The Philosophical Pebble*

_* A philosopher is a thinker.

A philosophical pebble is a pebble that thinks.

text claire castillonillustrations marina vandel

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i am Cayoutchou. i’m a pebble that’s round and grey, though i’m pink in

certain lights. i would say pink when i smile, but i haven’t smiled for a very

long time. i come from mont-Blanc, the highest mountain in europe, but today

i live in saint-etienne, 72 off-Piste street. yes, that’s how it goes eh... But i’m

not in the mood to joke.

one day, a boy called Bertrand thought it would be a good idea to baptise

me into a new life, so he took me from my home and gave me to his mum.

At the grand old age of 7, he left to go skiing and came back with me in his

pocket. Ah! stuck inside his anorak, i didn’t have the heart to sing on our way

back in the coach. i thought of my family of pebbles, and of my quiet little

resting spot between my grandparents, in the shade of a fir tree at the foot of

a babbling brook. on my mountain i was surrounded by nature. sometimes a

passing marmot would even use me as a stepping stone to leap into the grass,

so as not to get its feet wet. Bertrand should have taken my cousin Jessica with

him instead. she dreams of the city. she wants to be part of the pavements

and thinks that pebbles have no future. she’s right. But if she could see where

i live in the city, Cayoutchou, a plug at the bottom of a sink... White, certainly,

but white and worn!

At first Bertrand’s mum was delighted with me, she thought I was delicate and

pretty. But as time passed i lost the right to my place at the kitchen window,

between the vase of flowers and the pot of thyme, and she decided to put me

in the sink.

“Look, your stone fills up the hole in the sink perfectly,” she said to Bertrand.

“Cayoutchou can be our plug!”

since then i have been stuck here, showered with dishwater twice a day.

drenched from above. i sit covered with dirty water as they let the dishes

soak. i remember uncle roland, the father of Jessica, once gave me a war-

ning. And he was right. Alas, he told me, i would never be treated properly

by people, i would only ever be used as a skimming stone or aimed at targets.

it upset uncle roland greatly:

“my child, us pebbles, have beautiful souls. But how can we tell this to people

who use us only as missiles?”

These days i am growing sadder, but i try to keep my spirits up. At night

i force myself to travel, in my dreams i am on my beautiful mountain. There

I can find all my friends: pebbles, ladybugs, conifers and wormwood. I sit with

them in my thoughts and i am at peace. i tell myself that one day soon i will

be with them again, so i’m patient, because i’m a philosopher.

But i’m forced to soak in dirty water and it itches. Just imagine, i now have

moss growing on me! one day Bertrand notices with surprise that my coat is

quite green, or to be precise yellow-green, because there’s not enough chlo-

rophyll in the sink to make me a healthy colour.

he watches me germinating. i’m suffering, i’m allergic to washing up liquid!

An astonished Bertrand suddenly has a thought : What if i’m alive?

in my head, i recite some words that i will him to hear. free me, you owe

it to me! Then, to my joy, he slips me into his pocket and we go for a walk.

When we get to the river he digs me out of his pocket and gives me a wash.

i could even stand to be thrown like a skimming stone if it meant i could win

my freedom again... But Bertrand lets me go gently. he says to me kindly

“you’re all dirty and you’re dying, go quickly little Cayoutchou, the water is

better here...”

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