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The forest of Hatuga is a place out of time, lost to civilization. You never know what you might find, should you take the plunge beneath a dense and dangerous canopy. Chances are high that you will find whatever it is you are looking for…but higher the chances that you find nothing at all. Higher still, the chances that you find all reduced to nothing. But that is the adventure, no? Civilizations of Hatuga overlap each other, one after the other, buried beneath the soil of past and progress. Digging through that dying earth – dying as much as the adventurers themselves – one is at one with the being of the world. But never the mind of the world, mind you, never that; those always seem to be at odds. So it is sometimes best, when searching for value left behind by empires before, to have nothing particular in mind that you search for. Under this practice, all is treasure, all is useful, all is worthwhile, and all promises good chances.

I say this, yet – over the sound of approaching thwacks and thwings brought on by a common adventurer in the Hatugan forest – I am reminded that most believe they know exactly what would be found. No matter where they search, here, there or elsewhere – their certainty remains unswayed. Indeed, you will find that the case for this common adventurer now arriving onto the scene. We shall call her “Seeker” (both because she is always seeking something and because, if she had a real name, she couldn’t be bothered to tell it), and she was nearing the end of an arduously long journey.

Oh, what a journey Seeker had been subjected to! Filled with pitfalls and pratfalls of all pains. Balanced by victories, summits, claims! Seeker had worked hard to discover much, and was quite content to deal with whatever she did not expect, so long as what she expected all along was waiting at the end. And now, finally, the trek’s final leg. A fairly straightforward path, leading through this unmapped region of Hatuga, to the supposed treasure waiting at its centre: the Jiti-Wuzhi.

The Jiti-Wuzhi was a massive Pagoda beyond all physical description in its magnanimence. Rumors say that it holds the sky itself in its ceiling. Stories whisper about how it contains evidence of all cultures across the globe having built it simultaneously. Almost like a standing Tower of Babel, if chances were that varying language brought people to build rather than break. I will not lie, such chances sound like a sucker’s bet. But Seeker could not resist the temptation of finding such a global prize, which would document her perilous search for an intrigue to capture the interest of intellectuals and culturists all around the globe.

A week of stumbling around Hatuga’s dark floor, running out of nourishment and supplies and energy, had tempted Seeker in a different way: she just wanted to lie down and die. To expend all your energy searching for something so concealed and undefined is hardly motivating, especially when the goal of simply finding it is not worth the trouble required. Her sabre went swickety-swack nonetheless, swinging indiscriminately as the steadfast young woman sought forward with nothing left in neither heart nor muscle.

But humans are frail, regardless of their determination or their status as adventurers, so Seeker inevitably passed out from exhaustion at the edge of a creek, a trickle no wider than her forearm. She dipped that forearm into the creek, in the hopes that her vine-lashed limb at least might escape the blanket of moisture trapped in by those trees. Focusing her mind into the cool relief flowing against her arm, Seeker drifted off into a deep sleep, not caring if it would be her last.

It would not be. A faint clanking woke her from the darkness. Her eyes opened to the last light of day, dimmed by the Summer canopy. Seeker traced the noise to every leaf, until she spotted something wooden dangling from a branch. Of course, branches are wood, but something more polished stood out. It was an arrow pointing Eastward, inscribed with the Hatugan phrase for “This way to the Jiti-Wuzhi.”

A sign! Nothing short of a miracle! Seeker sprung up immediately with newfound excitement in her spirit, setting off in the suggested direction.

After an hour’s walk, the forest dons a shade much darker, despite time clinging fast to the heat of midday. Seeker’s pace began to slow, not so much from her dog-tiredness, but because she sensed something…something hidden among the undergrowth, old and sinister, looking to leap out from the black, tangled trees at its first inclination. As she peered around, on guard, something peculiar began to rise in the back of her mind. The forest of Hatuga is known as a habitat of all types of trees, whether they be deciduous, tropical, or conifer. Her peculiar observation was that the trees of this area were neither one nor the other: they were hybrids of all three types, crisscrossed with characteristics of each climate. After a while, these strange trees began to make way for even stranger rocks. Mossy, grey stones mixed with natural lime, man-made marble, cut and uncut gems, tumbled one over the other as though they had fallen from their original design. Seeker found herself surrounded by those carved stones, and imagined she was in the middle of some sort of ruined building.

“Is it rest you seek, pilgrim? Or marvels?”

