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The forest of Hatuga is not alive. It is important to make such a distinction for this next story, because some forget – in all its regal splendor, in all its vast expanse – that the forest is only considered living because it contains so much life itself. But the forest, on its own merits, is not a living thing. It is but a place, where things happen, and cycles of life and death find their being. But a forest is both beyond and beneath life; it is no more than a container for what matters, to provide a sense of foundation and connection between the living things within it.

Remember this. Sometimes it is easy to forget where one stands in the world, especially if one is trying to overcome it.

Most residents of Hatuga have no need for that brand of existential knowledge. They are content, they are happy, and their possibilities are limited. But some wish to disrupt the relative peace of Hatuga with grand ambitions, the idea that what occurs in the forest is of lesser importance than what could occur, and make attempts to change it. They like to think the container can’t hold them.

And then there are those who make a mess of things on accident, because they just can’t help themselves.

One such creature was Puripu, a caiman from the time when ancient reptiles swam, flew, and walked the lands of Hatuga. She was the end of the line drawn by those impressive beasts: a Purussaurus of humungous length and breadth, with broad, powerful jaws and impenetrable armor. The last of her kind, perhaps with good reason; she ate constantly, able to seize upon whatever she wanted. Since she was the largest and most powerful predator in the forest, nothing could stop her, and nothing could escape. None compared with her combination of speed, strength, and stealth as she stalked the waterways, dragging underwater whatever she could fit between her teeth.

A natural result of this unrestrained chowing-down was that Purpiu grew very, very fat. Exceedingly fat. The fat was quickly converted to muscle, since all she did was swim, but you still might call her a fat old gator if you saw her, since reptilian muscle is quite hard to distinguish between reptilian fat. At first, it meant nothing to her, since stalking prey was a pleasant enough occupation that needed no distraction. Puripu would compete with her own time, depending on the type of prey; how long it took to devour that particular species. For a while, this was for her own amusement alone – a blend of nourishment and entertainment – and she harbored no complaints.

One humid evening, Puripu spied a ring-tailed lemur clinging over the water from a branch. The enormous gator was never hungry until she saw something to eat, so she fancied herself in the mood for a small snack. What she did not fancy was that this was all a setup; the lemur was not resting, but luring Puripu to surface. Not with any devious intent, mind you; simply to see this legendary gator that his conspiracy were always yammering on about. Rather than be fearful, though, the lemur was intrigued. He wished to see this “monster” for himself! And so he sat at the end of the branch, one eye open as bubbles softly burbled beneath him.

KER-PASH! Puripu breached from the depths, nine tons of pure power, all focused on snatching one little lemur in a single bite. But the lemur was already gone, bounded away to the safety of the trunk, and the great gator’s jaws closed around an empty branch. The branch was crushed to splinters, and the tree capsized as Puripu pulled it into the river.

Humiliation! Never had Puripu missed her prey before! It shattered her contentment, made her conscious of being too slow, or too fat, and what this failure meant for her. Had she failed herself, or failed her reputation? These thoughts were new, and she just wanted to sink with them to the river bottom. But she couldn’t. She needed another breath, having exerted all her energy in that leap. Now she would have to surface, and listen to that crafty lemur’s jeers.
When she did, she was met with the applause of tiny hands. The lemur sat on the tree, the one she had uprooted, a look of amazement on his monochrome face.

“Wowie, wow-wow! I’ve heard stories of you, but never would I have imagined that you’d put them all to shame! Just think, if I wasn’t trying to draw you out…on second thought, let’s not think about it. Let’s think about you! Let’s talk about you, you giant, beautiful creature! I have never seen such a gator of impressive girth, such a monster born to eat! Tell me, how did you get so big?”

Blushing, Puripu opened her mouth to reply, but was not quick enough. Besides the fact that crocodilian jaw-opening muscles are relatively weak, the lemur had no intention of letting anyone else speak. He was so swept up in his own amazement.

“I mean, look at your body…It’s huge! Long as a tree and thick as a boat, the stories don’t do you justice. And those teeth, sharper than steel, longer than elephant tusks! You move as swift as a shark in the water, but no shark could even penetrate your scales. Even your legs! Your short, stubby legs! I can see the power in them. For a split second, I’d wager you could run just as fast as any jungle cat.”

Puripu started to wonder if this silver-tongued lemur was over-exaggerating. Some new throes from being in such close proximity to death? But she was too unaccustomed to flattery to dismiss any of his compliments.

After sizing her up and marveling at her physique for the entire afternoon, the lemur finally quit his endless strain of compliments. Spectacles can only last so long in the forefront of the mind, after all, before one grows used to them and admits them as normal. He thanked her for the moment’s entertainment, and leapt across the trees back to his conspiracy.

Puripu, on the other hand, lay unmoving in the water. She suddenly felt hungry again; but the hunger was coming from a place other than her bottomless stomach. It came from her head, which had swelled from all the lemur’s praises. Feeling ten times more ravenous than normal, Puripu went back to hunting, thinking she could fill that pang with more food.

Not much further down the river, Puripu spotted a Rhinoceros. They were a pain to eat, tough hide and all, so she didn’t like to bother them all that much. But she had reached such a point in her ego’s starvation that she went up to the horned beast without a second thought, and tackled it to the ground.

“Tell me,” hissed Puripu through her salivating grin, “That I am the most impressive predator you ever saw.”

“Never has any predator found the strength to tip me over, and I have run many a hostile carnivore through with my horn. Except for the Bengal Tiger, you are the only one who could possibly overrun my defenses,” replied the conquered Rhinoceros.

Puripu felt a little better, but was displeased to hear that another carnivore in the forest carried her prowess. After a few bites for good measure, she followed the river upstream until she caught sight of the Bengal Tiger, lapping water from the edge.

The Bengal Tiger only saw Puripu coming because she wanted to be seen. She wanted the Bengal, who did not impress her in the slightest with her sinuous frame and sharp claws, to fear her. But the Bengal did not show fear, since it was evident that Puripu would charge as soon as she received the feelings she wanted. Instead, the Bengal sat down on her hind haunches and waited for the gator to surface. Puripu rose out of the water. They stared each other down, eye-to-eye.

“Look at me, Bengal, only other predator to take down a Rhino,” chortled Puripu, “and see how much stronger I am than you.”

“I see you. It is hard not to see such a hefty water-lizard.”

Puripu puffed out her chest, taking it as a compliment.

“So?” yawned the cat, keeping one eye open for the best opportunity to escape.

“So?” echoed Puripu, confused by the Bengal’s lack of defense, and failing to recognize her own. “Do you not want to fight, and see who is the strongest?”

“You will always have the advantage, being in the water. I cannot swim,” the Bengal flat-out lied. She quickly added, watching Puripu drag herself on land to accommodate her, “Besides, fellow hunters are not meant to hunt each other, you tubby log of lard and teeth.”

Puripu was at an impasse. How could she prove her superiority over the Bengal? The Bengal, being blessed with a little more brain than your average jungle cat, improvised a proposal.

“There is a way, to see which of us is the strongest predator.”

Puripu was excited, and would accept the challenge no matter what it was.

“The only beast I have ever failed to take down in Hatuga is the mighty elephant. Not one of the mellow Asian varieties, no, but the African Bull. The largest land-dweller, capable of snapping me in half with its mighty trunk. Defeat him in the plains, and you will prove yourself the strongest.”

Puripu and the Bengal parted ways. Puripu’s heart was thumping from excitement, thrilled to prove her superiority to all of Hatuga. The Bengal’s heart was thumping from relief, grateful she was able to escape the voracious Purussaurus in one piece. She left Hatuga and never looked back, hoping deep down that the African bull elephant would squash this gator’s overweight ego utterly flat.

Puripu’s weight was of no consequence to herself; she was long, and she was fast. All of Hatuga heard her thunder through the forest, moving out of the way for fear she would snap them up in one bite. The uneven mossy floor eventually gave way to flat dirt plains, and the canopy opened up to sunny skies. Before her, munching on the grass in peace, was a herd of African elephants.

The African Bull glanced up from his lunch, aware of some ominous danger. He scanned the edge of the forest, searching for the source of the disturbance, until his squinted eyes caught the gleam of Puripu’s crooked grin in the shadows. Trumpeting in alarm, the elephants stampeded into a circle, protecting their young from this enormous belly-crawler. The Bull bared his tusks, hoping to threaten off the unwelcome presence. All his posturing did was encourage Puripu, who sought a challenge, and was already fantasizing about how devouring the alpha male would make her ten times as large as before. She crept forward, brandishing her rows of teeth as an answer to his challenge.

The Bull did not want to fight the gator. He really didn’t, being both peaceable and cowardly. He already knew that this monster was a match for even him. But his herd was threatened, and he had a sense of honor that not even good sense could deter. It was his responsibility to protect his charges, and it was the reason he worked hard to become the strongest in Hatuga in the first place: to keep his loved ones safe. Sounding a low trumpet, the African Bull stomped forward to stop the gator before it could devour his family.

Puripu sprinted forward on her short legs and reared up, planning to collide with the Bull using all her weight, but he lowered his head and stopped her with his tusks. Her tons of scales cracked one of his most prized assets, but they provided just enough time for his trunk to snake around her body and flip her onto her back. She was inexperienced in an even fight, and shocked to be dispatched so quickly. The Bull, believing the match to already be decided, raised a heavy foot and brought it straight down. He was going to crush her skull and end her reign of terror.

He missed. Puripu’s thick neck was more flexible than one might guess at first look; she slid it out of the way when the Bull put all his weight down, and attacked his knee before he could recover. Her jaws were exceptionally strong, capable of crushing tree trunks – it took only a few seconds for her to crush the Bull’s tree-trunk-like knee. He trumpeted in pain and fell down on his broken leg, confused at the sudden turn of events. Puripu spun around on her back, unfazed at his attempts to pierce her solid hide with his tusks. While one might expect her jaws to be her most dangerous weapon, this was actually false, proven when she flipped off her back and whipped her mighty tail against the Bull’s face. Centuries of pushing her humungous form forward had honed her tail into a deadly bludgeon; with one swipe, the Bull’s tusks shattered instantly, and he collapsed. Paralyzed, he could only stare resolutely into Puripu’s glazed eyes, wondering why an animal would ever feel the need to act as violently as she, with no real reason.

Puripu slammed her tail down repeatedly upon his face. That once-imposing African Bull, strongest of all land-beasts, was culled into submission.

His elephant herd was shocked, stunned, frozen in place when they saw their invincible leader fall. They hardly made a reaction when Puripu, spurred on by her victory, overwhelmed the herd and devoured every last elephant. Nothing could stop her now; she was the strongest creature in all of Hatuga. The strongest, perhaps, but not yet the largest. The fact that the African Bull had managed to flip her at all made this much clear. She would have to eat much, much more if she was to become larger than he was.

Thus began her unquenchable feast. Puripu proceeded to eat all day, everyday. She had grown too large for the river, causing a flood whenever she swung her tail and scraping the bottom with her stomach. After drinking up the river and its occupants, our gator of impressive girth moved permanently onto the land. No animal was safe from her snapping jaw as she grew and grew every day, yard by yard around and down. Eventually, she surpassed the size of the African Bull Elephant she ate long ago, becoming the first tyrannical reptile of Hatuga since the dinosaurs.

Even so, Puripu was discouraged. Who or what was left to compete with, now that she had become the apex animal in every possible way? Most Hatugans had either been eaten or fled the forest, leaving her starved for both food and fulfillment. How could she know how impressive she was, if there were no eyes to see or tongues to proclaim? She regretted her reign of terror – it had left her so alone, ego pounding for recognition.

