Raindrops on Rooftops

Whenever I feel sick, standing in the rain seems to be the best thing.

Normally this seems counterintuitive, but, if you happened to pass me by, ask why, close to midnight on a Wednesday in the middle of a heavy shower, I am looming about in the courtyard like some spectre of Death, I would probably give you that half-hearted lie. I would smile politely, offer said lie, and turn my back on you. The universal gesture of “don’t bother me right now.”

If I knew you intimately, I might confess the truth, more out of a desire to be heard than with any real motive to curry further intimacy. With unwavering stoicism, you would learn that I am waiting for a certain young woman I have recently met, a woman of unnatural Norwegian beauty, with pale blue eyes and cropped platinum hair, in the hopes that she might come outside fancying a smoke. Now, I have no smokes to offer, but I have company. I certainly hope that will be enough. But your company is not enough, and I would usher you on so that I could prepare my mind for her.

Plip

Plop

Plip

But of course those I’m intimate with are still at the theatre converted into a nightclub, and my shadow is intimidating to those it falls upon as I guard the overpass beneath the dorm block, set up like a fortress around the courtyard so as to conceal the things that happen there from passerby. I won’t have to worry about being interrupted.

The rain falls in intervals that seem to pulse with my slowly beating heart. A heart that worries, working too much to pass breath through the chambers, lest I be seized with a series of unstoppable hacking coughs and choke on my own mucus. A problem that might very well be avoided if I would just go inside. Just go inside already! What is there to gain with preemptive stalking, especially when it begins and ends with little more than a “hello?”

But I won’t. It’s become a common situation for me, to obsess over a girl I barely know, cow to the desire to know her better by trying to rig the so-called “Social System” of interactive dos and don’ts. If I can’t go to her, I will place myself somewhere where she will come to me. I’ve been doing this sort of thing for years, and it never fails.

Plip

Plop

Plip

So I say to myself, though it’s an unabashed lie. Waiting around for some miracle to happen has always left me in disappointment, except maybe the one off-chance time it worked in the 8th grade and solidified itself as the proper thing to do in my mind thenceforth. Women really are suckers for ideas of fate. Women crave attention more than anything; what is more flattering than the idea that the very universe is giving you special favors? Then again, men work the same way, except they want nothing more than to give attention. And, in order to do that, they stand alone in the rain, waiting for nothing, believing everything is wrapped in that one display of homage to fate.

Plip

A pack of drunken hyenas, giggling and cackling at their own weak knees from alcohol scamper on past towards the entourage of Übers waiting in the rain. There is a party going on tonight. It’s a big one in London, the first Fez of the semester, but they have already drunk their fill to save on cash in town. I missed ticket sales because of a prior engagement, but I’m wondering now if I should have gone. Surely it would have been better to wait for a beautiful girl there, rather than by myself in the rain? But I’m not waiting for just any beautiful girl. I’m waiting for an exquisite angel unlike any I’ve seen before. She’ll be here eventually, I can feel it in the gale.

A couple huddled under an umbrella kisses, though they swoon twice as hard as the hyenas. I cough, slurred with a sneer at the immature, childish couple, bottle in hand to keep the nights interesting. Could be worse. Could be pot, or cocaine, or heroin – needles literally litter the street leading to the grocery store. With lofty ambition and scratchy throat, I can’t help but glare with irritation as they go off in search of the distraction crowds provide.

I lean against a pillar in the courtyard. This couple has reminded me of my distaste for life. Not life itself, but the floppy, weak things it animates. What is the point, partying night after night? Waking up at two in the afternoon because the only pressing thing on one’s mind is a hangover? A waste. And every single pack of acquaintances, though they protest it is friendship they share, is intimidated by the thoughts of more intimate contact. Especially the most attractive. What’s their problem? Can a man not lurk by his lonesome without people thumbing their noses at him? Cannot a woman be engaged singularly, without being followed by a pack of conversational vultures? I am starving for social intimacy. I have been reduced to standing in the rain, a dog begging for scraps of companionship.

A portly, scraggly fellow, more hammered than any yet seen, approaches me with an unbalanced swagger. He sticks his finger directly in my face and burps an observation:

“You…You look like you could use a vagina.”

His friend tugs him away towards the steady stream of Übers and shoves him in one at the back, not too tenderly. And as I stood there in the rain, nursing my cold and waiting for that Norwegian dream, I wondered…

Plip

Plop

Plip-Plop

What the Hell am I wasting my time out here for?

