I was reaching for a teaspoon when I saw it. There in the cutlery draw was a fork unlike any other I had ever seen before. Like a cutlery colossus, it towered over the knives, spoons and splades. We tend to buy our utensils in sets. This item stuck out, if not like a sore thumb then at least like something that could cause a sore thumb when handled incorrectly. It was longer and broader than the other forks, with razor tines as sharp as a gargoyle’s teeth and an elaborate, gothic swirl running down the length of the handle. It looked like something that belonged not so much in another drawer as another age. Or perhaps even another dimension.
I was reaching for a teaspoon when I saw it. There in the cutlery draw was a fork unlike any other I had ever seen before. Like a cutlery colossus, it towered over the knives, spoons and splades. We tend to buy our utensils in sets. This item stuck out, if not like a sore thumb then at least like something that could cause a sore thumb when handled incorrectly. It was longer and broader than the other forks, with razor tines as sharp as a gargoyle’s teeth and an elaborate, gothic swirl running down the length of the handle. It looked like something that belonged not so much in another drawer as another age. Or perhaps even another dimension.
Utensils can do a lot of things. They can cut, carve and harpoon whatever’s on your plate. The one thing they cannot do, however, is walk. How did the piece of cutlery I now refer to as ‘the Spooky Fork’ come to be in our house? I immediately demanded answers but the fork refused to say a word. Clearly, it had been trained to withstand interrogation. Exhausted, I left it, tied to a chair, and attempted to regroup. Even if it had responded, I’d be hard pressed to believe it. Human beings occasionally speak with a forked tongue. A fork has no other option.
If freaking out at the mysterious appearance of a fork of unknown origins seems something of an over-reaction, allow me to disagree. It’s not about one, isolated fork. What concerns me is that this lone utensil may be an advance party. After reporting back, hoards of strange looking spoons and steak knives might easily follow. Perhaps oddly elaborate plates and saucers also. It could easily be the thin end of the Wedgewood. The price of utensil freedom is eternal vigilance.
There was little time to lose. I immediately secured the premises by nailing wooden boards across the doors, windows and cupboards. If an army of nineteenth century cutlery was intending to invade the apartment, my job was to make their attempted annexation as difficult as possible. But as I kept watch all night, I heard nothing – not the rattle of armed teaspoons, nor the sound of tiny boots. If invasion was their plan, they were happy to bide their time.
But what if a full-scale takeover was the furthest thing from the Spooky Fork’s mind? Maybe it was not the advance party but the only utensil of its kind anywhere in the world. Rather than a reject, perhaps it was a singular artifact of great and immense value. Objects of beauty can be adored and even sometimes destroyed, but they are rarely misplaced. This meant that the true owner might come looking both for the fork and for revenge.
Based solely on its appearance, the fork’s true owner would likely be a giant, beast of a man. I will open the door, expecting a neighbour only to find myself face to chest with a mountain of flesh, fists clenched and looking like Christmas hams, demanding that I return what is rightfully his. I will, of course, try to explain that I did not steal the fork and that, instead, the fork had found its way to me. Perhaps it ran away, I will stammer, as a shadow falls across me and the creature moves forward. It will matter little as to why the fork absconded to seek solace in my cutlery drawer. Both the creature and I will know that aiding and abetting a runaway fork is the kind of crime that cannot go unpunished. A giant foot in an elaborate boot will inch forward and I’ll raise my hands but it will be of no use…
Then again, perhaps the owner isn’t oversized like the fork but is from another era. In the dead of night, I’ll hear the doorbell shriek and will be surprised to find a man on the doorstep dressed in nineteenth century finery, complete with a large velvet hat. And maybe a cape. With teeth that resemble the tines of the fork, the man will say a simple ‘good evening’ in a slow, creaking voice that sounds like a gate opening. Confronted by the sight of Count Forkula, I will instantly return his utensil and let him melt back into the darkness…
I may have no clue where it came from, but I know it’s not mine to keep. The Spooky Fork is too beautiful to be kept a prisoner in my cutlery drawer. I had to set it free. Having decided to return it to the wild, I put the fork in a cage and drove out into the wilderness. After finding a clearing, I set down the cage and quietly, carefully opened it. The poor thing didn’t want to leave and I had to help it out, pushing it towards the scrub. Returning to my car, I could see it in the rearview mirror as I left. Overwhelmed by its sudden freedom, it hadn’t moved an inch. It would, I assured myself, feel at home soon enough.
I don’t know why I find the appearance of a mysterious fork so unsettling. Perhaps it’s a reminder that, no matter how hard we try, we can control things only so much, after which fate, destiny and cutlery take over. Maybe I like to believe that some places that are beyond the reach of the random. That some things are predictable and are more magnificent for being so. But it takes so little to disturb this sense of tranquility. All it takes is one unexpected event and you are suddenly faced with a choice. A fork in the road, if you will. Or maybe just in the drawer.