But still, she had to improve. Something deep within her pushed her on, enslaving her to the competition that continued to feed the hunger in her head. Lamenting the empty forest, lamenting her loneliness, Puripu challenged the one thing left to compete with.

That is, she challenged the forest of Hatuga itself.

Its size, its spectacle, its ability to sustain instead of devour – Puripu envied it. It was powerful in a way she was not aware of, and surpassing it was the only other avenue left through which Puripu could challenge herself. To even stand a chance, she would have to become much, much larger.

She ate and ate and ate and ate, and then ate some more when she had finished eating until she became hungry again. There were hardly any animals left living in the forest, so she dug beneath the ground and ate the remains of residents buried by time. They, at least, could not flee. She ate trees and rocks and drank lakes at first, but eventually grew too large for even this to satiate her. She grew so humungous that she chewed peaks off of mountains and lapped up the ocean tides. Our gator of impressive girth expanded into a dragon of ridiculous existence, far too big to live and yet living on despite it.

Puripu was now the size of Hatuga itself; just a little more, and she would surpass the forest’s greatness. But eating everything requires a lot of energy, especially if the only reward is strictly beholden to one’s ego, and Puripu had grown very tired. Against her better judgment, rest was the next step in her fight. She curled into a comfortable position, tucked her tail in her mouth, and closed her eyes for just a minute. Waking the next day, she would finally make good on her challenge, and, hopefully, feel satisfied with herself at last. Those orange eyes, glowing strong as the Earth’s core, closed for a brief respite, looking forward to the next day when she would finally feel fulfilled.

Puripu’s eyes never opened again. When a creature grows as large as a mountain, biology implements a fail-safe: it expends all the animal’s energy to send it into a deep slumber. The rains came and sunk her hardened body into the ground, covering it in a layer of sediment and soil. Trees took root between her scales, and waterfalls poured across her jaws, cemented shut. Her massive tail formed a range of hills, and her nostrils became lakes. All of Hatuga was renewed, sprouting from the back of the gator whose maw it once disappeared into.

When life returned to Hatuga, the story of the Purussaurus and her fruitless competition with herself became little more than a legend – a tale that we Hatugans tell their children so that they will treat the land right. Otherwise, she might wake up. But the oldest know that it was no legend, that the beast will never wake up, and that the true message has nothing to do with treating the land right. Rather, it is about treating themselves right.

Puripu shall sleep on, cozy under blankets of Earth, happily lost in the land of dreams. There, she has no desire to challenge, and she feels no need to grow. Instead, she lives there at peace with herself – too full, too impressive, to live otherwise.

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The lively forest of Hatuga, rolling down the mountains into an abundant valley of verdant hues and bluish shades, is home to many a colorful and unique creature. The residents possess sharp intellect, partnered with an ability to wield it effectively – for better or worse. Though, if worse, we can safely presume that it was once intended for better. These Hatugan gentlebeasts are naturally better-natured, you see, and I cannot imagine them being anything but courteous for their own benefits and each other’s.

One of these fair residents was Mister Bear. He was known by that particular name because there were only two bears that came to settle in the Hatuga – the other known by the name of Missus Bear. It was impossible to mix them up, for they were clearly not close relations; Mister Bear’s head was thicker, his mane shaggier, his jowls saggier, his claws sharper, and his thighs thicker. Missus Bear was simply less so.

Mister Bear lived in a cheery cave carved right into Old Man Mountain. He took offense to the name, since he was neither old nor a man; but his efforts to have it changed were blocked on all sides by Old Man himself. Not that a change of name would matter, since he never had any visitors. Which is a shame, for Mister Bear was a fine, imposing beast with trimmed fur coat and checkered tweed pants. He always kept his spats nice and shiny for those rare exchanges with Missus Bear. But there was one small problem:

Mister Bear had a temper. A downright nasty one, like a cold that sneaks up and catches you by surprise, with coughs and sneezes and hacks and wheezes. A habit of letting out a terrible roar at the least provocation! The residents of the forest just could not stand to be around anyone who couldn’t control those ear-bursting, heart-pounding, gut-wrenching, brain-popping, throat-scratching, nerve-snapping, stomach-busting roars. It didn’t matter how trimmed his fur coat was, or how splendid his tweed pants, or how pristinely cleaned his spats, or how refined his conversation, or even how courteous the other animals pretended to be around him.

Mister Bear was, in plain terms, a social nuisance.

Witness one creature, who stood by Mister Bear’s side despite his tragic ostracization! This hard-headed paradigm of the prairie was Buffalo Biff – Mister Bear’s sole friend. I cannot say why he was named Buffalo Biff, for Biff was, in fact, a Bison. It is a common mistake to call a Bison a Buffalo, but we shall simply call him Biff so that his identity is kept unscathed, one way or the other. But Biff honestly wouldn’t care what you think. He’s a shamelessly confident fellow like that.

What really matters is that Biff and Mister Bear were comrades, even though Biff was secretly maddened by Mister Bear’s foul temper. For example: a friendly conversation about clothes turned sour in an instant when Mister Bear was forced to defend his nicely-trimmed coat, while Biff declared his favorite orange tracksuit to be the true setter of Hatuga’s fashion trends. In actuality, it meant small beans; they were the only odd pair of animals who actually wore clothing in the whole neighborhood. But Mister Bear would have none of it.

Before he was even aware, Mister Bear was huffing and pouting and growling and whining and snarling and jumping and clawing and clenching, reaching his peak in an angry ”GRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!” that sent a nestful of sleeping owls tumbling out of bed and hooting disoriented into the scarlet sky.

Biff was unimpressed.

“Mister Bear, for your own sake,
And because you are my friend,
I must confess you make me ache
From this flaw you cannot mend.

Therefore henceforth I shall pursue
A most ingenious plan:
To cure this rage that troubles us
And make you loved again!”

Mister Bear embarrassingly wrung his paws, for it was the first time Biff had ever confronted him about such a personal matter. But he had also simultaneously proposed a solution…so surely he had been confronted with the best intentions. Biff was a rather blunt Bison, after all, and Mister Bear was grateful for it:

“Your words ring true, indeed, dear friend!
How pleased I am to hear you’ll lend
A helpful hand to helpless brute
To finally furious nature uproot.

I’m especially pleased to realize
The extent to which you are Buffalo-wise
In quickly concocting ingenious plot
To remedy my homely lot!”

Biff smiled knowingly to himself, for he secretly knew he had no solution to the problem. Not one to be easily deterred from contributing to such a public good, he painfully tried to think up one right there on the spot – but those bees! Those rich, snobby bees, making all sorts of buzzing in their aristocratic hive, distracting Biff from helping a comrade in need of a lesson in propriety! Truly, bees were the most selfish of insects.

In a sudden flash of inspiration, Biff clicked his hooves together, just as you would snap your fingers.

“The answer came quite clear to me:
I’ll have you frisk that hive of bees
Hanging aloft in loftiest tree
As if their honey you would seize.

And, when they swarm to defend
Their precious liquid gold,
Your temper withstands the stings they send
Should you be so bold!

How expedient, a Buffalo brain!”

Mister Bear shared only an eighth of the enthusiasm his comrade held for this plan –it seemed a tad on the dangerous side. But, with a bit of trust and a bit of reluctance, he followed Biff to the highest tree in Hatuga. Bees by the thousands buzzed unawares in the branches sixty yards above, blending the sweetest royal jellies; little did they expect such a disturbance today for the public good.

Digging in his dull claws, which he unfortunately filed yesterday morning, Mister Bear heaved his way up the trunk. Its orchids were in full bloom (a peculiar hybrid it was), so one could tell that the bees’ honey would be especially delicious. Naturally, the bees were conscious of this, and so had doubled their guard.

The bees didn’t care how reputedly delicious their honey was, or if they were contributing to the public good. They would not tolerate a bear, no matter how well groomed and hygienic, sticking his grubby paws into their prized product. It was meant for her Highness, and her Highness alone.

“God save the Queen!” was the bees’ rallying cry as they drove their stingers into poor unfortunate Mister Bear’s behind. Needless to say, his temper was lost in an instant.

“GRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!”

Propelled by the force of his own angry bellow, Mister Bear fell from the great height and broke seven branches off that beautiful Orchid Tree as he tumbled down, down, and landed on Buffalo Biff’s enormous hump. Biff shoved Mister Bear off, more than slightly irritated.

“No, no, no, that will not work;
You gave up on the spot!
If trying tasks you choose to shirk,
Then help you I cannot!”

But Mister Bear looked so sad and dejected that Biff’s heart melted a little. It was for the public good, he encouraged himself. Helping his comrade to his feet and wiping his bleeding nose with the sleeve of the orange tracksuit, Biff wondered if the whole enterprise was just a load of bull. Suddenly, in another flash of inspiration, Biff clicked his hooves together.

“I swear to you, I’ve got it now!
As far as talking goes,
We should seek out Señor Cow
And trade him verbal blows.

If you withstand his grating voice
Without so much a flinch,
Controlling temperamental choice
Shall be a simple cinch!

How superfluous, a Buffalo brain!”

Unfortunately for Mister Bear, the flaw in the plan would be his own friend’s knack for commonly misplaced diction. It follows from Biff’s ignorance that Señor Cow, being a Señor and not a Señorita, would not be a cow at all, but rather a bull. An honorable, honest, handsome bull, who takes much stock in the fact that he is, indeed, a bull. To call such a masculine bull a cow would be an insult, equivalent to calling him girly. But Biff never took the time to truly know Señor Cow and therefore would not understand the simple fact that his name was Señor Bull. So, when Mister Bear, full of good intentions, approached Señor Bull under the pretense that his name possessed no connotations of gender, Señor Bull took this as a joke lacking in all sorts of decorum. As such, he verbally ridiculed the most vulnerable parts of Mister Bear.

“Mister Bear is so mopey with fear
‘Cause no animal dare to be near
His pair of old spats
That might squish them flat
Since they’re as terribly wide as his rear.”

Mister Bear’s spats were admittedly too large for his back paws, and his behind was indeed enormous, but to point these details out with such mean-spirited impropriety was only asking for a furious roar. Which Mister Bear was all too inclined to provide:

“RRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAA -“

Señor Bull, familiar with Mister Bear’s nasty temper, was not inclined to a migraine headache. With a well-placed headbutt, he stopped short Mister Bear’s infamous shout by sending him tumbling headlong down a hill.

It is an unfounded proverb, that a rolling bear gathers much moss. This moss took the form of Biff, who happened to be hiding within earshot. Both beasts were sent flopping and thudding and obtaining a great many bruises until they finally settled at the base of the hill.

Biff was more than a smidge infuriated. You might even say that Biff was miffed.

“Mister Bear, what’s your deal?
I try to teach you well,
But, every time you find the feel,
You ruin it with a yell!”

Mister Bear was growing skeptical of Biff, especially since the Bison who called himself a Buffalo could not differentiate between a bull and a cow. But Mister Bear was too beaten, and chose to keep his disagreements in bashful silence.

Biff softened when he saw how downtrodden his dear comrade was at constant failure, and when he recalled that this was all for the public good. Almost immediately, without bothering to help Mister Bear to his feet, Biff clicked together his hooves in inspiration.

“The next succeeds, or I’m a fool!
We’ll call on Missus Bear;
Then you’ll be forced to keep your cool
And thus win lighter fare.

For conversation here is key,
And confidence the lock.
Off you go to finally see
You’re not of meager stock!

How noble, a Buffalo brain!”

If put to a game of Truth or Dare, Mister Bear would confess that Missus Bear rattled the butterflies caged in his stomach. She was kind, sweet, understanding, patient – all qualities Mister Bear valued very much. Not to mention, the most important thing: she was the only other bear in Hatuga.

