169 - The Whittler

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Then the New York Times best-selling thriller, It Devours, in which we really try to get to the bottom of a certain smiling god.

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Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out against the sky, and pick up some del taco for dinner.

Welcome to Night Vale.

Beyond our town, past the sand wastes, in the scrublands, sits the old general store, an oaken cabin-style A-frame with box windows and a covered patio.

On the porch there sits a swinging bench, and upon that bench sits an elderly man, his face crumpled like a discarded letter, his eyes like tire tracks hidden beneath the shady brim of a straw cowboy hat.

The old man holds a block of elmwood, the size of a potato, in his right hand, and in his left a carving jack.

He whittles away at the knot of wood, shaving off small corners, making detailed lines and indentations.

The wood is all his world.

And this world is quiet in his lap, on his bench, on his patio, before his general store, amid the scrublands, past the sand wastes which curl about nightvale like the gentle but calloused hands of a father holding a newborn.

As the old man whittles, he whistles, sad songs with no words.

But all those who hear the notes know they are about loss,

that they are about loneliness.

But no one hears those notes.

Not yet.

No one sees the old whittler nor his general store far out in an uninhabited stretch of desert.

Not yet.

If they did, they would wonder how an old general store which was not there yesterday was suddenly here today, a shop that by all accounts had weathered decades of abusive heat, wind, and isolation.

They would hear his sad song, and the universal language of wistful sorrow would hide from them their understanding of time.

Let's have a look now at sports.

This Saturday night, the the Knightvale High School Scorpions basketball team begins the district tournament.

The Scorpions, having finished the season 18-2, earned the number one seed this year, but face some tough competition in their bracket.

In the first round, they must battle another basketball team.

This is logical, because most basketball tournaments feature other basketball teams.

But the other basketball team is considered weaker than the Knightvale Scorpions because a series of accumulated numbers indicates this is so.

Should the Scorpions make it out of the first round and into the semifinals, they would likely battle the number four seed, Nature.

A tougher matchup, to be sure, as nature is unpredictable and ubiquitous.

Nature's style of play is best described as capricious and random, sometimes showcasing an array of flashy skills like sunny days, crystalline lakes, and otters.

But nature is a lockdown defensive force with effective momentum stoppers like lightning, quicksand, and poison ivy.

And in the finals, the favorites to compete for the title are Night Vale High School versus themselves.

Perhaps the toughest battle of them all, as each player must confront their harmful secrets, painful pasts, and darkest nightmares.

Themselves are able to match the pace and power of Nightvale's offensive and defensive sets, and we expect an excellent game.

Good luck, Scorpions.

Most Most days, the scrub lands are absent of humans, unapproachable and hostile.

Today is not most days, as a line of Nightvale citizens has formed outside of the general store to see the old Whitler and his wood menagerie.

Parents ask for photos of their children with his work, and he only whistles and nods nearly imperceptibly.

It could almost be interpreted as a slight twitch of the neck rather than an affirming nod, but interpretations grow liberal when want is high.

Fathers and mothers snap pictures on their phones of children accepting gifts of wood figurines from the old man.

The kids stare into the thin black ellipses that pass for his eyes, searching for the charming smile of elderly approval.

But instead, seeing every single constellation of the night sky inside slits as thin as thistles and as black as tar.

The historic expansion of the universe cannot be fully understood in words or even human thought, but it can be comprehended in the eyes of the tanned, wrinkled stranger.

The old Whittler does not charge a penny for any of his work.

He does not smile, nor accept the many thank-yous coaxed out of the young ones by their manner-minded handlers.

nor does he accept requests.

Children have many mascots, heroes, and cartoons that they love to possess via keepsake totems, and they repeatedly ask the old man for whittled representations of their favorite things like Pokemon characters or one of Pixar's anthropomorphic cars or even Ted Allen, host of Food Network's long-running cooking competition Chopped.

But the old Whittler only carves what he carves.

And he carves tiny horses, little cowboys, old-tiny wagons, armadillos, tigers, tractors, almost anything you can think of.

