On returning many years later to the forest of his childhood, Oskar Serti recognised the venerable tree in front of him as the bush before which he had meditated on the evening of his eleventh birthday. He remembered perfectly the crucifix hanging from it and kneeling before it to swear an oath that one day he would become a writer.
Although disappointed at not finding the crucifix, Serti lay down under the tree, entertaining pleasant thoughts about the novel he had just got published at long last, and which, while not reaping the hoped-for success, at least existed.
Serti was contentedly taking in a great breath of fresh air when he felt a recalcitrant twig scratching the top of his head, forcing him to tuck his head in between his shoulders. But, as in this moment of intense satisfaction he could not bear having anything pull him down, he passed his hand behind his back and snapped off the offending branch. To his amazement, he then discovered that he was holding in his fingers the right arm of the Christ figure – the crucifix must have become embedded in the tree as it grew to adulthood, leaving nothing but this outstretched hand sticking out from it.
Serti took away the arm with him, fastened a pen nib to where it had broken off and decided to use it to write his next novel – a novel that would at last make the range of his talent blatantly obvious to the very people who were telling him to practise a little more humility.