The drunk lad was wrong. I stand in the rain for a woman, not a vagina. One is a thinking, breathing, loving individual – the other, a mere pocket of meat. But therein lies the issue. What woman pursues the man if not for receiving attentions? What man pursues the woman if not for giving attentions? And what man or woman considers attention in its highest form to be anything other than sex? Reduced to objects, both of them, I understand the futility of standing in the rain. I’m standing for something that doesn’t exist.

A meaty choke followed by several coughs break through my windpipe, free to fly into a calm, dreary sky all too eager to ceaselessly surrender its gentle cascade. I hate it now. The sky can release all its pent-up fluids whenever it wants, frivolous about who gets wet in its joy. But I must be patient, no matter how much it kills me inside and waters that seed of bitterness towards the weaker animals.

Rrrrattatattatatta

I toss my cigarette aside and step into the courtyard. The entrance to my flat is in the same building, but it’s always quicker to cross this way, across walkways cut through squares of cultivated flowers. My footsteps clack in echoed spurts against the buildings, mingling with the light patters. A steady rope of water falls from the roof, heavier than the raindrops that fall directly from the sky. It’s not so easy to notice or care about the tiny pitters of uninhibited drizzling, but the buildup of drops as they collide with the roof are much louder, far more noticeable than the freer droplets. They last, they leave an impact on this witness under the roof that seems to hold them back, pouring in a thicker and stronger stream once they have finally been released.

One stream fell on a figure with haggard breathing, lying stretched out among the flowerbeds. I noticed it as I passed by quite on accident, observing the rain more than expecting any other company. As I drew closer, I realized the body belonged to a female, crushing some of my favorite lilies to watch the bees visit from up in my window. Her muddied blonde hair was packed in clumps, smeared with mulch and petals. Pale blue eyes stared at me in fear, the body twitching in its stained, frayed garb upon my approach. I don’t know what left her in that state, hidden among the ferns and Rosemary, but there was something absolutely pitiable about it. I reached out a hand. She responded with a desperate scramble backwards, as if shrinking away from my touch. I stood still, waiting in the rain.

She second-guessed her first reaction, mind chaotic, and slid forward to accept my hand. But I had already second-guessed my own involvement, wasting more time over nonexistent images and idols, and decided to leave her there in the rain to the bleakness of her own thoughts by turning and walking away. Having stood in the rain long enough, weighed down by the damp downpour, I am impatient to wait around for things I shouldn’t mull over. It’s not worth it. Whatever caused her to retract like that, whatever discrimination or suspicion that was – that can keep her mind company enough. Her choice, her bed in the flowers is made, and she sunk with hopelessness into it. But I must get inside and pour my own thoughts onto the page, find the ideal, and nurse both that and this bloody cough a little better. I still have control over those things at least. But I am insane for thinking the rain is really the best nurse for tickled lungs, absolutely insane.

When the sun rose over the courtyard, the rain remained, diminished to a sprightly sprinkle – the girl in the flowerbed had moved on. Only her soggy print on those lilies below showed any sign of her having lay there, and the area was now packed with students walking to and from class. I had written through the night, making wonderful progress, but I would have gotten even further if I had not wasted time in the rain. My action should have been preparing myself for that fateful day, but, for some reason, I was mesmerized with the thoughts of sulking in the rain, as if I hoped fate would take pity on me. But surely I had learned enough about patience and persistence beforehand, in America…the rain is about as helpful with those two things as it is with a cold.

Plip

The World According to a Mole

The forest of Hatuga is beautiful. All of its terrors, all of its awe, all of its filthy ponds and its pristine lakes mesh together to create something that is naturally imperfect. And, by flourishing in its imperfections, makes it all the more wondrous to explore and behold. For what is beautiful that can be understood by a single glance?

Alas, the mole did not find Hatuga beautiful. He found Hatuga to be downright revolting, absolutely abysmal – a distressing place where one could only be worried sick over its pitfalls and harbor disgust for its predators than appreciate its provisions.

“Woe is me,” bemoaned the mole melodramatically, “to have been born in a time and place that is teeming to the brim with the most unsavory beasts!” He stressed the word “beasts” so that any animals nearby might feel the shame that ought to come naturally to them. The mole was blind, after all; most of his suppositions were just that, since he couldn’t very well observe empirically. Being both blind and under the ground tends to prevent one from making rational judgments, but his sturdy tunnels would cave in before the mole ceased his belligerent pointing of fingers in every which-way and off-angle.