Startled by the voice from above, Seeker tumbled backwards and onto her rear. Her head snapped back from the happenstance fall, aligning her face directly with a pair of dulled, eager eyes, hovering in the space above her. Scrambling back to her feet, Seeker was struck by the artificiality of their owner. It was a stone creature with stumpy wings attached to a slender body, ending in a devilish tail on one end and a head stuck somewhere between human and bulldog on the other. It perched on clawed toes at the top of a rotting pillar, hunched over, a regular living Gargouille. She could hardly believe her eyes – the chatty creature gave her no time to do so.

“Your awe tells me that it is the marvels you wish for. You are lucky. Oh, so very lucky! For you have found yourself in a place unsurpassed in the sheer amount and quality of marvels that it holds!”

The Gargouille gestured around itself. But there was nothing marvelous there, except perhaps the fungi growing atop the stones that crumbled further with each passing day.

“I don’t see anything,” replied Seeker, “except rubble.”

“Rubble? Rubble! You pilgrims always make such lively jests. Risk being offensive. This is not rubble, blind child, but the most sacred and beautiful of all temples.”

Seeker looked around again, in case she was in fact blind from dehydration or some other stress-induced affliction. But there was no evidence of a temple being there. A few of the rocks looked as though symbols or murals had been etched into their surfaces, but any indication of art had been reduced to the appearance of rust-streaks.

The Gargouille, seeing her unmoved face, plunged off its perch and slammed into the ground before her. It daintily hopped over like a bird and took her hand, brimming with intense desire to expose her to “marvels.”

After ten minutes’ walk, they came upon a dead olive tree, withered over a dry patch of land that hadn’t seen rain in eras. The Gargouille lovingly brushed its cracked hand along the cracked earth.

“You see before you a private garden, where our highest philosophers were able to find inner peace in nature. Every kind of flower is grown here, some of which you might even witness grow from seed to blossom in a single full moon. As their colors fade, they are ground into miraculous powders, to treat every known ailment. Even the cancerous kind.”

“I’m sorry… sir,” Seeker replied with embarrassed hesitance. “I see nothing but dust.”

The Gargouille flinched. It had not expected such flat denial of so obvious a marvel! But there was still more to see, so it took her hand again to witness more of its beloved temple.

After ten hours’ walk, they reached a deep hole in the ground, one that stretched for miles, partitioned into chambers. The Gargouille held Seeker back, for fear she might tumble into it.

“Well, what do you think of this? A tomb for kings and queens, the spiritual and material, whose coffins are adorned by their very likenesses. There is enough gold buried here to buy the richest of countries, and enough gems to convince the greediest of conquerors to lay down his flag. Not only that, but take a look at your feet! The frescoed floor is itself a timeline, composed of tiles that tell whole histories, from conceptions to falls, reigns to revolutions. Both victory and suffering is a legacy never to be broken by anything.”

“Again, sorry,” sighed Seeker, more frustrated this time, “but all I see is a bunch of empty holes.”

The Gargouille immediately snatched Seeker’s hand and yanked her onwards, certain she could not deny the most marvelous of all. After ten days’ walk, at the end of which the poor adventurer was ready to collapse, the relic puffed out his chest and pointed to the large disc of a bronze sundial. Or, at least, it might have been a sundial at some point in time. But not this time. Now, it was no more than a tilted curve of green copper sticking out of the ground. Seeker was fed up with it all, with what seemed to be her guide’s pointless infatuation with fantasy over history. She denied, what was the clearest proof that this so-called marvel of a temple had existed, as being anything to fuss over.

“Just scrap metal! Can I go now? I’ve got someplace to be.”

The Gargouille froze, as though he really had become stone. He spluttered, he stuttered. He searched diligently for a reason that would explain the pilgrim’s blindness. Instead, he reverted to describing his own perspective once more. Surely, that was the best means.

“Scrap metal? But – but don’t you see? Beneath the clock, binding all universes to the same curse of decay? Don’t you see the marble altar, the sacrificial place of all the world’s worries? Don’t you see the sculptures of martyrs and prophets, so full of the quality of life that you could be certain they do not merely possess the quality, but life itself? What of the domed frame, from which angels hang? Or the choir pulpits, from which mankind all across the globe gathers to praise? Or there, a backdrop to it all, our iridescent stained glass window, standing hundreds of feet high, across which painted doves take flight when the light strikes just right? I’m trying my best, really, to show you a marvel you’ve not seen before!”

“I don’t see any of that. Really! And you don’t, either.”

