The Sand

Once on a time in our Tamissos
(Near Hymettus and blithe Ilissos)
There lived a man named Ichordotos,
The eldest son of Orchodotos,
But that is where his ‘cestors ceased,
His heritage much as a beast.
Now Ichordotos was very poor,
No wealth had ever passed the door
That led to his unchartered home
Topped wanly by its wattled dome.
Melanippe was his faithful wife.
A skewer was her carving knife,
But no meat there for her to carve.
Her greatest wish was not to starve.
“Why are the poor always so poor?”,
Cried Ichordotos, and then he swore
To his own god, the faithless sun
Who deserts us all when day is done.
“Oh hear me Lord of life and Light
Whose life is Day and death is Night,
Oh get me out this wretched ditch
And make me safe and sound and rich!”
From up above lord Helios heard
Every sad heartbreaking word,
This weary, wizened, witless man.
Lord Helios, he hatched a plan.
The very next day at morning break
When most good men are wide awake
And see the new sun plash his plumes
Like a lamp that light consumes,
Bathed in what the Greeks call photos
Helios approached this Ichordotos.
“I hear you’re in a bit of pickle,
Too torn and frayed to bear a sickle
Or sow and reap your meagre needs.
I heard your words and my heart bleeds.”
“Oh whom are you, thou man of light?
For whom would care aught for my plight?
I have been up praying half the night
For aid, for all I own is dust,
And Melanippe says I must
Do more but what more can I do?
What more can I? I ask you.”
This Helios he said, “Now here’s a thing.
You know that in Larissa is a king
Whose wealth almost pops out his ears
And who has ruled you many years,
Three thousand men, a hundred ships,
All built with dungeons, threats and whips.
His smiths make for this cruel man
More gold than Hephaistos can,
And how they shame the idle us,
The envy of even Daidalos.
You are a fool but you are bold
And I will help you to good gold
Enough to please the cruel king.
I’d say that would be a thing!”
“You man of light, whoe’er thou are,
You who are like a fallen star
Who falls and is still beautiful,
How I would like to have it all!
He’d be so proud of me, my nipper,
And even maybe Melanippe.
I want to try and make it right,
It’s why I’s praying half the night.”
“Now listen to what must be done,
Hear how a simple game be won.”
Lord Helios said each fiery word
That warmed the heart of all who heard.
And Ichordotos did as he said
And so to Larissa he sped
Where ruled tyrant Ploutogenos
(Son of the wicked Aristoxenos.)
Who loved gold more than his soul.
His goal was gold. Gold was his goal.
This Ichordotos approached his sire
Filled up with the force of fire
And to the tyrant boldly said:
“Tremendous tyrant belovèd,
So reverenced and so revered,
By ‘Seidon’s trident, Zeus’s beard,
This wonder be a chest of gold
That I have made just out of sand —
Yes just one single wave of hand.”
“Now what is this here, what you say?”,
Roared Ploutogenos’ horr’fic bray
As if from a thousand oesophagi
To the Skuthes and the Androphagi
The Borysthene earth was shaking
And Kappadokia was quaking
And Massiliotes begged for pardon
And Khaldaians hanging garden
Shriveled like a pebbled pea
Little chance to beg or flee.
“From sand? To gold? To gold from sand?
A wave of what? A what? A hand?
Young man, one thing that I despise —
And there are many things — is lies,
For lies can crack strong palace walls,
It’s lies that launch like fireballs
To breach and burn the breach in fire.
It’s lies that make the flame go higher.
Everything in this world is fixed.
It can’t be changed and shan’t be mixed.
If everything were shared out fairly
No one would win, or rarely.
What could the mighty man be then?
Would he build his towers in the fen,
And, followed by his faithful dog,
Enact his judgements in the bog?
What kingly roof is made of wattle?
What wine can breathe outside its bottle?
But sand is gold and gold is sand —
You say. I do not understand,
So show me what you mean. Then live.
Show not, know I do not forgive.”
The shaken man but full of fire
Went to the chest as he was bid
And gently lifted up the lid.
The lid opened to a heap of sand
As Ichordotos waved his hand
Over the sand in the little chest.
As if at his behooved behest
A golden glow slipped through the skylight
Like a lantern in the twilight.
The golden light fell on the sand
In the little chest. At a command,
It seemed to seep into each grain
Like water seeps in after rain,
And fills the peaks and ponds and alleys
And flows out of the rills and valleys.
The little chest seemed full of gold.
They saw the light entwine and fold.
“I do not understand, but yet
I see the sun and he has set,”
Said Ploutogenos to his men
And how relieved they all were then!
The gold it shone and shone and shone
Like the livery of Lord Phaiton.
What wealth there was could not be told,
In the little chest full up with gold.
Transformed it was from common sand
By wave of Ichordotos’ hand.