He finishes his sculpture of a koala bear and hands it to Amber Akingi, who looks at her husband, Wilson Levy, who is holding their sobbing, screaming 16-month-old baby, Flora.

The couple smiles together, never knowing that this balsa koala is everything they could have ever wanted beyond a loving family.

Wilson begins to cry at the simple beauty of this craft.

Amber begins to cry at the feeling of being understood.

And young Flora stops crying as she fawns over the six-inch tall Antipodean marsupial cartoonishly gnawing on a eucalyptus leaf.

The Whitler also carves people.

Small human figures, yes, like firefighters and ballerinas and clowns, but also actual people.

Harrison Kip told the old man he wished to be happier in his own skin.

And the old Whitler grabbed Harrison's cheeks cheeks and brought Harrison's round, soft face before his own crinkled countenance.

And Harrison screamed.

He screamed in fear of what the old man was about to do.

He also screamed in joyous anticipation, and the two screams were discordant like adjacent keys pressed simultaneously on a church organ.

The old Whitler pressed his knife against Harrison's chin and began to pull the blade back using the force of his thumb and the trunk of his forefinger.

He repeated throughout Harrison's assenting and defiant shouts, and after a few moments, Harrison stopped yelling and stood,

his jaw squarer, his nose thinner and longer, his shoulders broader.

And Harrison smiled.

Soon, the Whitler began carving houses, roads, and city buildings.

They were larger than the koala, much larger, for they were full-sized renditions of these things.

He sliced and sawed away at block after block of red oak, hackberry, and beechwood, forming new arteries of city travel, whole blocks of residences, and even cultural landmarks and venues.

And the town of Nightvale, in a single late morning, began to expand into the distant and uninhabitable scrublands of our desert.

Let's have a look now at horoscopes.

Gemini.

Bury yourself in your work today, Gemini.

Pile that garbage high and rest your weary head beneath its odorous but comforting weight.

Cancer.

No more Mr.

Nice Guy Cancer.

Today, you are Mrs.

Disinterested Lady.

Get out there and be uninvolved in everything.

Leo.

You're the talk of the town, Leo.

Word after word is about you, and it is juicy.

Like a rare steak, like a blood orange.

Juicy like 2008 couture.

Woo!

You should hear what they're saying.

Virgo.

You are not what you seem to be, Virgo.

You seem to be a blackberry shrub, overreaching and prickly.

But really, you are a human, squishy and small.

Continue to be the thorny, fruit-bearing bush, though.

Libra.

You seek balance, Libra, but you are as lopsided as a wealth disparity graph in an economist's classroom.

Share your worth, distribute your value fairly and compassionately, Libra, for the villagers are sharpening their tools.

Scorpio.

Hey, Steve.

Love you, pal.

Sagittarius.

Your opacity in relationships is going to be your downfall, Sagittarius.

You're an obsidian monolith, towering over everyone, absorbing all light except the faint reflection of those who want to know what glows inside your stony facade.

You don't have to be a diamond, Sagittarius, or even quartz.

Just try for

salt lick, okay?

I think you can achieve that.

Capricorn.

Oh, the games you play, Capricorn, you wicked little seagoat, you naughty caprine ocean dweller with your horns and scales, vexing us with your riddles and labyrinthian logic.

The stars offer no advice for you, Capricorn.

Only envious praise.

Aquarius.

Put your money where your mouth is.

But wash that money first, Aquarius.

It's been in so many other people's mouths, ever since we added jolly ranchers as legal currency.

Pisces.

You're swimming upstream, Pisces?

Figuratively speaking, of course.

I mean, you're a human who does not need to actually swim upstream for food or a mate.

Get out of the metaphorical stream and avoid the damage you're going to do to your body and soul.

Except for you, Tim.

You're a woodchuck who is literally swimming upstream.

I don't like you, Tim, because you are eating my tulips.

You can drown.

Aries, fake it till you pretend to make it, Aries.