The mole had never been above ground before. He could hear the noisy comings and goings, the loud calls of the other animals that never seemed to cease, and their stomping about that caused dirt to chink away from his preciously crafted ceilings. Indeed, mole built his tunnels so that he would never have to go above ground, lest he go blinder than he already was from the hideosity above.

There were other Hatugans dwelling underground who tried their best to convince the mole of the benefits of going topside.

“For one,” reasoned Bilby, “the sun is sooooo warm. I don’t how you do it, staying down here where it’s cold and damp and dark all the time. Gives me a jolt of energy every time I feel those rays shine down my face, all the way to my tail, it’s just-“

“Miserable,” countered the mole. “Underground, there are no schedules. I do what I want, when I want, and time means nothing to me. Plus, I’ve heard how hot it really gets up there, and I do not plan on frying like an egg on a boulder! I do not!”

“Then how about this,” posed Mongoose. “Up there, you can meet all sorts of interesting individuals. I know you think you know what they’re like, hearing their muffled voices from down here, but you really have to go see them face-to-face before judging them like you do! It’s unfair, and, honestly, you’re doing yourself a disservice not getting to know Hatugans that have experienced more than just the underground.”

“Are you implying,” chastised the mole, “that my knowledge is somehow limited by living down here? I do not need to know what other Hatugans are like, for only crude, selfish, ugly beasts could pound the ground as they do, causing all sorts of damage to my beautiful tunnels.”

“You keep calling them ugly,” murmured Vole, “but have you looked at yourself in the watering hole lately?”

The mole lost all patience with his impudent neighbors and shooed them out.

Being blind meant that the mole derived a heightened comfort in perfecting the structure of his prized tunnels. Day in and day out he dug, sculpting his underground patterns that would never see the light of day and therefore would never be seen by anyone. What he was not aware of is where precisely he had built them. For, to him, underground was everywhere except above, which means that he would not know whose territory he had tunneled beneath until it was too late. Luckily, most Hatugans are forgiving, and would not mind a burrow or two beneath their feet if said burrows were sturdy and would not cave in at the slightest step. Elements, however, do not always subscribe to the Hatugan way.

The mole had spent decades burrowing all around beneath the surface level of Hatuga; it was not his custom to dive very deep. And, eventually, he ran out of room. Where one might normally take a few steps back, reassess their limits, and adjust, the headstrong mole plowed straight ahead. Alas, one cannot plow through a lake, a lesson that mole learned after the water had washed him away, destroyed the tunnels, nearly drowned him, and deposited his pseudo-lifeless body in the midst of a large gathering of animals. The entire lake had drained itself into the mole’s tunnels, and the remorseful architect was sloshed this way and that until finally he came to rest for all to see.

“Is that the little idiot who caused this mess?” roared a lion.

“Come now, give the poor thing some space. Even you must admit, it’s impressive such a small hideous creature could dry up the lake like that,” tsk-tsked a Boar. “And the water is now flowing through the whole forest, no longer still. I’d say he did us a favor.”

“Favor?” laughed a Pelican. “That hole, formerly a lake, kept everything where it should be! And you think this chaos is now somehow a convenience? You are absolutely-“

“Please!” shouted an Iguana. “Give the ugly little beast some space or it will suffocate!”

The mole had come to at the very beginning of this conversation. What it had gleaned was that these beasts did not think much differently than himself. Worse yet, some had even forgiven his displacement of their water supply. Getting past their own anger, he had clearly misjudged them as the crowd of twenty or so Hatugans crowded around the mole, concerned for his life.

Worse than his humiliation at having drained their lake, worse still than having judged them so harshly without knowing them, far worser yet: they had called the mole an ugly little beast.

Hatuga, you see, had never been graced by the mole topside before. This was his first appearance up there, therefore it was their first time seeing a mole before. I ask you, then, please, do not judge them too harshly for having stated their first impressions in the heat of high emotions. But what this accomplished was to finally convince the mole to be introspective. To look at himself for once in his life – both inside and out.

And so the mole, realizing he was only blind because of the dirt in his eyes that had now been washed away, flipped over on his heavy claws and spat water onto the boulder he had been laid on to dry out. And, in that reflection, he got his first good look at himself.

