For autumns beyond count, Charlemagnus trod the damp carpet of the Great Northern Wood. He carried a heavy brass box fitted with a polished glass pupil, capturing the forest in moments of startling clarity.
The creatures spoke of him with quiet reverence. To the rabbits, he was the giant who understood the precise angle of twilight. To the owls, he was the silent wanderer who never stepped on a dry twig. They marvelled at his peculiar garb: a thick woollen coat that reached his ankles, a leather cap pulled low over his brow and a scarf wrapped so tightly around his neck that no skin ever showed.
Charlemagnus spoke to no one. He simply raised his glass lens, clicked the iron shutter and bowed with solemn grace. The woodland folk assumed he was an artist from the southern city, a gentle soul who had traded the noise of humans for the stillness of the pines.
One frosted morning, a young squirrel watched Charlemagnus set up his tripod beside an icy stream. A rare golden kingfisher landed on a nearby rock. Charlemagnus reached up to adjust his focus knob, but a sudden gust of wind swept through the canopy. The icy blast caught the tail of his long coat, hoisting it high into the air.
Out from beneath the hem, a long, ringed tail whipped. It coiled instinctively around a sturdy birch branch to steady his frame, saving both the heavy camera and the artist from a nasty spill in the mud.
The squirrel gasped. Within moments, a dozen forest onlookers gathered around. Charlemagnus pulled down his scarf and lifted his leather cap, revealing the inquisitive face of a southern capuchin.
Years ago, a merchant captain had brought him north aboard a trading vessel, intending to sell him into an exotic menagerie. When port authorities arrested the captain for smuggling rare beasts, Charlemagnus escaped into the deep woods. He had found the heavy clothes in an abandoned cabin, using them to keep out the bitter frost. The animals had simply assumed his bundled form was that of a man, so flawless was his patience and so masterful was his art.
The capuchin offered a small, sheepish grin, snapped his photograph of the kingfisher and went back to his morning walk.
Moral:
Do not judge an artist by their tail, for true mastery lies in the eye, not under the coat.