The pair found Missus Bear bathing in the glistening mouth of a river that poured into a lake, measuring many fathoms deep. At the impatient prodding of Biff, Mister Bear gathered the courage to plod towards her. His paws felt stuck with honey (which they were) and his gut felt sore and bruised (which it was), but he found the courage to move ever-forwards.

What a pleasant surprise for Missus Bear! Secretly, she took in Mister Bear’s inelegant whole and found it absolutely adorable. I say secretly, but it was only a secret to Mister Bear, who was so worried and self-conscious that he hardly ever approached her. Missus Bear was patient, and undeterred; Mister Bear just had a little growing-up to do.

But Mister Bear was ready this time! Time to conquer his impulsivity, full steam ahead, no holds barred!

It’s a shame he was so focused on Missus Bear that a wayward root escaped notice, stretched along his path. Mister Bear tripped over it and fell flat on his face, a great rumble shaking the wood. He tried to stand up, but could not; his snout had stuck in a gopher hole.

Missus Bear giggled to herself, which could not be helped. And, naturally, burned to the cheeks with shame, Mister Bear could not help himself, either:

“GRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRR!!!!!”

Failure. A humiliating failure. And this one was so utterly and downright defeating that Mister Bear opened his massive maw to shout to the heavens one more time…

And nothing came out.

Mister Bear didn’t feel one leftover shred of anger. He didn’t feel enraged, or miffed, or peeved, or upset, or flustered, or furious, or beside himself, or heated, or even discombobulated. He felt…relaxed, even. Was it because of that sweet smile, that knowing patience, staring back at him?

Missus Bear smiled and shook her fur dry. Standing on her hind legs, she walked over to Mister Bear in a gracious manner and placed a tender paw on his shoulder. Looking him eye to eye, she imparted him thus:

“Let your anger free
When you want a place of peace
To help clear your mind.”

Mister Bear was grateful to the moon and back for his new friend’s patience, and took her wisdom to heart. Every morning, Mister Bear would venture far off onto the outskirts of the woodland and roar to his heart’s content. All that was left was a mere tickle in the back of his throat; that tickle gave him cause to laugh. And, the more he wished to laugh, the less tempting he found it to roar. And he never laughed more than when he was in Missus Bear’s company.

Soon, very soon, Mister Bear became a much-revered neighbor in the forest of Hatuga. He was invited to social gatherings and introduced to other patient, kindly gentlebeasts by Missus Bear. Thanks to his routine, when engaged in discourse, there would be not a growl left in him. Rather, he became known for his booming, infectious laugh (I dare not characterize it here, or risk laughing myself). Though his frustrating temper once defined him, Mister Bear learned how first to control it, and then replace it with love and laughter. And Mister Bear found he was truly happy because he did not have to change one bit. It was only necessary to want more, and work towards it…with the patience of a few good creatures, of course.

But, you ask, what became of that paragon of the prairie, Buffalo Biff?

Well, as soon as Mister Bear gave out that final tremendous roar, Biff abandoned the whole enterprise on behalf of the public good. Who cared about the public good, anyway? Who did that benefit?

Biff was absolutely infuriated that his plan failed to work. He was so infuriated, he tore his orange tracksuit (which he secretly despised, wearing it only because it was a gift from his grandmother) to ribbons and rampaged all over Hatuga. He frightened the residents more than Mister Bear ever did; most of all, because he stampeded about rump-naked. Such unabashed shamelessness made his neighbors feel just as bare.

Hatuga might be more agreeable if its inhabitants understood just when they ought to remain clothed, and when it is acceptable to be in the nude. Then again…it might not.

Oh, how vain, a Buffalo brain!

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The forest of Hatuga is alive. Not merely in a general way, by association with the organisms that populate its endless expanse, no – the forest itself is truly living and breathing. In every speck of dirt, every trickling stream, every quivering palm frond, one finds a beating spirit. Despite this unusual consciousness, the roles of its eco-organs do not change in the larger body. Each has its own place in Nature, and naturally gravitates towards a nature that is natural.
It is still possible to be almost too enthusiastic about one’s place in nature, however – to emphasize what is natural, and forget what nature must do. One such speck of Hatuga, overflowing with enthusiasm for itself, is Ammolite.

Ammolite is an ancient gemstone. Primarily an emerald green, yet somehow shining a whole cascade of colors when sunlight glints just right off its ridges. And there was nothing Ammolite enjoyed more, nothing at all, than staring into its reflection as it tried to bring those hidden colors out. When the other residents of Hatuga stopped for a glimpse of its reputable sheen – that was what gave the Ammolite purpose. These eyes, gazing in wonder and respect at this gemstone of many colors. To absorb these admonitions was its role in nature.

An acorn’s purpose is to grow a tree. That tree will provide refuge and nourishment for a great number of diverse creatures. But sometimes the most important actions are not part of nature, and set something in motion that seems rather unnatural. When an acorn falls, that is a part of its purpose; it falls towards the dirt, where it will burrow and take root. But what happens when Ammolite, mesmerized by its multi-layered reflection in a rippling pond, obstructs the path between acorn and dirt? Then the acorn never meets the dirt, plinking off the Ammolite’s hard carapace and plipping into the water. Nature is not disrupted; it ceases to exist within the acorn.

The Ammolite did not feel this mere tree nut. It was only irritated by the ripples caused, disturbing its reflection. This lasted for but a moment, and the reflection burst through once again with untouched splendor to the Ammolite’s relief. But relief is unnatural, especially for the idealistic nature of the Ammolite. Horrified, as it stared harder and harder into the glassy surface, the Ammolite realized that a chunk of itself was missing. Right where the acorn plinked, an iridescent chip had dislodged and vanished.

A gleam blinded the Ammolite from the depths of the pond. Past its reflection – in fact, forever dissolving that reflection in a rainbow light – was the missing piece. Smudged with mud, mired in moss, but struck by the sun in a way that permanently achieved the Ammolite’s optimum optics. Enraged at the audacity of its missing piece, horrified that it could not be gotten back, Ammolite was so besieged by feelings that it didn’t know what to do.

The pond was deep. In actuality, it was only six feet deep, but such diminutive depth is just enough to frighten our Ammolite crouching at the water’s edge. It lamented its lost piece, for how could it hope to become whole again when rocks and gems are famous for being denser than water, in practically every situation? Down his whole would sink, lost forever for the sake of a part. What a measly, chalky part it was, compared to the whole! Who needs a chink as weak as that? Still, it was part of the Ammolite, and it longed for that piece. That piece justified its role, the purpose given to it by the forest’s accepting glances, which said, “We see and know your value.” The whole was now worthless, so long as that piece remained out of reach.

Refusing nature has a way of wearing you down – especially since wearing down is just as natural, and refusing to understand this only expedites the process. It began to show on the Ammolite, more and more pieces flaking off its beautiful coat, until it realized that completeness was more than just sediment packed together. Completeness was a fundamental foundation in its own understanding of Ammolite-ness. But then the Ammolite stopped thinking, because those thoughts made no sense. All it needed to know was that it would never be whole again without that missing piece, and that this diminished value was not worth protecting. Which, of course, it had determined at the beginning.

The Ammolite stopped its waiting, stopped its worrying, and tumbled headlong into the pond – to sink, yes, but to be made whole again. So what if it was trapped at the bottom of the pond? This insignificant pond would be made greater, for then the Ammolite’s purpose would become the pond’s purpose! All of Hatuga would gather to gaze upon the enlightened Ammolite, who turned waters to rainbows and muds to clouds. That pond would become a portal to heaven, and all of Hatuga would appreciate and understand just what that flawless gem brought to nature’s order. And so the Ammolite made peace with its piece, becoming whole once again as it settled on the pond floor atop its wayward chip.

But then something unnatural happened.

Against all odds, against the very fundamentals of science, the Ammolite began to float. With its missing piece in tow, the Ammolite rose up, up out of its watery grave! It rolled onto the shore, rejuvenated and rethinking the very understanding of its Ammolite-ness. It could float! What does this mean? Well, firstly, it meant the Ammolite could continue staring at its reflection day in and day out. So that was the very first thing it did.

One could say the Ammolite was petrified, in both figurative and literal senses. The Ammolite now saw a stranger in its reflection – not an Ammolite, not a gem, but an unimpressive grey stone. A Pumice stone, to be precise, in all its pitiful porous plaintiveness. Pumice, by nature, can float, explaining the Ammolite’s miracle. But what was the cost? Now it was no longer defined by Ammolite-ness; rather, it was condemned to see itself only in terms of Stone-ness. What the Ammolite refused to understand is that stones, like Pumice, serve an important role in the nature of Hatuga. They were not fragile colorful things to be looked upon, but hearty and practical, useful and reliable, active and essential.

But the Ammolite had been used to being praised as Ammolite for so long, it could not come to terms with the fact that it was no more than a simple stone. Instead, it sought to uncover how this unnatural state of nature came to be. Was it a mystical transfiguration? Were the waters blessed with Alchemical properties? Was it a stone all this time, deluding itself into appearing more valuable than it actually was? Then what was the point of diving in after its missing piece?
After weeks of searching for answers to no avail, the Pumice plunged back into the pond. It hoped it would change again, returning to the state of Ammolite-ness it once lay claim to. Better it would be, the Pumice thought, for me to become Ammolite again and sink to the bottom, forever remembered for my beautiful being!

Such a change never happened, would not happen, no matter how much the Pumice wished. No, it could only float where its shining reflection once stared up, dreaming of what it had thought itself, or what it once was. Floating in its own remorse, until water seeped into the holes that peppered its entirety, filled its Pumice-ness with the heavy weight of natural order, and sank the former Ammolite into the pond’s murk where it has been remorselessly forgotten.

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The insects of Hatuga are the most fascinating creatures. Touting numbers as vast as sand on the seashore, yet with species varying more than the clouds in the sky, they go about their day-to-day-lives, engrossed in miniscule projects, unaware that all the effort they put forth makes hardly an impact on the forest’s designs. They are as inconsequential as…well, insects. But, as inconsequential as they are, it does not mean their lives have any less worth within Hatuga’s complex ecosystem. They are a necessary factor; the health of the forest relies upon them.

Among Hatuga’s insect species, the most beautiful is unarguably the Luna Moth. Every night, when the moon climbs high to shine in orangeish glory, flocks of Luna Moths on their luminescent wings act as paper lanterns of the forest. The floor would be awash with fluttering blue-green ripples, as though the Caribbean itself was reflected along the trees. Hatugan Luna Moths live three years without eating, content to spend their lives in a flight propelled by electricity that sparks inside them with every flap. They do not bemoan their lot, regardless of what you might think. It is a sweet, short cycle – to live and perish in the service of beauty.

There is fulfillment in that.

One day, a new batch of Luna Moths were born into this cycle. As larva, they are solely dedicated to consumption, feasting on knowledge and resources until the trees in one area are almost entirely bare of leaves and wisdom. When they finally realize the extent of their destruction, these larva form a cocoon from an awareness of their emptiness – a cocoon of shame, you might say – so that they might grow up. From this cocoon…a miracle! The larva are reborn as matured Luna Moths, complete with a new perspective on the world. They become desirous of nothing else but to light the way for their fellow creature, through the midnight darkness of Hatuga. They fill their emptiness with moonbeams.