What stared back sent shivers down his spine. A disease-ridden shaggy beast with a squealing jagged mouth, no eyes to speak of, and a disgusting multi-armed appendage at the end of his snout that wriggled and writhed about. Squealing in abhorred shock at his own reflection, the mole dove right back into the canals he created, swimming to the bottom in one breath. He buried himself deeper than he ever had buried before into the ground, forever fleeing, clawing ever forward to escape that beastly sight.

And I do mean forever, for the mole was never spotted in Hatuga again. Maybe one day he will come to terms with his actions, his feelings, himself, and join Hatugan society ready to receive both the benefits and consequences that come with it. But, until that day, the world according to a mole ought to be one without him in it.

A Cow By Any Other Name

In the forest of Hatuga, each is called to their own lot. The lot of a Tree Frog is not the lot of the Whale, and the Whale likewise can never hope to take on the burden belonging to the Spider. Each has a role, each has a purpose, each has a thing it does for which the forest itself is grateful. For Hatuga revolves on the axis of deeds. What can be done if nothing is actually done? Nothing at all. Nothing for all.

In Hatuga, there lived two types of cows. The first was a land cow. She was heavily built, rather slow, confined to wherever her sure-hooved legs would carry her. They would not carry her very far, for she had no reason to go very far anyways. But they were strong, and much was entrusted to her because she could handle it.

The second cow was a sea cow. Specifically, a Dugong, who was a free-swimmer and prided herself on no attachments for whom she would need to actually take stock in pride. No, pride meant nothing to her, for lazing about all day and eating as much seagrass as she desired was all that mattered, and the number of tricks she could pull underwater. The better the trick, the better the thrill, and the Dugong was simply pleased in that regard.

The Dugong heard about this so-called land cow which lived much further inland, plodding about with its embarrassing udders and slaving away for the good of its community. It chortled and jeered at the idea of this helpless creature leading such a masochistic life, and made up songs that would shame the poor beast should it ever wander into the ocean where she had all the fun she could handle with nary a care.

When word of this sea-cow and its mean little songs reached the ears of the land cow, she swished her tail a few times irritably and then forgot about it. For what use was this musical lard in the sea foam to one with responsibilities? Her deeds spoke against the lies the Dugong made up about her, and the land cow was comforted by those who relied on her as they spurned the spiteful ditty and soon all word of this sea-cow was forgotten.

Decades passed, and both the land cow and the sea cow died. For some stories are unceremonious, two disputes clashing on the voice of the breeze, only to fade away shortly thereafter. Indeed, most stories are like this – and for that they are rarely told.

When the land cow passed away, she was buried with revered circumstance. Many had benefited from her milk, her sure hoof, her motherly lowing. And so the loss heavily impacted her community. But not in the way of misery, no, for they celebrated her life and how she touched them all. She was loved, and everyone knew it.

When the sea cow perished, her bloated body floated to the surface for a week before built-up gas escaped from the carcass and she sunk beneath the waves. No one would remember her, her tricks, or her song. Heck, no one would even know she died, save the scavengers who came to feed before even they snubbed their noses at her putrid blubber. For the Dugong lived for no one and nothing for her own pleasure, and pleasure is not the sort of thing that lives longer than the present moment. One might even say, having left no impact on Hatuga, that the Dugong hardly existed at all.

Partnershipping with Parasites

If you have ever visited the forest of Hatuga, you know what a miraculous place it is – a place where the bird speaks lyric and the human twitters in the trees, a place where waterfalls flow upstream and apes lend books to man and beast alike. There is an order to the forest to the tune of mutual existence; the beings that live here rely on each other. They do so, not with the animalistic instinct calling them to be herds or flocks, but with complete conscious compliance with their own need for community, for fellowship. However, just because a relationship between beasts might be necessary, does not always make it a good match. There are some relationships that clearly favor one side over the other. This usually happens because one side would rather allow itself to be taken advantage of, than be deprived of the company.

In the heat of the jungle near the bank of the Euphrates shuffled about a complacent Capybara. Now, our Capybara was not complacent when it came to her meals, no; only the finest juiciest melons for this rodent. Nor was she complacent when it came to her resting spots, no; sleep came to her only in patches of grass from which sprouted a certain balance of coolness and warmth. In all of these, the Capybara was extremely selective, never settling.

