The Karisma Tales

Karisma and Mariposa sat silently before the fire. They were quite different, these two friends. Mariposa was all frail angles and sharp lines. Karisma was muscular with his rich curls and the energy that burned within. However, on this night the energy seemed absent, the flame burned out.
As he had for some months, Mariposa studied his friend. His own arthritic joints echoed Karisma’s pain. But, it was something more than physical pain he saw in his friend. Since childhood, he had known Karisma as a person filled with life, a ready laugh, and full of the joy of living. Now Mariposa saw a man curiously flat and lifeless. The death of Doron, his only son, was a hard blow for Karisma. He was not yet fully recovered.
“Can the relentless progress of age take such a toll on my friend?” Mariposa asked himself. “Or is it the lingering darkness of grief. Or is there some other cause I must seek for the evidences I see?”
“I gave Ita the key,” Karisma’s voice, flat and dull mirrored his appearance.
“Ah, yes? Well it was time.” Mariposa had no need to ask what key.
“What possessed me to do such a thing?” Kaarisma shook his head. “You saw him this evening at dinner, all fire and youthful anger. He has not the years nor the depth to care for the key.” He shook his head once more, and stared glumly into the fire.”
“He is young,” Mariposa agreed. “So once were we. Do you remember the days of our youth? As I recall your anger was a fearful thing to encounter. Mine was and is cold, hard, like stone. We were quite a pair in those days. We are quite a pair even now.”
“We? A pair? Yes,” Karisma snorted, “a pair of old men.”
“Old?” Mariposa chuckled dryly. “Perhaps you are grown old. I have simply . . . .expanded.”
They fell silent once more, resuming their study of the fire which leapt and crackled this way and that, throwing fantastic shadows upon the wall. When Mariposa spoke again, it was of their garden and the recent harvest. “The harvest is done at last,” he said in his light dry voice so unlike Karisma’s rich mellow one. “The trees are bare. Winter will soon be upon us. The garden and the fruit trees would seem quite useless to us now.”
“Useless?” Karisma frowned. “It is not a matter of useless. It is a matter of seasons.”
“So it is, so it is,” Mariposa agreed. “In my studies I have found that a tree’s roots grow deep and thick in the winter. It is one thing to be a fresh young spring tree all clothed in soft green. It is quite another to stand barren, exposed for all to see. But without those barren branches there can be no green leaves.”
“Your point is not lost upon me,” Karisma sighed again. “But a man is not a tree. Spring comes but once to him.” “Certainly,” Mariposa replied in his brittle voice. “So it is with fall. It comes only once to us in this life. Do you count its riot of color, its vivid beauty, its precious fruits of less worth than the soft green promise of spring? Should we turn from the pleasures of the harvest simply because it comes not in spring?”
“Still I say a man is not a tree,” Karisma spoke abruptly. “When spring is gone it is gone.”
Mariposa’s voice was stern and hard, a doctor admonishing an unruly patient. “And what have you written of changing the past? Which part of what you are will you exchange for this spring which you can never have again. Spring’s first fruit is green as are its leaves. It is hard and sour often times. Even Ita would not choose a pear from a young tree in its first season of bearing.” “Do not lecture me as you would one of your young patients,” Karisma snapped. “I say your point is simple. So simple and obvious that even a youth of Ita’s years would surely take it.”
“It is simple indeed. But, I have never known you to turn aside from truth however simply it presented itself. Do you refuse this truth because it is simple? Is that the legacy you would leave to Ita and others who will come after him? Would you have them live their lives solely for spring and count fall and winter of no value? Would you have them turn from the rich harvest, the ripest fruit of autumn?”
What Karisma might have replied was lost as the great study door banged open. Ita stood on the threshold regarding his grandfather and Mariposa. Mariposa was struck by the remarkable likeness of these two. Though Ita was slender and young and Karisma’s body thickened with age, the boy was a mirror of the older man.
Ita carried a basket on one arm. Reluctantly, slow foot after slow foot he came to stand before Karisma. He examined both his feet for some time with care, and then lifted his eyes at last to meet Karisma’s. Seeing those blue eyes cold with anger, he began badly.
“I was not wrong!” he said defiantly. He closed his mouth abruptly, biting back his own angry words. His cheeks flushed and he struggled to regain control. “I was not wrong,” he said more calmly. “But neither was I right. I should not have spoken to you as I did. I have found that there is small comfort in being right if I must be right in such a way that it hurts my friend or destroys a friendship. I was, that is, I am . . .”
He glanced at Mariposa whose pale eyes twinkled at him. The old man gave a barely perceptible nod of encouragement, and Ita spoke again. “I am sorry,” he finished simply.
“What have you in the basket?” Mariposa asked.
“I have brought fruit from the harvest. The old pear tree in the far corner gave us the best pears ever this fall.” He held out a ripe golden fruit, one to Karisma, one to Mariposa.
“What?” Mariposa inquired, turning the fruit this way and that in a bony hand. “Did you not go to the young trees in the spring for your fruit?”
“Why of course not!” Ita exclaimed. “The best fruit comes from the old trees at harvest time. Even a simpleton knows that!”
“Even a simpleton. Fancy that.” Mariposa chuckled and bit into the sweet softness of the ripe fruit. “Even a simpleton.” His dry laughter echoed down the hallway as he left the study.
“So,” Karisma said softly after a long moment. “The best fruit comes from the old trees in the fall of the year?”
Ita regarded him with a smile and said steadily, “Yes, grandfather. The old tree, when it bears, gives us the sweetest and best of all the fruit.”
Having thus spoken, he settled himself comfortably in Mariposa’s chair to enjoy the fire, his friend, and the last pear in his basket.

Bonnie Apple has over forty years of teaching experience. In addition, she has conducted workshops and seminars for teachers and students across the United States. Bonnie enjoys visiting public or private school classrooms where she reads her stories to and works with students and teachers. She demonstrates how to use a story and its lesson to promote students’ personal growth and writing skills. Students are led to write about the lesson in the story, developing and improving their writing skills. She also works with teachers, providing ideas and techniques for utilizing the stories as departure points for writing activities with their students.

For information on scheduling a workshop for your school or class visit:

www.bonnieappleconsulting.com

www.thekarismatales.com