Northern_Lights_2021

28 One evening, the goldsmith was fashioning a small tree out of drawn-out pieces of gold wire. He would heat up the thick gold cord he started with, and then force it through progressively smaller holes. Adisa watched as the strips grew into long fibers of shining light. The smith then wound the cords into each other, bunching them up in some areas and curling them tight and straight in others. After about four hours, the wide strips had melded into a solid, docile trunk, while the thinner pieces cracked into jagged and brittle branches. The ends of the cords formed twisted roots before ending in polished points. Small bits of gold foil, after the long and laborious process of stretching and beating a coin- sized chunk into a sheet thinner than paper, were draped over the crinkled branches, and trimmed to resemble sparkling leaves. This work of art sent Adisa’s mind reeling. During the process, his brain expanded into other countries, seeing it on top of a pewter stand in the middle of a dining table. It then rushed halfway across the globe to place itself in the dimly lit display box of an American museum. When it was complete, however, and the full beauty and expression were visible, his mind contracted. He imagined himself the owner of the beautiful object, and the pleasure he would feel giving it to a beautiful girl. He had seen a girl once on a caravan that had visited the village. She was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he imagined giving the golden tree to her. He could see her black eyes widen, and he could even imagine her thin lips curling into a smile. The image wouldn’t leave him for years after that night. One night, however, the goldsmith brought out an already made item. The crowd, which curled itself up to the small workshop like a swarm of floating fire ants, watched in confusion as, instead of bringing out a piece of raw unworked metal, the goldsmith brought out a single wedding band clamped in between a pair of thin tongs. A few women in the crowd gasped, startled at the sight of the ring without an owner. Heedless of the crowd’s expression, the goldsmith set to work. He heated the band until it was bright hot, neglecting the crucible altogether, and brought out a large metal-working hammer. The process was strange compared to his usual work. Jewelry was usually worked on in a delicate manner which suited their size. Small dimpling hammers and tiny folding tongs were customarily used to carefully fold and shape the bits of smooth gold ore. This time, however, the ring was beaten with one of the large shaping hammers, its form forced out as it was heated and reheated over and over again. Adisa’s imagination exploded at this sight. First, he thought of a crying woman, stumbling blindly out of her stucco house as her husband tore the ring from his finger and threw it after her. He could see the ring land in a clump of sand and be left there, forgotten, and unwanted. Before long, his mind flitted to another place. This time the ring was nestled in a small box, carefully held by a man on his knee. This time, the woman’s face was crinkled in anger, and she wordlessly turned on her heel, leaving the man in the dust with his gift of metal. Yet again, the ring was ferried to another place, this time resting in the sand, lost by its owner, its shiny surface reflecting the red sunrise of the desert until a hawkeyed merchant spied it and triumphantly tore it from the ground and inspected his prize.