Benjamin Linder

The creatures of the world live on.

I’m in Ghent, Belgium. Have been for the last two weeks. Because I’m leaving, today, I thought I should share a story with you. despite growing up in the Southwest, taking roadtrips to California across the desert, and living in New York City for six years.

I was walking down one of Ghent’s cobblestone streets, keeping an eye out for trams and bicycles while I thought about writing. It was a cold day and I wanted to duck in a cafe, but didn’t have much money. So, I was walking to the library. Suddenly, I heard a sound like a soft clicking noise, tk-tk-tk-tk-tk. I looked behind me. Running, fast as he could, feet pounding the sidewalk, was a man less than a foot tall. He was naked. His skin was grey-blue with a large round belly, thick legs and arms, and a bald head. His eyes were big with concentration and fear, and as he ran, he carried the trunk which hung from his face in his arms. I stood, alone, on the street, transfixed. The tiny man, his trunk bouncing and jiggling in his arms, ran down the street at me, glanced up at me politely but communicating nothing, passed, then rounded a corner and disappeared. As soon as the little man was out of sight, a barking dog dragged a person on a leash down the street behind me. Passing me, and then the alley where the man had disappeared.

A couple of days later, wandering past a church and a collection of statues outside, I saw the little man, again. This time he was standing stone-still. His trunk extended in front of him, with holes in it and flared at the end like a trumpet, sown to his face. I realized that this must be one of the tiny men who live all over the planet. Their lives must be so fragile, I thought, their habitats destroyed, robbed of their food sources. It felt miraculous to see one out in the wild. The little trumpeter remained completely motionless as I looked at him. I started to take my phone out, trying to take a picture, but as soon as he saw the motion, he jumped down from his little platform and disappeared behind the statue. Here’s a picture of the statue he was blending in with.

I saw him a few more times that week, each time, pretending to be a statue, each time on a cloudy day. Once he was in a little nook, like this saint. Another, he was standing on top of a building famous for the little statues dancing up there. This one, pictured below.

When the weather starting getting nicer, I saw him less. He seemed to like cold weather, and I was hoping a dog hadn’t made a lunch out of his tiny body.

Then, I was sitting, reading a book near the canal on a quiet day a few days ago, a day when large clouds hung near the earth and passed in front of the sun, blocking it out, and I noticed, climbing the wall of the canal, the little man, who hadn’t seen me. Near him, there was a person dozing on a bench with a dog on a leash.

As soon as the little man was near the person with the big dog that had a kind face, the little man squatted down. From that distance, I remembered his yellow eyes and blue-grey skin. The little man puffed up his face and his trunk shot out. Out of him came a song that sounded like rain and the wind. It was cold and droning, sweet and deep. Each note longer, deeper than the last, filling the air with a sound that made me feel queasy with exhaustion. My eyelids felt heavy and my head started to drop. I fought sleep. The dog didn’t. Neither did the person. In an instant, both man and beast were fast asleep on the cobblestone path next to the canal. Playing his tune, the little man climbed up slowly, taking his little steps across the cobblestones, careful not to stop playing or make any noise that could break the spell. He bent down and undid the lead. Watching in half-asleep horror, he used one hand and one foot to pry the dog’s snout open and back himself in, down the dog’s throat. The dog shuddered and kicked and choked but didn’t wake, as if thrashing against a dream. Then, lay still. The dog opened its eyes and stood up. Its eyes had the same fearful focused expression as the grey little man. It trotted away while the owner slept. The old things that wander the world live beastly little lives.