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nameless story

Once upon a time, there was a boy who named things. If his mother had known this when he was born, she may have not struggled so hard to figure out what to call him.

She tried “Theneplous,” but she felt awkward when she whispered it to him.

She used “Scralionton” in conversations with friends, but the sounds tripped grotesquely on her tongue.

When she screamed “Constrink” down the halls, the sound reverberated back and sounding rather silly. She decided that was not the name she wished to cry every time her son was in trouble.

So it came to pass that this woman’s child remained nameless until the day the boy decided to name himself.

“J,” he told her, pointing to his open alphabet book.

“But, dear, other mothers give their sons nice, long, complicated names with lots of syllables that no one can spell,” she told him.

“J,” he insisted.

“That’s a letter, not a name, J,” his mother protested, then decided “J” was easier to say than “dear.” “I wonder what the neighbors will say?”

The idea of using short, simple names caught on as J became old enough to go to school. The children found themselves exasperated trying to learn how to spell their own names on paper while the teachers were forever pronouncing their names incorrectly.

The children envied J until he gave them their own names.

“Evlelindanin?” the teacher said at role-call one morning.

“Here, and that’s Evelyn now,” the girl said.

J began to rename local streets and adults found giving directions to their houses much less complicated. J’s services were so beneficial to the community that he was offered a full-time naming job by the elders of the village even at a young age. He was
present at birthings, building dedications, mapping productions, and book publications. His fame spread across the river and beyond.

He named me K when I, his sister, was born. He was only seven then, and ever since we have been as close as those letters of the alphabet. He tells me stories of his adventures, since he has been asked to name things all over the world.

When I asked him what the most interesting thing was that he had named, he told me about the king across the river who loved crackers.

He had been wandering the kingdom, writing his famous wildflower encyclopedia, when he ran into a very excited man wearing a baker’s cap and carrying a large basket.

“Watch out for that Deptford Pink!” J cried, throwing his arms out to stop the man.

“Look!” the baker cried, ignoring the tiny flower. “I have invented the cracker that will make me rich!”

“Let me see.” J inched the man away from the flowers while gazing into the basket. “Wow! Have you named them yet?”

“Yes. I call them Animal Crackers,” the plump man grinned and showed dimples as deep as wells.

“Oh,” J said, disappointed.

“Do not be sad, my naming friend!” the baker chuckled. “Taste one!”

“The camels are good,” J resolved around a mouthful.

“So are the cats and horses.”

“You are taking these to the king, then?”

“Of course! And he will give me gold!”

“May I come to see how he likes your Animal Crackers?”

So J followed the baker to the king’s castle. The man was so happy that he shouted to the village people they passed, “Come, come with us to see the king! Watch a poor baker earn his gold!”

Many of his customers and friends left their duties and errands to see what the man invented for the king. The guards at the portcullis were surprised to see such a group of people coming so happily to see the king. They followed behind warily.

The king sat on the elegantly draped dais, eating his most current gold investment: Graham Crackers. His beard would have been a pure white trailing down his chest to settle in his lap, but he was covered with dark brown crumbs. Sparrows were hopping over the floor, chirping and making small darts toward his lap, then back to the red carpet.

“More crackers!” the king shouted at his attendants as the procession strode in. His mouth spewed wet crumbs in the air, splattering the birds and his garments.

“Here, Your Highness!” the baker bowed before the throne, scattering the birds. They flew in a majestic arch up the eternal ceiling into the rafters where their little beady black eyes watched sadly.

“What are they?” The king was still yelling, but his voice seemed to crack in half.

“I call them Animal Crackers, Your Highness. They are very good.”

“I’ll be the judge of that!” the king roared, standing to peer into the basket the baker held before him. The cracker residue on his beard and lap fell to the ground like snow, and in the rafters the birds chirped in frenzy.

“What kind of animal is this?” The king extracted a cracker with forefinger and thumb as if it really were a dead creature. “It is so small.”

The baker peered closely at the cracker. “It is a cat, sire.”

“No!” the king thundered. “Cats do not have humps!”

“It is a camel then?” the miller called from the crowd.

“No!” the king sneered. “Camels do not have long hairy tails!”

“Is it a horse?” the farmer suggested, leaning on the pitchfork he had carried from his field.

“No!” the king sighed. “Horses do not have floppy ears.”

“Is it a dog, then?” the shepherd asked, holding his own to his side with a length of rope.

“No!” the king groaned. “It is not any of those animals.”

“What about the Namer?” the milk maid pointed at J.

“Yes, I’ve heard of you,” the king’s voice almost reached a level of normality. “What would you name this cracker?”

Even the birds held their chatter to hear J’s reply.

“Delicious,” J decided.

“Off with his head!” the king bellowed, and his aids rushed forward.

J clutched his throat, wincing and waiting for the hands of the aids on his shoulders. The men rushed past him and grabbed the cracker, ripping its head off. They presented in two pieces to the king, who ate it.

“He’s right!” the king finally declared, pointing at J.

Right there, the king made my brother the Official Namer of Things for his kingdom and, of course, the baker got his gold.

-amanda johns 2004