Or, so is typically the case. There was born into one batch a break in the cycle. That day, from two parents who loved him very much, a Very Ignorant Caterpillar was born. No one quite figured out why he was so ignorant, or if that’s what he chose to be, but there was no doubting that ignorance was his lot in life. He ate more than any other larva, but was never full. He lived on the ground, though he knew he would be happier in the trees. He drank water from the stream rather than from dewdrops on leaves, and was half-drowned each time. But, worst of all, he hated his parents, and tried incessantly to become anything other than a Luna Moth.

As the time of shame fell upon the Luna larva, the Very Ignorant Caterpillar was overcome with fear. How could he draw his cocoon, and resist the metamorphosis from child to adult? There was no logical or biological way around it, so he sought out other insects of the forest. In them, perhaps, he would find some sort of final form he could aspire to, a construction that would be entirely to his liking and against his lot. The Very Ignorant Caterpillar began his search for the perfect metamorphosis.

The first insect he happened upon was the Flower Mantis. Besides Luna Moths, Flower Mantises were the most beautiful species of insect in all Hatuga. Their abdomens resemble billowing vines, their thoraxes are like the thorny stem of a rose, their heads blossoming petals. The Very Ignorant Caterpillar sought out one of these brilliant specimens, preening its patterned wings on a branch.

“Hey! Pansy! Tell me, how can I become a Flower Mantis like you?

The Flower Mantis cocked its head, dumbfounded, and marveled, “Well, now, aren’t you a novel breed of fool?”

“A lot of insects call me that,” replied the Very Ignorant Caterpillar. “But they are just insects. What do insects know, besides eating and flying and breeding? Honestly, it’s all just a pathetic existence to me.”

“But you’re an insect, too.”

“I am what I call myself. And I call myself an aspiring Flower Mantis.”

The Flower Mantis failed to see the logic in this, as a Flower Mantis was as much an insect as any other. But he was busy trying to look beautiful, and so wanted to get the Very Ignorant Caterpillar off his back as soon as possible.

“Well, the first thing about being a Flower Mantis is that you must be beautiful.”

“Check,” affirmed our scholarly bug-worm, though he was objectively quite ugly. But it is hard to tell with compound eyes sometimes.

“The second thing is, that you must be an extension to the glory of the tree.”

“Check,” affirmed our discontented larva, though he was confused in thinking that robbing the tree of its glory was the same as prospering it.

“The third thing is,” swooned the Flower Mantis. “Your beauty must captivate a female, so that she might devour your head and ensure our mutual beauty survives.”

“Che…Wait, what?” exclaimed the Very Ignorant Caterpillar, who did not expect that being beautiful required such a finite end.

“I said –“

“I heard what you said,” he interrupted hotly, “ and I refuse to believe it. Give my valuable head up to be eaten? Ridiculous. Laughable! No, I refuse your way of doing things. You are stupid to be content with that sort of life. Where is your desire for freedom? Where is your love of free will?”

The Flower Mantis shrugged. It was not his problem that this immature little insect refused to understand how most insects live and die in fleeting beauty. Instead, he used his free will to fly off to a higher branch, hoping any more argumentative bug-worms searching for reasons to be angry wouldn’t bother him up there.

So, having your head devoured was what it meant to grow up? The Very Ignorant Caterpillar needed no more interviews. This Flower Mantis was enough to make him realize that his species was not the problem; it was the entire insect population itself. Why bother growing up, why take on the responsibility of life and action, why serve the forest by furthering the glory of the tree or lighting up the jungle, if it ended in such cruel ends? It was a predicament that bore heavily on the bug-worm’s mind, which could now focus on little else but finding a way to live forever.

The Very Ignorant Caterpillar decided he would not be an insect any longer. And, weaning off the last essence of the withered tree he called his new home just yesterday, he was struck by inspiration.

To insects, the tree is the essence of life. It is where they are born – it is where they live –
it is where they die. They were formed from the tree, and so, in gratitude, they live for the tree. It is the thing they worship, the thing they adore, the thing they strive to be closest to. Insects may pass on, naturally, but the tree lives forever, growing stronger and yielding more life each passing year. Even though they try to be like the tree, never, not in their wildest dreams, do insects dream they can actually become a tree. That would be too brash. That would be too stupid.

The Very Ignorant Caterpillar decided he would become a tree.

While all his brothers and sisters were wrapping up in their cocoons – their cocoons of shame – his parents realized their son’s absence. They knew that this particular larva was a problem child; yet they loved him all the same. They only desired, despite his objections, that he should become the brightest and most beautiful Luna Moth of all. They found him on a tree, trying his hardest to become a tree. Or, rather, thinking hard on how to become a tree.

“Why must I grow into one of you,” lamented their child when questioned about his lack of shame, “doomed to serve the forest and live for only a brief, beautiful moment? I denounce you both, you and your way of life. I will live as this tree does! Even if it means my life is no longer beautiful, but ugly as the lifeless dirt.”

The parents of the Very Ignorant Caterpillar were confused – they didn’t know how to respond to such anger – but they trusted their son. They asked him how he would go about becoming a tree.

“Don’t rush me,” he spat, “I’ve just begun to find myself.”

Having finally made a formal declaration to his makers, our little bug-worm began a journey through Hatuga. He witnessed the bird and the beast, their relationships and their way of living. He marked the smoothness of the pebble in the running spring, the crunch of death in browning leaves; he wondered at the falling of pollen from the air, and the flight of spores released by fungi. Hatuga was a big place, and, the more he questioned it, the bigger a question it appeared to be.

Why were things the way they were? The more he looked into it, the more he felt he understood…the less sense anything made. It was during this endless study that the Very Ignorant Caterpillar discovered something: he hated the forest of Hatuga.

The parents of the Very Ignorant Caterpillar fluttered in frequently to see how he was doing. They asked if he had discovered what he would become. He insisted that they give him more time to find himself, but, truly, he was just stalling. How fearful he was of death, and what his hatred of life itself implied! His mother and father, two beautiful, caring Luna Moths, worried over their son’s conflictions. But they trusted that he would work things out soon, despite his breakout of nervous sweat every time they questioned his progress. Inching back and forth along the branches, bullying his brothers and sisters while they slept inside their cocoons by rattling them from outside, the Very Ignorant Caterpillar reached a boiling point of panic. He knew a day of reckoning would soon be fast upon him if he did not come to a conclusion.

But, then, finally, inspiration! Or, at least, we shall call it inspiration because of how it arrived and prompted action; in reality, it was not a very inspiring thought at all.

His thought was this: Breaking from cocoons was the beginning of all misery, of the short-lived pointlessness cursing Luna Moths and other insects. Therefore, in order to avoid it, in order to remain a consumer who lived forever, the Very Ignorant Caterpillar had an epiphany. An epiphany that made his wriggly self tremble in defiant glee.

He would refuse to grow up!

The writhing bug-worm’s second declaration was met with even less understanding by his worried parents. “But what do they know,” he jeered, as they tried to convince him of the error in their ways. “They chose to grow up. Whatever pain they feel now is their own fault!” Little did he guess that the source of their pain was his anger and self-loathing. But he was a Very Ignorant Caterpillar, after all. We cannot expect too much from the likes of him.

At first, the Very Ignorant Caterpillar was not sure how he would go about not growing up. He decided to eat more than usual, growing larger and larger than most Luna Moths in the canopy. But, the larger he grew, the more obvious imperfections woven into the patterns lining his skin. Nevertheless, he kept on eating. These imperfections only fed his hatred, anyways, and hating had become second nature to him.

The Very Ignorant Caterpillar lifted his spirits by berating his entire flock of Luna Moth, denouncing their way of living as “despicable” and “ignorant.” He would lounge about in the highest leaves, hurling down a constant tirade of insults from above. The Luna Moths were too busy doing what nature decreed to hear him – this was a personal outrage to the Very Ignorant Caterpillar. They only began to take notice when he would drop sticks and fruit on them from above, for then he was actually being harmful.

His parents tried, once more, to parent him. They couldn’t bear to watch their child’s degradation, and tried a final time to help him see reason. His way of living was no way to live, and he risked never being happy by refusing to grow up. They did not object to his interrogatory nature, but, by destroying the stability of everything around him in his own mind, he was leading himself to self-destruction. “Self-destruction?” questioned the Very Ignorant Caterpillar. “The essence of maturity is finding fault in the world. It is you who refuse to grow up and understand that growing up is the source of all things problematic.”

He did not necessarily elaborate on what was problematic exactly, but instead chucked a Brazilian nut at a poor Tarantula who wasn’t bothering anybody.

This conference enlightened the Very Ignorant Caterpillar, though. For some reason, no one in Hatuga took him seriously. He couldn’t put his antennae on the reason why – that is, until his parents came to visit. Surely, they did not take him seriously, because they knew it was only temporary! They were secretly plotting in the underbrush how they might force him to grow up with their superior numbers! This revelation terrified the Very Ignorant Caterpillar. How could he preserve himself, since taking on the entire insect population was impossible?

The Very Ignorant Caterpillar discovered an occupation to counteract growing up, and it was in this occupation he found his calling. It was with great pride and pleasure that the Very Ignorant Caterpillar found a calling in educating future larva, to understand just how unfair growing up was. They would become his defense against the Luna Moths.

Seizing a perch on a prized branch, with plenty of space accounted for by an intricate array of crisscrossed twigs, our rebellious wriggler became a professor. He was no longer the “Very Ignorant Caterpillar,” but “Professor Caterpillar,” and school was in session. Few insects came when they first heard the call, but newcomers arrived every day. It helped that Professor Caterpillar spent all his time complaining, desperate to be heard; his rabble-rousing voice was a call to action, a call to seize a new day for the little bug. Some came because of rumors that he held the secret to living forever, but these are unfounded.

Now, there are teachers, and there are professors. The difference between the two is that the teacher teaches, and the professor professes. Some professors are wise, professing wisdoms that expound upon or complement teachings. Some professors, on the other hand, are ignorant, and use their position to tell students semi-truths they want to hear, to leave a legacy of students following their miserable lifestyle.

Professor Caterpillar professed a breed of miserable thoughts. All species of insect larva from all over the forest came to hear him rant and rave on the evils of Hatuga, and how it wished to make them miserable by forcing them to grow up. The secret behind growing up was responsibility – the dignifying of fruitless labor. Or, rather, that the fruit was healthy but didn’t taste very good. Time was much more fun spent on proving how growing up was a bad idea, how adults wanted to make them as hopeless as themselves. His misery was defined so eloquently by big words and academically credited by scholars of the same emotional strand that his class soon became “flying-room-only” by interested youths. Professor Caterpillar had found himself, so he thought, by forming a nest of the classroom.

In the middle of his seventh class, Professor Caterpillar’s mother and father entered through the back. They were surrounded by stinkbugs, blister bugs, centipedes, mealworms, roaches, butterflies, beetles, dragonflies, horseflies, mantises, ticks, and countless other arthropods. The only difference between the Luna Moths and their son’s pupils was that, like their professor, the pupils had refused to grow up. They adored that vehement figurehead. Casting off the pressure to grow into their destiny, they had become like their intellectual idol; defiant, bitter, and cruel.

Speaking of cruelty, Professor Caterpillar saw his parents the moment they fluttered in. With a leer fit for the worst of foes, he aimed the stick-bug he used as a pointer directly at them. It was a challenge to those that bore him into this cruel world.

“Why,” questioned Professor Caterpillar, “have your kind oppressed us so? We refuse to go quietly into the adulthood you have forced upon us!”

Recognizing adults in the room, the students swarmed up to them, forming a wall of disdain.
“Boo! Boo!” The bugs-who-refused-to-grow-up hissed in unison.

The Luna Moths were frightened by unwarranted hatred that they did not understand. But they had to get through to their son. They had to see eye-to-eye with him, no matter what.