The Gargouille was struck dumb. It clutched its head, eyes sharpened by fear and confusion. Raising those wild eyes to Seeker, who had nervously begun to back away, it bared its teeth and lunged. Seeker shrieked, fell back, but did not fall to the ground; the Gargouille had sunk, not its teeth, but its claws into her arm – to hold her up, and keep her there. Its teeth were still bared, a crazed smile torn between pity and doubt. The smile meant to assure Seeker, who was now anything but assured, as the little dragon spread its creaking wings and began to flap in desperation, dragging his companion into the air. It knew that all it had seen was in fact laid out before them, and would not rest until that vision was shared.

“I know! I will show you the dome! Oh, the paintings on the dome, unlike anything you’ve ever seen. A testament to the might of man and the strength of spirits, working together in artistic harmony. Then you will know your search has been worth something. Only then will you be certain of the marvel you’ve missed!”

As her feet where gradually lifted off the ground, Seeker began to panic. In desperation equal to the Gargouille’s, she grasped for something, anything, with which she might regain her footing. A long piece of stone was felt in her hand; she broke it off and swung it, cracking the creature across its horned head.

The Gargouille hovered there, dazed more by the action than its effect. But as it slowly glanced down to the ground, its flapping ceased. Both fell and landed hard, Seeker rising quickly to escape. But she hesitated, feelings of sadness creeping over her better judgment. She watched the Gargouille crawling, slowly, pitifully, to the broken stone she had wielded as a club. Staring closer at the fragments, Seeker recognized carved hair, carved clothes, carved face, all clearly done by an expert craftsman who loved his work and what it stood for – the last standing effigy left in that lonely place.

The Gargouille trembled, muttering to itself unsure reassurances, and tried in vain to piece the statue back together with tears and spit. Seeker was afraid to know what would happen when he realized nothing could be done, so she finally pulled up the last reserve of energy left in her legs and ran. She only looked back once upon that sad Gargouille, pining over the ruin of marvels no longer seen. She left his hunched figure behind in that place lost in time, disappearing under thick brush and memory, not to be understood or cared for by those who needed to experience his marvels.

Eventually, out of breath and out of energy, Seeker found her way into the lighter part of the forest again, with familiar plants and no rocks. A day later, she made it to the entrance of the Jiti-Wuzhi, without hardly realizing she had arrived.

My goodness, was it a disappointment! Hardly worth the trouble to get there. The Jiti-Wuzhi barely resembled a pagoda except that the word was part of its name, and the one-room tower could only be said to hold the sky in its ceiling because it had no ceiling to speak of. What’s more, Seeker had to wait another three hours to get inside; fellow adventurers were holding a convention in there on the authenticity and licensing of certain rope brands.

Seeker puzzled and puzzled over why “Spelunkr,” the official social media tabloid for adventurers, had declared the Jiti-Wuzhi one of its “Top 10 Hidden Marvels to Discover,” especially when so many had already discovered it. It dawned on her that the fad for the Jiti-Wuzhi had passed, and an entirely new list of unremarkable marvels had taken the place of art and history. These unremarkable marvels were cafes, shops, petting zoos (remarkable only to those who had never visited a rainforest), and vacation planners. The Jiti-Wuzhi, if it was ever as historically significant as the rumors rang, had been fully cowed to the nature of a bazaar.

After thinking it over, mostly during physical therapy trying to recover from the end of her endless journey, Seeker decided there was no point any longer in being an adventurer. Instead, she became more obsessed with the foliage of Hatuga. Surely there must be hallucinatory properties in some of the species there, to explain her encounter with a talking Gargouille. But, no matter how hard she wanted to know, there was just no way to tell, and no adventurer in the region had ever seen the ruined temple, much less its ancient ward. She returned once with a larger party of adventurers, to at least confirm the existence of the hybridized trees she saw. As she searched and searched, it became clearer and clearer that there was no temple to rediscover. There was no garden to revitalize, no clock to rewind, no tombs to unearth, no Faded Civilization to summon back from history. There were only mosquitoes and vines, under that dense and unforgiving canopy.

So Seeker turned back with a heart ready to move on and seek what lies beyond adventures. She was ready to return to the city, find something new, so lost in thoughts for the future that she didn’t notice when she stepped on and over the broken effigy of a stone woman. It looked like the image Seeker had broken against the head of the Gargouille in her dream. But…upon closer inspection…its tormented face looks eerily similar to…

Well, now we’ll never be sure, thanks to Seeker’s muddy footprint.

