and chattering into his big ears.
They were giving him instructions.
And the elephant dutifully twisted in this direction and that, attempting to take their advice. But, when he moved his ears to try and hear more clearly, the air current which he created caused half of his audience to tumble away.
It was in the midst of one of these mass agitations that he noticed a boulder leaning quizzically in his direction.
“Excuse me,” said the elephant, causing even more butterflies to scatter on the wind. “I …,” he pointed with his trunk. “I have to go and talk to the … er … boulder.”
Which he did, as he lumbered to his feet in a final flurry of butterflies.
“Hello,” said the elephant.
“Hello,” said the boulder.
“A more functional form?” asked the elephant, pointing to the pitted and pocked boulder.
“No,” said God. “Safety.”
“Pardon me?”
“I learned from the butterflies.” The boulder paused as the last few fluttered away. “I figured if I got too close to you as a cloud, I’d be blown away too. On the breezes.”
“They were trying to show me . . .” The elephant felt foolish and took a drink of water. He hiccuped slightly as he wiped his trunk against his ear.
“Yes?”
“They were teaching me to make pots.”
“Pots?”
“Or at least they thought they were.” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, they’re not very good with clay.”
“Pots.”
“Yes.” The elephant was slightly exasperated. “Earthen vessels. Ceramic containers. Hollowed out and hardened objects which function as —”
“I’m God,” said God. “I do know what pots are and how they are used.” The boulder paused in memory. “Watching the evolution of such knowledge was exhilarating. And when there were enough to drink from and carry things in, the beauty created . . . It can be amazing.”
“Sorry,” said the elephant.
“It wasn’t the pot which surprised me.” The boulder lowered its voice. “Quite frankly, you don’t need pots.”
“But I —”
“Look at your trunk,” said the boulder with enthusiasm. “You tug what you need, carry what you need, siphon what you need.”
“But the —”
“A more functional organ of dexterity you won’t find.”
“But I stepped in this clay, along the riverbank,” explained the elephant, his words racing like the current. “In fact, my feet got stuck in it, and I had the devil’s own time getting out.” The elephant stuttered, and stopped. “Excuse me. No offence meant.”
“No offence taken,” said the boulder. “I readily accept that the devil has feet of clay.”
“In fact,” He held up one front foot, and then the other. “I still haven’t got it from under my toenails.”
“Slosh them around in the water. It will come out.” The boulder stifled a chuckle. “But watch where you balance.
Topple in my direction and thousands of years of durability might turn into pebbles.”
“I could use them to decorate my pots,” suggested the elephant.
“We’re back to the pots.” God watched the elephant wash his feet. “Be careful, or you’ll flood me instead of flattening me.”
“Sorry.”
“So. Though I do hesitate to ask — and have done my best to avoid it — tell me about the pots.”
“I got stuck in the clay, and the butterflies watched me get out — and not without laughing a lot, either. And then they suggested we make some pots.”
“We?”
“The butterflies and me.”
The elephant finished rubbing his back left foot against his front right leg and walked carefully over to the boulder.
“They suggested shapes and patterns and sizes. Then they described how they could use their wings to help me dry the pots in the sun.” The elephant looked cautiously into the sky and lowered his voice. “But they weren’t much help with the practical matters.” He came even closer to the boulder. “I mean, have you ever tried to form a porcelain jug with a trunk and two tusks?”
“You need quartz to make porcelain,” noted the boulder.
“That’s what I told them,” said the elephant. “But they had this dream of a translucent container.” The elephant sighed in disbelief. “And the handle . . . well, the handle they wanted was just impossible.”
“But you were going to try.”
“Oh, yes.” The elephant laughed and pointed to the tops of the surrounding trees. “They’re all waiting up there, and we’ll probably go at it again once you leave.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” God was silent a minute, then lowered his voice. “Before you return to the bank, dig around in the river behind me.”
“Why?” asked the elephant.
“Quartz,” answered God.