Taurus, don't hide your feelings, Taurus.

Frame them.

Display them ostentatiously on the wall.

Mount them on plinths behind velvet-roped stanchions.

Curate an exhibit of your feelings, Taurus.

Charge admission.

And now the news.

The Knightvale City Council deliberated today on whether the old Whittler in front of the old general store in the scrublands was friend or foe to our town.

Those voices arguing in favor of the old man celebrated the huge municipal expansion he was creating so quickly onto undeveloped land.

This new infrastructure would have taken us dozens of years and millions of dollars to deploy.

And he has accomplished it all in half a day, these voices all said in unison.

Plus, they added, he widdled a little army man for my kid, a bracelet for my wife, and a sweater for our cat.

It's everything we ever wanted!

The dissenting voices, and they were few, could only argue that he failed to acquire proper permits for any of this construction, let alone an outdoor vendor's license, which is mandatory even for giveaways, accepting restaurant samples, marketing promotions, and military dispersion of chemtrails.

The many-voiced, uni-bodied creature that is the city council huffed in nearly unanimous support for this old man, his sad whistling, his prolific whittling, and his beneficence to our city.

Did you see?

said three of the voices, that inside the general store, there's everything you could ever need.

Cans,

boxes, shelves, counters, walls.

It's amazing.

Everything is carved from a single block of wood.

And it's all connected.

No glue or bolts or rivets anywhere.

He's a deft hand, concurred four other voices.

How does he even find single blocks of wood that huge?

Wondered a solo voice aloud.

Whatever, the entire city council roared in unison.

That old man is a superb Whittler.

And now, financial news.

Everything's fine.

It's just dandy.

Thank you for asking.

And now back to our top story.

Out in the scrublands, an entire wooden suburb has grown from the withered hands and sharp knife of the old Whittler, who has, for the first time today, moved from the porch of his general store.

He stands now upon a stage, a round platform at the center of a great amphitheater, which he personally carved deep into the cracked red rock of the desert floor.

The people of Knightville gather and sit on wood plank rows, which curve in a semicircle around the old man on the stage.

Each person in attendance holds in their hands a whittled object given to them as they entered the audience space.

The items are all different, esoteric and unique, each item an unexpected gift of the Whittler.

Each item the very thing they have always wanted, even if it was never what they thought they wanted.

They hold gently their presence, protecting them with their very lives.

The Whitler, with his straw hat still shading his keyhole eyes and river bend mouth, stands before the people of Nightvale who sit in an arena of his own making, each cradling a beloved statuette of his own making.

The old man reaches out and takes the hand of his bride.

She, of course, is of his own making as well.

She is carved of weeping cedar.

Her veil, though entirely wood, is somehow translucent, and her sorrowful eyes are faintly visible behind the intricate work of the Whittler's blade.

The old man whistles once again, and the crowd whistles along with him.

They know the song now.

It lives in them like longing, like blood,

like a soul.

They know every word of the wordless dirge, and the notes of loneliness spread across the scrublands to the mountain's edge and echo back in the key of hope with a lilt of contentment and satisfaction.

They will only be happy when he is happy, and he is indeed happy.

As the Whitler clutches the hand of his newly carved betrothed, the clouds part, revealing the happiest thing of all:

the weather.

I've been indigo dying,

I've been threading the needle.

I've been sewing my future with embroidery stars.

I've been framing a structure,

trying to give it good meaning.

I've been looking for space and

slow stitching hearts.

I've been trying to see something when I

looking at nothing.

I've been trying to hear something when they're

saying

nothing.

I've been howling at the moon.

I've been screaming at the sun.

And the days are so long.

And the work's never done.

I've been planting a garden.

I've been cutting begonias.

I've been watching the nightingale

building a home.

I've been setting the table

with my grandmother's vengeance.

I've been painting the kitchen, baking up a storm.

I've been trying to see something when I'm looking at nothing.

I've been trying to hear something when they're

saying

nothing.

I've been howling at the moon,

I've been screaming at the sun.