This woman, the one we called Seeker, had no idea that what she sought as marvel is just normalcy – as normal a part as any to be found in Hatuga. Ask anyone who lives there. But to spend one’s whole life seeking, is just asking to never find anything. To convince one’s self that Gargouilles cannot talk, is to turn to stone when they do.

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When Heaven’s powdered sugar lightly frosts the puffy forest floor of Hatuga, every reasonable animal – particularly those of the mammalian persuasion – will have long stocked full a burrow of necessary provisions. They are not like the birds, who fly above the weather itself, the fish, protected by chill the deeper they dive, or the reptiles, who dig a hole and sleep through it all undisturbed. No, the mammals remain conscious of winter all season long, drifting in and out of sleep and bouts of hunger. Consequently, they must prepare very early, so as to plan around discomfort – Or, worse, death. The winters are fierce, no matter where you live, and unforgiving to the unprepared.

The amount of provisions accumulated must last until spring, at the very least. Those that slack off or find themselves in error of foraging calculations will usually perish before they even hear the approaching gallop of Spring’s green steed. Mice are of no exception; in fact, at their rate of metabolism and fragile construction, they must arguably be more prepared than any other animal. And there is no arguing that they mostly are – if the only thing to worry about in the world was cold and starvation. But those aren’t the only things, are they?

Beneath a stump in the small field of a secluded clearing lived a small animal and his secluded wife, both of which happened to be mice. The season also happened to be nearly-winter, and the mice and his wife had been preparing all fall for the transition. This involved acquiring food and warmth, naturally, but it also involved setting traps for their enemy: the Asp. The Asp was a cunning Viper, who, instead of building his own burrow, would sneak into someone else’s, paralyze the inhabitants with his posion, and feast on their supplies. Just as the poison would begin to wear off, and the creatures within the burrow saw hope in Spring’s light, the Asp would reach his cruel climax: to poison them once more, and swallow them whole.

The Mouse and his wife had a fear of this viper, which only existed to them so far in rumors. But they were certain they had seen a pitch-black tail here, an emerald eye there – stalking them, softly, in the night. Who would take a chance, risking such a horrendous end despite all efforts to survive? Not the mice; they gathered branches and brambles to hide from sight, peat and flowers to hide from smell, and thorns and mud to hide from touch. Before they even began to gather winter provisions, they fortified their burrow against the threat of this unseen enemy. There was no way the Asp, or any Viper, would find the Mouse and his wife.

Soon, the first frost arrived. The Mouse sat by the fire that evening, engaged in the last newspaper of the year. Suddenly, he felt an unexplained twinge of worry for their stock. He called for his wife, that they might go through the list of supplies they had stored together for good measure. Due to the time expended keeping serpents at bay, they had to take a few shortcuts when it came to meeting their own quotas, but, surely, these shortcuts were harmless – they were just mice, after all. They could do little harm to anyone, and were mostly the ones in danger of being harmed.

The shadow of the Mouse’s wife announced her appearance into the room, dancing off the roots of the burrow by the light of the fire. The Mouse hardly noticed, absorbed in an article on evidence of decay in the forest, wrought by an unchecked slug population. She wriggled into her rocking chair from behind, and the creaking alerted him to her presence. The Mouse folded up the newspaper, and, without more than a brief glance and smile at his wife, got straight to work. He pulled out a checklist written on a trimmed fern (he was very strict when it came to order). Receiving no prompting or agreement from his wife, the Mouse softened the gravity of the chore:

“Now then, my dear, we shall begin the final annual confirmation of our difficult
preparations for winter. I am sure we covered all grounds, but it never hurts to be absolutely sure. If anything, it will ease any worries or unexpected unpleasantries we might expect in the future. Are you ready?”

“Who?”

“Why, who else could I be talking to, my dear? Are you ready?”

“Naturally. Proceed with the precedes, my sweet.”

The Mouse’s whiskers trembled with delight, for his wife had not called him her sweet in a while. But twitterpating can wait for the security of spring. He calmed his fluttering heart and addressed the first item.

“Item 1: Food. Nuts and berries, grasshoppers and grubs, spinach and seeds, Lemon Pie
and Apple Strudel – all preserved in ice to keep them fresh. We were far behind in our projections, thanks to a late harvest, but Mister Rabbit lent quite the helping hand. I presume he is missing a bit from his stores, but not enough to cause him trouble.”

“Who?”

“Mister Rabbit, my dear. Surely you remember our cherished, fleet-of-foot next-door
neighbor, gifted far more than us in the art of acquiring produce? Much of what we have is thanks to him.”