“We didn’t force you to do anything, dear. We love you. But that is how Hatuga is, and it’s not a bad life if you look for the beauty in it.”

“Boo! Boo!” shouted the students in disapproval.

“Your Hatuga…” Professor Caterpillar was feeling hot in the head; he had waited for this moment his whole life. “Your Hatuga! Without us to consume it, to take from it and find happiness in eternal youth, it might as well not exist! I denounce a forest that we have to work for!”

“You could have left anytime you wanted to.”

“Boo! Boo!” shouted the students again, though something made sense in what these Luna Moths said.

“Leave? I don’t have to leave! I will do as I please!”

“But you’ve chosen to do nothing.”

“What do you call this, my pupils? There are many of us who agree on Hatuga’s cruelty. You two are in the minority. We question your stupid, selfless way of life, ignorant insects!”

“And have you found the right answer?”

“Boo…” The opposition from the pupils had grown fainter. The opposition was collapsing.
Professor Caterpillar inched back. He wanted to tell them all he had learned. He wanted to tell them the right way to live. But he couldn’t – he had only been looking for what was wrong with Hatuga to condemn it, not to suggest solutions.

With glistening eyes of pity, the Luna Moths glided across the classroom. Not a single bug reared up in their way. The reached the front of the classroom, where their son was quaking with shame. His eyes glowed with the dullness of one who refuses to believe they are in the wrong, yet must tune out to prevent their opponent from showing just how wrong they are.

But the Luna Moths enfolded their son in their wings. They met his screaming heart with a whisper.

“You have done nothing but question and question and search and search your whole life away. Not once were you looking for answers, but just a reason to keep your dissatisfaction alive. You know you cannot solve anything until you become an adult. Then you have a choice: to settle upon your endless questions, or to flap your way far from Hatuga. But at least you will have that choice. Hurry, son! There is not much time left.”

The electricity from his parents’ wings cooled Professor Caterpillar. He began to feel very silly at having spent all his life hating life. Surely there might be something he could find happiness in? There must be something more than this!

Then he realized it, with a burst of glee. Shoving his parents away, he spread all his little legs out, as if embracing instead the entire classroom.

“I don’t need answers, I don’t need happiness. I have my students, my real family, and the solidarity of our hatred!”

The Luna Moths looked at their son, and his fake, condescending grin. For the first time, they saw their son as less than a caterpillar.

In that moment, they saw in him a leech.

“We’re sorry, son. But that sounds just too miserable for us.”

With that, they flapped away to join the flock of Luna Moths overhead. As he watched their figures fade, Professor Caterpillar’s forced smile faded away. The weight of their words hurt his heart, but it had long since frozen over.

He turned back to his students for refuge, but found his home greatly shaken. Not just the words, but the tone, the very nature of the Luna Moths had impacted their outlook on Hatuga. There was a sense of urgency tangled up in reassuring emotions, freed after watching the interaction between parents and son: the urgency of growing up. While his back was turned, many concluded on their own the despair in the Professor’s way of life, the life of always doubting and never being satisfied. Those flew away to form cocoons. Only a few remained behind, and, even then, not with full confidence.

When Professor Caterpillar discovered this wound on his legacy, he seethed with the fury only known by a stricken hornets’ nest. So, they dared attack his source of meaning? Right! Then, he would attack their source of meaning! Professor Caterpillar raised the buzz of war, declaring that the rebels of Hatuga would sneak into Luna Moths’ nests everywhere and force them, one way or another, to reject their old way of living. They would, by his thunder, give up their habits of illumination. So long as one moth had the freedom to practice life without constant questions, life resting in tradition, professor and students would have no peace. Before his infantile army, he bellowed a call to battle:

“My students! My fellows in intellectual ponderings and wonderings! We have frightened the Luna Moths, for they know we know of our knowledge that knowledge means nothing. They know that, by not growing up, we refuse to slave away for Hatuga. And yet, still! Still they stick to it as though their lives depend on it, flitting around in blissful ignorance, while we are mired in sloughs of truth. Today, we open their eyes! We pull them down to our level, by argument or by force, and show that they have every right to be just as miserable as we are. The life of adulthood is just too cruel. Better to eat all you can, and work for no one! You and I, we know that the meaning of life is to be aware of Hatuga, to criticize it, and to become joined in hatred against that mysterious entity. For by its mystery, we know nothing! Let us now shake the larva from their cocoons, shoot down those deplorable moths, and teach them exactly what life should be all about!”

With roars of united fury, the Professor and his remaining disciples prepared for their onslaught upon the Luna Moth population, with sharpened mandibles and as many projectiles as they could carry upon their backs. It was a mob of the worst quality: obsession.

Professor Caterpillar might have succeeded in the onslaught he practiced over and over in his head, except he failed to take into account one fact. It wasn’t the fact that prepubescent insects are very weak, and can’t hold much with their flimsy legs. It wasn’t the fact that the Luna Moths, with their cocoons, were too fast and too many to be intimidated. No, the fact that Professor Caterpillar ignored was none other than timing – the ficklest of all coincidences. The whole purpose for Professor Caterpillar’s parent-to-teacher conference was so he might see his one last chance to grow up, before it was too late.

Only adult insects, you understand, can sense the forthcoming winter.

Upon the eve of the attack, Professor Caterpillar was stunned to find cocoons abandoned, and not a drop of bioluminescence left behind by his species. He and his comrades were even more stunned to be swept up in an ice storm not seen before in lower Hatuga, only in the extreme North beyond. It was as though Hatuga was aware of the fallacy that rocked its goodness, and came to deprive the Professor Caterpillar of the very thing he hated most: life

Shrieking about how unfair it all was, how this chaos was all orchestrated by the Luna Moths out of spite, the Professor and his pupils were swept up into the freezing cyclone. Insects in a tornado, the majority were dashed to bits by hail and branches; Nihilistic splatterings all washed away by that pure white fist from the North, come to wipe the slate crystal clean.

When the Luna Moths migrated Northwards again, they found not a single remain of the Professor’s pupils, or his classroom. There was, however, a hint of where it was once constructed.

That hint was the Professor himself, encased in a solid block of ice.

Professor Caterpillar was now no more than the Very Ignorant Caterpillar once again, on account of he had lost all his pupils. In the thick of the great ice storm, he retreated to his safe haven, the classroom; round and round it broke apart, round and round it was whisked up into the air. Watching his source of meaning vanish, as ethereal as the thoughts he dwelt upon, the Very Ignorant Caterpillar froze from the inside out.

That is the reason, even though he was an adult in age, he did not sense the blizzard; his obstinate anger had long ago frozen his heart thrice over. Thus, he did not sense the cold because he was always cold. This balancing force of internal and external chill preserved him, forever, trapped in the middle.

The Very Ignorant Caterpillar’s mother and father were sad, disappointed – but they did not abandon their son. Every day they would visit them, try to help him see the wonder of life. They taught him that finding solidarity in misery, a thing that can never be wholly solved, is not worth investing one’s precious hours in. Little by little, the ice seemed to melt away from the Very Ignorant Caterpillar. It was a new metamorphosis, one in which the mind rather than the body goes through change, finds new life. The Luna Moths saw this, and eagerly came more often in the hopes of giving their son the love he needed to thaw his heart.

Then came the day of offspring, a beautiful celebration in which new Luna Moth caterpillars find their way into the world. It was a lovely time, full of laughter and the crying of new voices; the Luna Moths were eager to share this miracle with the Very Ignorant Caterpillar. It was the last burst of hope he needed, they were sure, to break free of his icy prison. They all fluttered, as fast as they could with larva in tow, to reach the block of ice. They presented the children to the Very Ignorant Caterpillar with loving smiles and warm feelings, ready to have their son restored to them.

To their amazement, before their very eyes, it was the ice that restored itself, freezing over a new coat. A cruel smile had creaked across the Very Ignorant Caterpillar’s face as he watched these new thinkers, these new minds to mold into ruthless projections of his own failures.
In these children he saw the vehicles for vengeance upon anything that might find peace in a world set against him; in them he saw the next line of Very Ignorant Caterpillars. Nothing gave him more hope, than to continue gnawing away at Hatuga alongside them.

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Deep beyond the Wilds, nestled atop the crook of the furthest mountain, grows the lush forest of Hatuga. It is a trove of the most eye-popping hues of verdant greens, a beautiful, brilliant sea of flowers and broadleaf evergreen trees. Many animals fed on these bounties, and other animals fed on them: the Puma and the Mountain Goat, the Wolf and the Ram, the Bear and the Bison, the Owl and the Rabbit. It was the constant passing cycle of life, making its turns atop the mountain in the secluded forest of Hatuga.

In the center of this cycle, at once both over and under the hills, flowed two waterfalls.

The first was a roaring rapid, confident in her abundance of water and surest of the proper path to wind across. She was broad, powerful, and delicious, blessed with healthy stores of iron and calcium that she pocketed on her way through Hatuga. She was happy to be of use to the plants and animals, soaking the ferns with injections of groundwater and lapping against the feet of predators and prey alike that came for a cool sip. Her surface was a fascinating crystalloid blue, clear to the very bottom. Hatuga was her charge, and she kept very good care of it.

The same could not be said for her twin brother.

He was a small trickle, a hardly noticeable stream. While she was a deafening pound on the rocks, he was an unsteady, unsure plip, plip. The insects appreciated his work, as did the various weeds and moss that grew near enough to drink, but his purpose was an altogether useless one; his sister did the same as he, but one hundred fold. Even the ground squirrels would laugh at him for his lack of a purpose. But still he would pour along at the expenditure of his own pride and strength, growing smaller and smaller every day. What kind of a pathetic waterfall was he?

One day his sister grew tired of seeing him go about his duties in dejected silence.

“Brother Fall, why do you mumble to yourself so?” She bubbled jovially, to cheer him up, “It is a bright day, the birds are chirping, and the land is vast. For what reason could there possibly be to grumble for?”

The smaller brook sighed, for he was growing weary of his apparent lack of purpose.

“Sister Fall, it is not that I see our home and tired of it. No, it is that I see my own reflection in the sky and am ashamed. What can I do that you cannot do better? What purpose do I have if Hatuga can get along without me? I wish Mother Nature would explain to me exactly what I ought to do, to truly find my purpose.”

“Oh, is that all, Brother Fall? I can lend a hand, or at least try! For you know I am a sister who gives help when anyone asks for it, especially when no one asks for it! I’d say that you are in need of help, and I am in need to give. So, come, follow me!”

Sister Fall was determined to find her brother a purpose; she could not stand to see someone so dejected in paradise. They wound their way through Hatuga until she happened upon an opportunity to help Brother Fall, which was discovered deep in a small grove of slightly submerged conifers.

“Brother Fall, see what I have found! I make mistakes, too, for I have flooded these grounds in my hurry. I haven’t the delicacy to open back up and receive the water burdening these poor trees. But perhaps you could stretch wide your mouth and drain these grounds of my mess? Doesn’t that sound like an excellent purpose?”

Brother Fall saw the land and was intimidated. It was vast, and every corner was tree-deep in water. But he intended to find his purpose and not disappoint his sister, so he opened up wide and sucked in the water. The water level lowered, and the trees began to cheer for him as they could breathe below again. Brother Fall felt accomplished. However, carrying the load downstream proved more difficult than simply lifting it. The water spilled out onto trees along his own banks, washing away the soil and causing the smaller ones to collapse. The air was filled with angry shouts from the foliage, and he was immediately ashamed at his failure.
Sister Fall refused to give up – she refused to let him give up, too. They wound their way through Hatuga until she happened upon another opportunity to help Brother Fall. This opportunity was lighted underground, in a dark, damp cave.