And these days are so long,

and the works never know.

And the times that no,

I feel all the fear stuff

and the trick of the lie

won't help us tonight.

I've been pounding the bee

to protect my family

from all of the things

that we cannot see.

And it's all

sinking in

how sick we've all been

from life

being thrown

to her favor being torn.

Bring me peace,

bring us peace,

bring us all of the light

we cannot see

bring me peace

bring us peace

bring us all of the light

we cannot see

I've been into go-dying.

I've been threading the needle.

I've been sewing my future with embroidery stars.

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Into the scrublands I went, myself already as happy as I could ever be, for I was with my own true love, my husband.

I journeyed to see the Whitler for myself as an effort of journalism, a chronicler of interesting events.

I wanted for nothing.

My happiness cannot be improved.

Or so I believed.

When I arrived, the Whitler, more than a hundred feet away and through a mass of thousands, greeted me with a nod so unobtrusive, I believed it to be a trick of the eye.

But from the distance, I could see the whole of the universe in those dark eyes under dark shadow behind the final violet of sunset.

I knew he meant me.

Carlos and I stepped to the podium, and the old man opened his palm to reveal an original carving just for me.

I had hoped it was a Nintendo Switch, but it was a seaplane.

Carlos, like a child on Santa's lap, cooed and asked the old man for a superconducting super collider, and the old Whitler, his burlap cheeks heavy with gravity and history, reached into the breast pocket of his pearl snap shirt and handed Carlos a tiny wooden rose.

Carlos hugged his rose to his chest and I my sea plane.

The Whitler took the hand again of his bride and gazed upon her.

Her veiled eyes met by his boundless stare.

They stood like that for more than an hour, not speaking.

The only sounds were the circadas chirping and the crowd whistling.

But the tune faded, and soon only the cicadas cut through the silence of a still desert twilight.

And one of us, Larry Leroy, stood and walked onto the stage.

He touched the old man's shoulder.

The old man did not turn.

He did not speak.

He collapsed into black ash.

Then his bride.

Then the seats beneath us.

It all gave way to crumbling nothing.

Then the buildings and roads and even the general store turned into ash.

Finally, every one of our objects dissipated like Eurydice almost free from Hades.

A gentle, cool breeze arrived to sweep our hope away.

We returned home, wordless, with occasional whistles of the Whitler's tune once again in a sad and lonesome key.

Our cherished gifts, we told ourselves, were nothing more than baubles, ephemera, however blessed or magical.

They were mere things,

not love, not family, not true joy, they were objects, toys, props,

distractions.

They were everything we have ever wanted, because we could hold them, see them, touch them.

We can no longer do that, but we can remember what it was like.

The rough of the wood against the soft of our hand.

Stay tuned next for our new game show.

Name all the nouns.

And as always, good night, Night Vale.

Good night.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Kraner and produced by Disparition.

The voice of Night Vale is Cecil Baldwin.

Original music by Disparition.

All of it can be found at disparition.bandcamp.com.

This episode's weather was Embroidery Stars by Carrie Elkin.

Find out more at carrieelkin.com.

Comments, questions, email us at info at welcometonightvale.com or follow us on Twitter at Night Vale Radio.

Or watch your cat do a big stretch and encourage her by saying, big stretch, big stretch check out welcome to nightvale.com for more info about our upcoming live stream production of our classic live show condos today's proverb give a man a fish and he'll wonder what your deal is teach a man to fish and he'll ask you once again to please leave him alone

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And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

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Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unschooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-season, and case you missed them.

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Hey, Jeffrey Kraner here to tell you about another show from me and my Night co-creator Joseph Fink.

It's called Unlicensed and it's an LA Noir style mystery set in the outskirts of present-day Los Angeles.

Unlicensed follows two unlicensed private investigators whose small jobs looking into insurance claims and missing property are only the tip of a conspiracy iceberg.

There are already two seasons of Unlicensed for you to listen to now with season three dropping on May 15th.

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