“Is that right?”

“Of course it is right! We need the nourishment more than him. Besides, he steals all of it anyways from that stingy farmer over the grassy knoll. But he did do well to accumulate these things for us, so we must set aside a portion of the seeds to grow a bit of produce for him on the side – once we have the capability.”

“Naturally. In fact, one would say that he and his kind keep us full all year, my sweet.”

The Mouse thought his wife might be a bit lavishing of her praises to Mister Rabbit, but his tail twitched with joy to be called her sweet again, instead.

“Item 2: Bedding. Fine, soft hay, roots and hair warmed by the massive body of Chaplain
Badger, who gathers the vegetation and foliage delicately and precisely in order that each hibernator might be ensured a proper winter’s rest.”

“Who?”

“Chaplain Badger, my dear. Surely our loyal, gentle, burly leader of the Church, who
burrows deep underground in search of the best thermal bedding, has not slipped your mind? And thank goodness he gathers so much, or we might freeze to death.”

“Is that right?”

“Of course it is right! We need the warmth more than him. Not only are our bodies frail and small – suggesting that we require more bedding to stay warm – but we were so very far behind in our estimates. Besides, he was giving it out freely, so why not take as much as we could carry? I mean…in seven or eight trips, at least.”

“Naturally, my sweet, I would never forget such an esteemed gentleman, who brings courage to roam through the woods into young critters’ hearts.”

Though the Mouse thought his wife’s words peculiar, he thought nothing further of it. His toes simply tippy-tapped at being called her sweet again.

“Item 3: Branches. Sturdy, firm branches to board up the entrance into the burrow, lined
with thorns and flowers to deter investigation. Important for keeping out snow and snakes alike, lest we catch our death from the sting of either the cold or the fang.”

“Who?”

“What is the matter with your memory today, my dear wife? I speak of the villainous
Asp. Have you forgotten the dangers of his tempting tongue and luring coils? These dangers are the precise reason for our being in such short supply of food and warmth!”

“Unnaturally, my sweet husband.”

The Mouse paused, as if he did not hear her right the first time. His wife had always been the first to squeak at the mere mention of that viper. Now, she hardly seemed fazed, the flames reflecting off her glazed, glassy eyes.

“Unnaturally? What do you mean by that? We have always survived the winter in fear of the Asp!”

“Who-who?”

“See here, I am exasperated enough today by the change in weather. The last thing I need is your willful ignorance.”

“…Are you sure it is not your ignorance?”

The Mouse looked up from the fern for the first time, to study the expressionless defiance of his wife.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Asp does not lurk in this part of the wood. Too damp and mucky – a disagreeable climate for a chest-crawler.”

“I see! And how is it you come by such necessary information?”

“Naturally, I must always on guard against such dangers, possessing such an ignorant husband.”

At first, such bitter words caught the Mouse off guard and wounded him. When he got over himself, a realization finally dawned, slowly by the light of the fire: the voice of his wife did not sound not like his wife in the slightest. Peering harder, gradually able to catch the glint of a hooked beak and vacant eyes in the flame, the Mouse discovered that his entire burrow was crowded with the ruffled feathers of Barn Owl. The young bird looked without sympathy down at him; she had disguised himself as the Mouse’s wife the whole time. On the tip of her claw was a puppet, dressed like his wife to a T, but clearly not her when one noticed the button eyes and patchwork skin.

How did Barn Owl fit in his burrow? How did she manage to fashion such a likeness as Mouse’s wife? How was the Mouse so blind to realize the puppet was, in fact, not his wife? Where was the Mouse’s wife, exactly? How would this affect winter preparations? These questions and many more passed through the Mouse’s head. They paralyzed him – worry for the future in general kept him rooted to his chair. He really should have focused only on escaping instead of what could have prevented this intrusion as Barn Owl pounced.

But since the Mouse was so worried about so many different things, he failed to see the danger most near. So focused on surviving the Mouse was, that his mind, once a safe-haven, became a trap just as his burrow had.

Barn Owl, on the other hand, had a very relaxed and well-supplied winter’s reprieve. She would always appreciate the organized resourcefulness and narrow-minded selfishness of vermin.

You now have witnessed the paradox of a Mouse and his wife, and why, guarding their natural state, they were left so unguarded. Remember that preparing for the vipers of tomorrow leaves you vulnerable to the owls of today, and your burrow shall surely last the winters.

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