“Brother Fall, see what I have found! All this untapped water, hidden from those who need it, floating silently without a life to care for in the world. I cannot reach this water without flooding the caverns…is it possible for you to bring this abundance aboveground, to Hatuga? Doesn’t that sound like an excellent purpose?”

Brother Fall saw the land and was intimidated. It was vast, and every corner seemed jagged and unfamiliar. But he intended to find his purpose and not disappoint his sister, so he began to collect water from the cave. However, when he looked up, his temperature dropped twenty degrees under the glare of hundreds of irritated, glowing eyes. With furious squeaking, they plunged down at him and skimmed across his water with furry wings. Shivering, Brother Fall retreated within himself, only to find hundreds of whiskered pink fish swimming about his depths. They were oddly comforting, until one approached him with a raspy voice.
“Sir, could you raise your temperature a few degrees? It has grown surprisingly frigid.”

The fish had no eyes.

Roaring in fear, Brother Fall rushed out of the cave and back to his sister. The fish and bats jeered and laughed at him all the way, and he was later ashamed of his cowardice.
Sister Fall refused to give up, and refused to let him give up, too. They wound their way through Hatuga until she happened upon another opportunity to help Brother Fall, which was discovered in a very dry, remote area near the face of a thirsty cliff.

“Brother Fall, see what I have found! How the animals and vegetation pine for nourishing mouthfuls of water. You must give it to them! For, surely, if I were to stampede across the land, I would cause a mudslide and ruin hundreds of homes. So, please, Brother Fall, help those who exist in this barren place! Doesn’t that sound like an excellent purpose?”

Brother Fall saw the land and was intimidated. It was vast, and every corner seemed scalding to the touch. But he intended to find his purpose and not disappoint his sister, so he started on his trek across the small desert.

Brother Fall made good progress, and his sister felt pride in her work. As he was reaching the end of the seemingly short journey, something started to cloud his vision. Looking down, he realized with a nauseous feeling that it was steam.

His body was evaporating.

The dirt and sand had looked hot, but never did he imagine that he would wither away trying to conquer it. His sister now saw the danger. She pleaded for him to return, sorry for asking him to do something he couldn’t. But Brother Fall refused to give up, even if everyone stopped believing in him. The edge of the cliff was upon him: if he reached it, Sister Fall would be able to replenish his shallow bed. He ignored her calling and pressed onwards, no matter how the heat bore down on him, no matter how weak and heavy he felt despite how much lighter he was actually becoming. The edge was in sight – he was so close. Brother Fall reached out to send the last drop of himself over the cliff.

But there was no drop left to send. Yet, Brother Fall was no longer ashamed. Brother Fall was gone.

Distraught, Sister Fall’s waters receded as she cried silently to herself. She was sorry for trying to make Brother Fall something he couldn’t be, sorry for pushing him beyond his own limits, sorry that Mother Nature had chosen to bless her over him, though she made them equal. She wished that Brother Fall could have at least found his purpose, disappearing with happiness in his heart.

In a place both near to and far from the forest of Hatuga, Mother Nature heard Sister Fall’s lament – it brought a smile to her face. Little did Sister Fall know, but Brother Fall was not gone. Just because water may evaporate, does not mean it ceases to be; it simply becomes something else. Mother Nature took Brother Fall’s vapor, which had been gathering slowly, but surely, in the air from his hard work, and formed him into a good-sized raincloud.

When Sister Fall looked up to see Brother Fall, now Brother Raincloud, beaming down at her, she rejoiced. He was a marvelous raincloud, gray and gloomy looking, but filled with life on the inside. This life he poured down across all of Hatuga, thanks to Sister Fall’s relentless encouragement, and she passed it down to those who now relied on both of them. This is the constant passing cycle of life, making its turns atop the mountain in the secluded forest of Hatuga.

Mother Nature was pleased at the sight of her domain in its teeming glory, with Brother Raincloud and Sister Fall at the center of it all. She laughed to herself:

“Everything has a purpose, dear ones. Just because it is difficult to attain does not mean it is not there, so long as you keep an open mind. You never know if the path you seek is the one you will excel on or find happiness at the end of, after all. For the land is vast and every corner is concealing a new opportunity; you only need find the heart to reach out and grasp them for your own.”

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The Forest of Hatuga is not merely some plain old forest, a place for trees to grow and birds to sing. It is also a state of mind. And, just as the mind will be distracted by flights of fancy or honed towards grand ambitions, so does Hatuga find itself lined by rocky shores and faced with a seemingly endless sea.

At the Westmost point of the greenery, the greenery becomes grayery. Soft soil gives way to gravel, and the sound of rustling leaves blends with before being silenced by the lapping of frigid foaming waves. Off those shores are depths teeming with life and death, with mysteries unknown. But what is known is that it is almost impossible to reach those waters from the forest. You will find your way barred, for the beach itself is inhospitable to anyone with a working nose and a need for personal space. There is no room to put your foot, and no air for you to clear out that dank, fishy smell. There is only room for blubber.

The beach, you see, is made up of Walrus.

From shore to shore, all the way up and all the way down, Walrus as far as the eye can stretch. This desolate beach is theirs, claimed ages ago by their simply being too massive a mass to move. They have so overrun the shore that there is now more Walrus than beach. And, yet, they hardly do anything with it, other than bask in their odors and bellow occasionally from boredom. Most of these Walruses were complacent in discomfort, supported on all sides by their family, back-to-back with friends who were also most likely their family by some way or another. It may not have been fulfilling, but being surrounded on all sides, being accepted by so many, being a Walrus among Walruses – there was a mutual misery to it. It felt true.

To most Walruses, anyway – but not all. What can be said for one flabby mammal cannot be said for the next, especially if the next flabby mammal was actually two tons of pure muscle, sporting magnificent four-foot long tusks, certain that he had a reason for being possessed with prowess, rather than to just laze about surrounded on all sides by hopelessness. Such a Walrus did exist, and was quite unhappy with his society. He might have still been just a Walrus among Walruses, but he was head and shoulders above the rest in physical capability. Even more impressively, that Walrus had a dream. He had a purpose in life, beyond finding a place to fit amidst a sweaty crowd of complacency.

Walruses, by culture, are not distinguished by name so much as by physical characteristics. But this particular Walrus wanted more than anything to make a name for himself: Ardus. A name fashioned from the word “ardent” which characterized one burning with passion, as this particular beast was. But what exactly did he burn with passion for? Well, even he had been pondering over that question for some time, his ambition and talent finding no direction or focus; it was hard to see beyond the confines of the beach. But then, one day, looking up above the land of brown, wrinkled blubber around him, inspiration struck.

Walruses, not so inclined to move, pass most of their time steeped in stories. Every time they bellow, a new story is being born or an old one is finding new legs to keep running. That is their culture, and many fables from the Hatugan Forest people were actually learnt from this shore. Others were just rumors, dreams; of places where Walrus could live without being so crowded, where fish teemed in unimaginable numbers, and could keep every single vast belly satisfied. But these were just stories, dismissed as nice but fruitless dreams among the community.

Ardus was the only one to stock the rumors as true, absolutely true, as plain as the cliff that rose immediately above the beach. He needed the rumors to be true, for he saw how living in such close quarters, with nothing to distinguish themselves on this murky grey beach, whittled away at the health of his fellow Walruses. Lack of purpose made their tusks brittle, their muscles saggy, and their minds lethargic. So, Ardus took stock in rumors that at the top of that cliff was a plateau beyond the clouds; he was certain that was where the paradise he searched for was. A place with room for all, where no longer they would live nameless – one miserable mass.

Ardus was determined to reach the top of the cliff, and make freedom and his own worth clearer than any coastal afternoon. He had the account supported by multiple birds, each a different species, who relayed eyewitness descriptions that were all the same yet differing slightly by some detail or another. One bird might focus on the types of fruit or layout of the lakes, while another would describe the health of the trees and the flavors of fish. This formed in Ardus’ mind the perfect picture of what he must do, to reach the satisfaction that awaited him at the top of the cliff. He told tales of what he had heard, hoping to spur in his friends and family the same thirst for something more; but they listened as they would to any other tale, and considered only the impossible hope such a climb required, and how little faith they had in eyewitness accounts since their own eyes were still limited to the beach. Tales of the top of the cliff only increased the Walrus’ despair, and so Ardus stopped feeding them hope.

There was one beast, however, who saw something more in Ardus’ desires. That beast was a crafty creature, desperate, starving, the natural predator of contented mammals. Spending his time on the outskirts of the Walrus’ enclave, Polar Bear tried to make himself as scarce as possible, to not arouse suspicion. Little did the Walrus’ realize that their numbers were shaved off every month as this Polar Bear snatched away their sick of body and weak of spirit, making a meal of the worst the beach had to offer. It was not sustainable, though, and the Polar Bear found himself reduced to skin and bones. He was not enough to take on a full-grown Walrus, so he relied, not on his brain, but on pure ill will to survive. And there was no Walrus that he desired to put that ill will upon more so than Ardus.

When word reached his ragged ears that Ardus was thinking of taking on the climb up that mystical cliff hanging over the beach, the Polar Bear was cautious. He knew this was the perfect opportunity to ruin that magnificent Walrus among Walruses, and so set upon unfolding a devious plot to wipe out hope forever. Seeking out the victim was not terribly hard; retaining the inconspicuous nature of his plan was the greater challenge.

“Ho there, you, Walrus!”

All brown wrinkled heads turned towards the Polar Bear with curiosity. They were eager for a new story.

“No, no, not all of you! I’m talking to the guy who wants to climb that cliff over there! Where’s he at?”

The Walruses had no idea who he was referring to:

“Come to think of it, someone like that does exist, don’t they?”

“Yeah, I heard it somewhere. Did it come from further up the beach?”

“Does it matter? It will end in nothing, anyway. As usual.”

“Don’t ruin a good distraction. Someone find him!”

“Yes, let’s find him…What’s his name, again?”

“What’s your name, again?”

“Why should you care?”

The dialogue proceeded aimlessly like this, so the Polar Bear set out along the shadows of scorched palm trees to find Ardus on his own, wherever he might be.

The Polar Bear’s initiative was rewarded when a thick, eager head, taller than those around him, rose from the middle of the Walrus pack. Word had reached Ardus that someone was looking for him, and the hope that it was a way out of this way of living caused him to swell up with anticipation.

“You there! Big fellow with the bright eyes!”

This time, no Walrus responded to the Polar Bear’s call but Ardus, who turned quicker than might be expected given his size. The Polar Bear smiled an affable, sweet smile, a smile full of false tenderness, and plopped down on his scraggly haunches in the shade of the palms. Ardus climbed over his neighbors to greet him.

“So. Ardus, right? I hear you’ve been wanting to climb up the cliff?”

Instinctively, Ardus’ whiskers stretched toward the monstrous land mass as if drawn to it. He laughed and shook his head.

“It’s nice to know that somebody hears me. But I can’t even consider climbing it.”

“You’re kidding. Why not?”

“Well, it’s never been done before. The rest of my friends and family seem to think it’s impossible…that, even if it could be done, it’s not worth it. I’m just not sure I could make any good come out of it – in case I reach the top and can’t come back down.”

“Come back down? Why would you want to do a thing like that? Isn’t your dream to get far away from this beach?”

Ardus gazed with selfless splendor at that dastardly Polar Bear, who licked a chapped paw and winked out of one blind eye, so that his seeing eye kept secret the designs he had for this inspiring specimen. Ardus told the Polar Bear his dream: “To reach a world where every Walrus can live his own life, with the hope that it would be a life worth living apart from empty stories.”
The Polar Bear was struck with admiration. But his hunger struck him with far more force, from dawn until dusk for decades. He seamlessly moved into the next phase of his plot.