II

All changed that day for Ichordotos,
He now all dynamo and motus.
The bold but foolish man was rich,
And now so far above the ditch.
His chests of sand all glowed like gold,
Just like Lord Helios had foretold,
For as his beams the sand arrayed
The spirit of each grain was made
To twist and plane and gleam like gold
In a rich new form to have and hold.
With praise was Ichordotos honoured,
Blessed and booned and balmed and bonnied!
He was the acme of the court
And it was he the tyrant sought.
But the blessing of a tyrant is
One of this world’s anomalies,
A monster that lurks in the dark
Beneath a shining radiant arc,
The alluring light a leaden ploy,
The cruel Fates’ most favoured toy.
These Fates favour the foolish man
Who acts according to their plan.
They bamboozle and they confuse,
They raise, they sink, they seize, they use,
This Ichordot’ a perfect fool,
A perfect ape, a perfect tool.
The wealth he had was far too little,
For lust is strong and love is brittle
And lust is an eternal maw
That swallows whole to hunger more.
“My good is gold. My gold is good.
My luck goes always where it would,
But there are always ways to go.
There always is new ways to know.
My gold is gold but white is white.
The moon slides by in silver light.
I see silver light in its rich flight,
In all its rich and silver light.
So rich in silver. If I’m right,
All I need’s a little chest,
A little dust. This I invest.
This I show the cruel tyrant,
My simple gullible inquirent.
‘I command thee into silver — dust!‘
It will work. Yes I think it must.”
That was his reason, made of lust,
Dry as the luck his dice had thrown,
Best friend the Fates have ever known.
For luck is like the spinning plates
Who wait to break as fate awaits.
But when they are spun by a fool,
The wait is short and short the fall.

III

The court was summoned late that night
And torch and moon the only light.
There was the little dust-filled chest,
Though little dust he would invest,
For Ichordotos he was so sure
That he could feed the tyrant’s maw
With silver for his ships and swords
And silk stuff for his cringing lords
And columns for his palaces,
Sharp poisons for his malices —
All this was his just to command
With just a word, just wave of hand.
The chest was opened, moon crept in,
The dust uncovered from within,
But all the tyrant saw was dust
And so lies to break up any trust —
And these not wise or noble lies,
Lies too simple to deceive the eyes —
Here dust, here dirt, here spots, here specks,
Here musty wastes of worthless drecks.
So here the Fates cut off the thread
And Ploutogenos lost his head.
He brayed and sayed and bayed and drayed
And who would Ichordotos aid?
He who was so foolish and greedy
Who had been so foolish and needy.
He stood before his chest of dust,
A victim to his foolish lust.
But a fool is not the worst of all.
A fool is, after all, a fool.
A fool is just a tyrant’s mule.
But as the tyrant ragged and raged,
Poor Ichordotos caught and caged,
There came a light that lit the room
That made a gold out of the gloom,
Silver a now forgotten toy,
The fool now a forgiven boy
As the tyrant tickled his new gold
That from the chest so quickly rolled.
But in the end he who had so lusted
Could not ever more be trusted
By the tyrant than a thief.
It was with just a little grief
That Ploutogenos exiled him.
It was — not this time — on any whim.
The artless fool went to his fate
With Melanippe, faithful mate.
They lived poor as they’d once been,
With wattle roof and root and bean.
They lived by baked and barren ground
Yet happy to be safe and sound
And there above the horizon
Arose each day the morning sun.