“Then why don’t you try reaching the top of that there cliff? I heard there’s a paradise that awaits the top of its plateau. Limitless space, a new story awaiting every free soul who makes the climb. All your dreams would be proven reality; you would never despair again.”

Ardus gazed down, bashful despite his impressive attributes, and was about to make the argument that he just couldn’t, that he wasn’t strong enough. But the Polar Bear felt this coming, and countered first.

“You might not be strong enough, true. But you are still the strongest Walrus I’ve ever seen, with the most powerful tusks under that sturdy lip of yours. If you can’t make it to the top, I’d reckon no Walrus ever will. They never will.”

That was enough to convince Ardus. He was the only one who could tackle this feat and survive. His prowess must be put to its proper use or else they would all be trapped in despair forever – the idea spurred him on towards that monumental task more than any vague wondering he had done before.

After thanking the Polar Bear, who bowed his way out behind the cover of brushes and reeds, ready to watch his designs unfold, Ardus set about at once on the journey upwards. But the beach was so crowded, the blubber so thick, that there was no path from Ardus to the cliff. He would have to make his own path.

“Hey, what’s going on? Lay down!”

“Watch where you’re flopping!”

“Get those flippers out of our faces!”

“Sorry…sorry…”

Ardus had no choice but to push his way around, over, under the crowd. Wherever there was a tiny opening, he made use of it; prying with his tusks, pushing with his flippers, anything to make his way to the cliff. Even when he finally reached it, already worn out from dirty glares sent his way by beady eyes, the work was not yet done. There was so little room on the beach, that many Walruses had made their homes up the side of the cliff as well. Though, of course, they had no intention of going any further up, or even coming down.

Mounting this last hurdle before he could even begin, Ardus pushed himself over the motionless forms, much harder now that he was moving up an incline. These Walruses reacted more violently than the ones on the beach, slapping him in the face and poking him with their tusks. But still Ardus did not heed these bitter mountaineers, except for trying to disturb them as little as possible as he left them behind, slightly flattened.

Finally, Ardus reached a point where there was only the sheer face of the cliff left before him. He was already tired, but, as he turned around to look behind, he was reinvigorated. Indeed, all those Walruses were now in his past. Still they looked to him, though, not in annoyance from being trampled over, but out of curiosity for this one lone brown shape’s choice to break from the mold. They were interested: a new story was offering itself up for birth, and all they had to do was watch.

The Polar Bear, also curious to see the outcome, plodded out onto a boulder and hung himself over it like a blanket. This was definitely a gamble he wanted to see out, for he did not lie when he called Ardus the only Walrus who could conquer that cliff. The outcome could go either way.
Motivated, Ardus turned upwards. He was ready to inspire the other Walruses with his dream, to give them a name that would prove hope was not just some easily-dismissed fairytale. Such was his destiny! He would go to meet it, for better or worse. The climb began.

It would be an understatement to call the cliff an impossible climb. Makes sense, since Paradises only seem to exist above hostile surroundings. With a face made of sheer slate, the smooth shingled rock was hard to grip and even harder to pierce. A few prickly weeds sprouted between the cracks, the only source of sustenance across many miles to the plateau. All this taken into consideration, and the worst of all still remained: the angle of the slope. It sloped like an inverted hourglass; rather than pinched in the middle, the cliff was pinched midway to the middle and midway to the end, but expanded like an octahedron would round the center.

This meant that, near the halfway mark, Ardus’ climb would be entirely upside down.

Nevertheless, while we stand by, assessing and calculating levels of dread, Ardus had already begun his ascent! At first it was only tiresome, not all that difficult; it took a week for Ardus to reach a point where he could go on no longer. Every time he took a bound forward, he would slide backwards to the point of bounding.

Embarrassed and worried, Ardus glanced backwards to the Walruses below. All eyes were still on him, all eyes were craving the distraction he promised. Ardus, good-hearted as he was, mistook these blank stares as the support of his tribe, and determined he would not give up. However, no matter how far he jumped, he could not make any ground. For hours he bounced and flopped and did everything he could to stick to the incline. But failure after failure tired him out, and his head began to feel heavy from no repast.

KA-CHUNK!

Startled, Ardus opened his sleepy eyes. At first he thought he was slipping back down, but that was only his body flattened against the cool slate. His head, on the other hand, rooted his position in place; when Ardus made his last leap, his head felt so heavy that it flopped forward on impact – those magnificent tusks of his pierced the rock.

The method was painful, but it was the only way. Ardus used his tusks to climb.

The work was numbing. The more Ardus placed strain on his tusks, the less he felt the pain. Soon, he felt his body float, for he had reached the point where the cliff curved around, and the face pointed straight down to the mass of Walrus below. Ardus did not know what to do. If he removed his tusks, he would plummet like a rock off the face of the Earth.

Helpless, for a full day he hung there, wondering: How can I go on?

“Well, SQUAWK have we here?”

Two seagulls flew around Ardus’ head, chortling at his unfortunate position.

“Looks like a Walrus who decided he’d SQUAWK being a Mountain Goat for a change!”

“What a moron. Hey, tubby! Why don’t you jiggle SQUAWK home to your tribe?”

Ardus wanted desperately to answer them, to tell them of the hope he had and the destiny he would definitely fulfill. But his tusks were so imbedded in the rock for dear life, that he could not articulate.

“Sorry, SQUAWK, we can’t understand idiots who don’t know what’s good for them!”

The cackling seagulls sprayed Ardus with refuse and flapped away.

Ardus was at his breaking point. He had been unmoving for days, stuck there, and the seagulls’ insult fast dried between his wrinkles. He tried to cry, thinking it would make him feel better, but water had been scarce. All that came out was sticky mucus.

Then, in his darkest hour – a stroke of inspiration! Surely it was a sign from above. Ardus snorted, over and over, spraying the mucus all over his body. It was disgusting, it was defacing, but his very life and dream depended upon it. When he felt he had showered enough in the sticky stuff, he swung back, and forth, back, and forth, back, and splat!

For a brief few seconds, Ardus stuck his back to the face of the cliff. A few seconds were all he needed to yank out his tusks, roll forward, and slam them back again like a sledgehammer. All this, and he had moved his position a good twenty feet. Ardus lathered himself again, and prepared to keep going.

It was a long haul, but the length passed quickly. Ardus made his way to the edge, swung his head over the point, and stabbed his tusks into flat ground. He pulled himself over and looked up. How relieved he was, to see that the cliff was not an inverted hourglass as he thought, but that the second half was flat ground before going into a straight vertical summit! The top was covered by clouds, preventing Ardus from peeping into the plateau of Paradise.

“I’ll see it soon,” he panted. “It’s only a matter of time now. And…strength.”

Ardus turned back around and stared down. His Walrus brethren seemed leagues away, brown speckles across the shore. He flapped a flipper at them, to show he was all right and going on ahead. Receiving no response, Ardus decided that it was late anyway, and perhaps their strained eyes were unable to see him.

The truth is, the Walrus tribe had looked away while Ardus was dangling from the side of the cliff. They lost hope in him, felt terrible for his fate, and turned their eyes to more peaceable and less threatening distractions. The Polar Bear, however, found his hope at its highest in this moment, and was waiting for that plump, juicy dreamer to fall to his death, ensuring a feast for the white devil that would last him many a moon. His patience wore thin, as Ardus refused to budge, so he encouraged that pair of birdbrained seagulls to taunt the landlocked Walrus. While he found amusement in their cruelty, it fast turned to horror when he first witnessed Ardus’ ingenious way of overcoming that impassible problem. The Polar Bear’s eyes, the only eyes that remained fixated on Ardus during the whole exploit, strained until they became irritably bloodshot.

Ardus was granted a brief rest as he lumbered across the flat part of the cliff. He drank as much as he could, ate every scrawny weed he could find, before attempting the next half of the climb. The sunset was more crimson and rippling than he ever thought possible, more beautiful than it had seemed on the shore with the rest of his tribe, where it blinded them as it glanced off the waves. Ardus knew with all conviction, at that moment, that this was what he was meant to do. He felt energized, refreshed, ready to conquer and take control of his destiny. It was a destiny that no longer seemed immeasurably far now, only a few miles up.

When he reached the base of the vertical rock, Ardus noticed steam wafting up between a wall of pebbles and moss. He followed the direction from where the wind blew, and the steam grew thicker, warmer. Heaving his heavy self over a few hot stones, the friendly voice of animals reached him, singing a wordless song. The song stopped immediately when Ardus became visible, and when the source of the song became visible to Ardus.

Before him was a small hot springs, filled with birds and monkeys, mountain goats and jungle cats, creatures that had no problem scaling their way up the side of sheer cliffs. Their faces were obscured by the steam and bubbles, but Ardus could tell they were completely lost in relaxation.

“Where you come from, big boy?”

A Gibbon, hunched at the edge of the springs, was watching Ardus with meditative eyes.

“I came from the tribe of Walrus at the base of this cliff. I’m seeking Paradise.”

The Gibbon hooted, and stretched his lanky arms out in welcome.

“Lucky you, you’ve found it. There’s plenty of room, come join us.”

The truth was, very little room was left, and the complacency of the bathing animals blinded them from the fact that Ardus’ entering might cause most of the water to spill out. But Ardus did not come to linger, and shook his head.

“No? Oh, I gotchya…your idea of Paradise is up there?”

A long, baggy finger pointed straight up, to the clouded plateau. Ardus nodded.

All of the animals sighed as one; a sigh of pity they wheezed.

“Big boy, some of us came from up there. It’s nice ‘n’ all, but…And some of us came from below, like you. Not worth the bother. Better to settle with these hot springs, and let your anxiety just float away. What have any of us got to prove?”

Ardus was not convinced, much as he wanted to take just a small break. He began to speak of inspiration, and hope, and destiny – all those things he was certain he could make a reality that were worth making reality. But evidently it takes too much energy to speak in a hot springs, for the Gibbon sunk into a pleasured snooze before the idealistic speech had even begun. Ardus reluctantly left the hot springs behind, feeling he did not quite get his points across to them.

Ardus began his next part of the climb, the last stretch. Luckily, there were ledges and cracks along the cliff to make movement easier, and the weary Walrus was glad to have a rest once in a while. It took longer, yes, but better to find momentary security than lose all progress with one false move.

Suddenly, as if the final trial in his journey, a thunderstorm rolled in to pelt him with sleet. Ardus pressed on, his passion and excitement only growing as he drew closer to the clouds concealing Paradise. What was icy rain to him, when compared to the icy grip of despair? His toil was almost at an end. All the hardship he had endured this past year would bear fruit, and he would make his name known. “Ardus,” the adoring crowd of Walrus would say, “has led us to a place we never thought possible! But he believed in it, and it has come true. He made it true for us.”

As he imagined his reception upon succeeding, a distant peal of thunder clattered in the distance. Soon, the entire sky was dark, except at certain points where white fire broke across the canopy and threatened to burn Ardus with its tendrils. But Ardus was not afraid. He laughed! He bellowed with confidence, even; he had come too far and braved too much, that a little lightning would do little to him. And it wouldn’t. The brighter the lightning flashed and the harder the sleet fell, the stronger Ardus’ spirit became – that much is clear. But there was something terrible at work within the courageous Walrus’ heart. Worse than the danger of nature bearing its hostilities down on his head. The dreadful, empty echo of thunder, the vast cover of dark clouds, the fact that it was him versus the storm, that the world itself was the only thing that lay between him and his goal, made Ardus painfully conscious of something.

He was so very, very alone.

So focused was Ardus on overcoming the trials that were apparent to him – trials that were easy to spot and face head on – that he was not prepared for a trial born from within. The loneliness bore down on his spirit, made every step seem heavier, robbed the prize destiny had promised him of its lustre. Why, really, did Ardus care so much about reaching Paradise? What did it prove, why did it matter? Was it really all he had heard it would be, and would he be able to bring it down to the others if he got there, anyway? Would they appreciate the conquering hero, and what he had conquered for them? These questions sunk into his heart and waterlogged it, bloating the organ with doubt and fear. The fear that no one would be able to follow him where he was going, or would even want to. The fear that he had left the comfort of his tribe for no good reason, and would never relinquish his mind to their warm, smothering acceptance ever again.

Ardus’ body began to feel heavy, and the sleet, which was only a mere bother before, seemed now precariously slippery. His conviction evaporated like steam off his flank, obscuring his dream. He craved now more than ever in his life for one thing, and one thing alone: what he had left behind. Even though he knew there was nothing worth going back to, it was the comfort of familiar complacency, of empty dreaming, that he began to miss. To share, no matter where he might turn, that aimlessness with countless brethren who refused to acknowledge mutual misery as anything other than natural.

There was no destiny. There was only fate.

It is difficult to say what happened next, because no one but Ardus had reached that height before. Some say Ardus was struck by lightning, or slipped on a bad patch of ice. Some wonder if he was overcome with despair, and let the inevitable take its course. It is difficult to say…but only because it is a sad thing to discuss, not an impossible thing.

Ardus, mired in his conflictions, happened to look out towards his Walrus tribe with longing. He could not see them, but he could feel them, somewhere down there in the darkness. His heart wanted so badly to connect with them again. As he pined, a bolt of lightning pealed across the sky. In that flash, Ardus saw not a single eye was turned towards him. They were, of all things, sleeping.

Ardus was dismayed. Not only was he physically alone, but he had been forgotten in
spirit, as well.

“I…I’m still here!”

He bellowed – words lost in the rattling of sleet.

“I’ll make it! I’m almost there! Watch me!”

He cried – only the guffaws of thunder replied.

It is doubtful that the storm made it difficult to see anything at all. Rather, the storm made difficult to affirm that what Ardus chose to see in his moment of doubt was not true. In the delirium of loneliness, he was convinced that the tribe was not that far behind at all. They were right there, close enough to touch! All he had to do was lean over the edge, reach out a flipper, and everyone would know that he still existed, and that his hard work was paying off. To touch them, he would be comforted, and continue to meet his destiny when he felt he could.

To reach out, to touch what isn’t worth touching, was an illusion created by the desire for comfort in existence alone – the very opposite of destiny. Ardus realized this, only after the wind blew past his whiskers, after a sinking feeling absorbed his gut and then his entire body, after the slate ground rushed fast upon him. He met the ground with enormous impact, sending a crack louder than any lightning echoing across the beach.

The fall did not stop there. Sleet had made the cliff so slick – melting into a stream that trickled off like a waterfall – that the broken Walrus continued to slide across the land he had already conquered. He had no strength to grab on to anything, and was only vaguely conscious of the familiar land that had once seemed the easiest part of his climb as it rushed past him.
Approaching the end of the precipice, where he had heaved himself over the hardest part of the climb, Ardus called upon the last of his spirit. Using all his power, all his desire, he drove his tusks into the ground like stakes, holding on desperately as his body swung over the rocky shore, hundreds of feet below. Suddenly, in the final burst of lightning, Ardus spotted something gleaming white, spinning towards him. It passed by him, dropped into darkness below.

One of his tusks.

Ardus was certain it snapped during his first fall from the vertical cliff; it was about the only thing he could be certain of anymore. But it did not matter where he lost it. What mattered was that the destruction of a single tusk was also the destruction of his last ray of hope. There was no possibility of scaling the vertical cliff without both of his tusks. He could cling here, he could attempt to heave himself up, but his final destiny would never be to see what was beyond those clouds. So died his dream.

The entire tribe of Walrus on the beach woke from the crack of Ardus’ first fall. They did not know what it was, having forgotten about him weeks ago, until a tusk fell from the sky and crumbled on impact with the ground. All eyes turned skyward to that once impressive figure, holding on to his last hope. Though they had forgotten about him, it became clear in their concentrated silence, that his fate, his struggle, would determine theirs.

The storm began to roll away. As sleet was sucked back into the sky, Ardus spotted the animals from the hot springs. They stared at him with absentminded looks. Worst of all was the Gibbon, his gangly figure was sitting limply in the corner. Those blank, black eyes accosted him, “Why bother?”

Ardus, in that moment, knew: the only thing he did wrong was to reach out for something lesser than what he needed. Staying where he was among the tribe, ending his journey at the hot springs…though of varying natures, these were both forms of death. He had followed his destiny until he stopped following it, and his fall would have occurred whenever he gave that destiny up.

His destiny gone, Ardus resigned himself.

The sun broke through the clouds, shining upon the great Walrus as his last tusk gave way. It was sickening to watch, yet the Walrus tribe could not tear their eyes off this mythical figure as it plunged through empty space. Once. Twice. Three times Ardus hit the ground before even gravity gave up on raising his body, and it went into a roll along the slope of the cliff. The other Walruses moved aside, to not hinder the last leg of the journey, until finally Ardus tumbled into a motionless heap at the edge of the waves.

So much potential, so much hope, dashed to ruin by an illusion. Once a sight to behold –
now tuskless, mangled, lifeless.

All were silent. The Walrus tribe stared at Ardus’ body, shocked at what had happened, and confused by what it meant. Questions arose in them that had not been considered before, and fear of the cliff quickly became the dominating mindset. While they were quietly discussing this tragedy, there was a disturbance in the crowd. It broke, and onto the beach shambled the ragged Polar Bear. He had almost given up himself, content with grubs and worms until he had built up enough strength to steal the weaker Walruses again, when his heart was thrilled and his hope rekindled by Ardus’ long-anticipated fall. Without a word, and without protest from the rest of the beasts, the terrible Polar Bear dragged his long-awaited meal into the forest, under the concealment of palms.

This, I would say, is the end of Ardus’ tale. And for a while – three years to be precise – that seemed to be the case. The Walrus tribe, unaware of the name Ardus was wanting to take for himself, dubbed him “Fallrus.” They were a stressless bunch, and desired only the easiest methods of retaining their stories.

One young Walrus, however, was discontent with how that story ended. He had listened to Fallrus, watched him every day make his climb, and was nearly broken as he watched his hero fall into oblivion. So that young Walrus resolved to rewrite it, both for himself and other Walruses who dared to dream. For three years he trained himself, spurred on by disappointment with Fallrus’ weakness and his own desire to reach Paradise. His tusks grew just as long, his body just as muscular, and, though burning with just as much passion as his predecessor, it was all encased in willpower. Fallrus, being gifted from the start, did not think of cultivating a steel will; this young Walrus, having to work for it, naturally found one through training and wanting.

At the end of those three years, this new Walrus, without telling anyone else, followed Fallrus’ footsteps. He had watched how it was done very carefully, and applied the same methods in his approach. The struggle was the same, but this newcomer was far better at ignoring the struggle. Or, at least, accepting it as part of the journey.

The tribe of Walrus first became aware of another climber when pebbles began to rain down from above. They looked up in time to see the ambitious youngster pulling himself successfully over the edge of the precipice from which Fallrus fell. This sight confused them for weeks.

“Why did that Walrus climb up there? Didn’t he see what happened to Fallrus?”

“He deserves it! Why would anyone want what’s up there?”

“Just forget about it, he wasn’t that big of a part of our tribe, anyway.”

“Who was he again?”

“Excuse me? And just who are you, again?”

Suddenly, as irritation boiled to the point of violence, there was a climactic rumbling all along the beach. Cracks formed up the side of the cliff, and rocks – not pebbles – rolled down in a heap. The whole precipice swung down, flattening itself against the slope, spilling the creatures of the hot springs into the ocean, too dazed to comprehend what was happening.

Then…all was still.

The Walrus tribe gazed at the cracked cliff in wonder, though it was still obscured in dust. The event itself was more than enough to hold their attention for good this time. When all was clear, they could not believe their eyes; a ramp formed by easy-to-grip rocks and stones, a straight shot all the way to the plateau of Paradise. Lumbering down to them was the young Walrus who followed in Fallrus’ footsteps. Strapped to his back was Fallrus’ fractured tusk, the one that had clung to the precipice. The young Walrus snorted, evidently tired, but content.

“Anyone who has ever wanted to reach Paradise, you have a way. I’ve made it easier for you, to find if what you dreamt of is true. Whoever is fine with where they are, I will not stop you from staying. Satisfy yourself with illusions.”

The Walrus turned to climb his way up the ramp he had formed.

“Wait!”

The Walrus turned around to see one of the elders, old, slow and blind, peering up at him with grateful appeal.

“What do you call yourself?”

The elder received no answer at first. The young Walrus had recommenced his climb, effortlessly leaping over the rocks and pulling his massive form along with impressive tusks.
“When I reach the plateau,” he said with a joyful smile, one that no Walrus had seen before in their tribe, “I shall plant this tusk into its center. It is the root from which a passionate hope burned, a hope to fulfill a dream belonging to all of us. We must keep our eyes focused on what we know we need, what we know is worthwhile, what we know is lasting. Keep that dream fulfilled, and keep those who come after our contentment from causing us to forget the importance of our hope. Without that tusk, I never would have reached the plateau. I name myself Ardus, to keep his hope alive.”

When Ardus left for the plateau, the elder was quick to follow him. Then some of the adults, with many, many children. Each in their own time, with their own reasons, rose and climbed the cliff.

Even so, very few of Ardus’ own age followed him, as they were satisfied with aimless wishes, fine with low living. These Walruses were inconsequential to the migration, which took a long while, but was obviously happening. Instead, they scoffed at the dream and looked for happiness in each other’s company. They didn’t really know their neighbor from their enemy, though, and so the connection was as close as their fat brushing up against each other. They became malnourished, for such was the fate of those less inclined to hunt for fish. Wasting away on their rocky beach, these Walruses were blissfully unaware, or denying, of their mortal situation.

The Polar Bear had feasted well on Ardus those past three years. Satisfied with his victory, he was unaware of a successor until it was too late, and success had become a reality. As the Polar Bear watched the best of the Walruses gradually disappear into the clouds, he was slightly concerned. Surely they would find the plateau unappealing, or give up on the journey halfway?

No such thing occurred, for no Walrus who climbed up ever came back down. The only thing left for the Polar Bear to chew were his own regrets; he had been so focused on Fallrus, once known as Ardus, that he had never considered someone might be so daring as to follow in his footsteps and actually succeed in convincing others of his dream. The dreadful scavenger was so distracted by picking apart the bones that lasted him these past three years that he failed to hinder the potential of Fallrus’ successor. These leftover carcasses of living blubber, refusing to rise to the occasion, were hardly worth his time; they were already withering to skin and bone on their own. Terribly sore at losing, partially sore at being left behind, the Polar Bear trotted back into the forest. Leaving the remainder of the tribe to its pathetic ruin, he pulled himself up for the move to faraway hunting grounds. But there would be no new hunting grounds, a thought he tried to hide in the back of his mind, because he had existed on the misery of his fellow mammal for so long. He was not a hunter. He could not survive on his own.

The Polar Bear resigned himself to the fate of a slow starvation. That much had been determined long before Ardus. But he would still make the most of consumption while he could.

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