Our Capybara was only complacent by vice of the friend she kept. That so-called “friend” was Buffalo Leech, an enormous worm who remained joined to Capybara’s hip through thick and thin. Quite literally, whether its host liked it or not.

She tended to like it.

“How am I so lucky,” the Capybara gushed to the Leech, “to have a friend as loyal as you?”

“Stop your squirming already,” muttered the Leech with its mouth full of hip, “or you’ll make me lose my grip. What good would that do either of us?”

For the Capybara, this Buffalo Leech constantly showered her with attention and words of encouragement. She did consider it her Leech, since the worm never seemed to take stock in anyone else. But by drinking her blood, it seemed to know exactly what he was feeling.

“You need to chill out, and don’t have such high expectations,” the Leech would say, when its rodent would start to stress over the mess in her territory or the flavor of her water. “It’s not like you can do much about it, anyway. But you can make your blood taste better by relaxing, so why don’t you do that for me, huh?”

The Capybara never felt alone with the Leech, and was grateful to her companion for its good advice and constructive critique.

Such as, when she was feeling sad for no reason:

“There’s no need to feel depressed. It’s all in your head! Depression is just the disappointment you feel when you wake up and remember that all you are is just a really big rat.”

Or, when she couldn’t quite nail the steps for a new dance she was practicing:

“Oh, wow, you’re doing great. It’s never too late to learn a groovy dance. So it won’t really hurt if you put it off, try it again tomorrow or something, right? Spend some time with me instead…I’m feeling pretty hungry.”

Or, if she had eaten one too many melons for lunch:

“Whoa, there, large Marge. Let’s not get too excited and eat the whole forest, m’kay? What will folks think if they see me hanging around a fat rat who has no self-control? They’ll think I have no self control, either.”

All the while, never ceasing its perpetual slurp.

One morning, however, the Capybara felt…off. She felt like something was weighing her down, breaking her back, sinking her steps. And there was! The Buffalo Leech had grown more than a foot long, weighing thirty pounds full of its host’s blood. The Capybara could live with that, for she was still physically solid on the outside. But on the inside, the Leech’s words had worn her down.

“Man, aren’t you a late riser,” yawned the Leech. “Not like you’ve got anyone waiting for you, or any big plans, though…so I guess it’s all right. Why don’t you hang with me again today?”

The Capybara nodded, used to the routine. But, as the Leech was taking its morning swim in the murky river, she suddenly had an enlightening thought: to run away, and leave the Leech on its own! How foolish it would feel, to look around, and not see its friend anywhere in sight? That would teach the squirmy wormy to weigh me down, thought the Capybara. Worse, teach it to enjoy weighing me down, if it insists on treating me like a pack mule.

The Capybara rose to her feet to follow through with the threats running across her brain. She turned, poised to run…and buckled. Before her was the vast expanse of Hatuga, the steamy jungle that promised only the uncomfortable humidity of loneliness in its tangled brush.

The Capybara felt absolutely awful. She was the worst! How could she ever treat a true friend like that?

“Well, are you going?”

Her heart skipped a beat as he whirled back to the river. Did the Leech bear witness to her traitorous turn? Was she about to get chastised, or, worse, lose a friend?

“Hoo-wee! Aren’t you the jumpy kind? I like that, means we got something in common!”

The Capybara felt something infinitesimally small leap across her ribs, up her back, around her neck, and DINK! Right on the end of her nose!

“You and I will get along just fine,” said a good-natured Flea. “I LOoOoOVE to jump! Don’t stop on account of me, new bounce-buddy! Lessgo!”

So, off they went. It was relief to the Capybara, knowing she could leave the Leech behind, yet still have a friend whispering encouragement in her ear. And what a stark difference in language between the Leech and the Flea! The Flea was full of pep, full of optimism, always wanting to hop along and do the next fun thing. He constantly prodded the Capybara along, never allowing her to stop for a moment, to rest and get mired in worries over what Buffalo Leech was up to.

After a short while, though, Capybara began to realize that the Flea was full of more energy than she had the energy to dream she could have. But she pretended like she wasn’t worn down, sluggish, unable to scratch that persistent itch that demanded she get up and follow the Flea anywhere he wanted. For, at the end of the day, the Capybara would sacrifice her comfort to ensure she at least had one animal there right beside her against the wilds of Hatuga.

It was the Flea’s patience that snapped first.

“Hey, what gives?” barked the Flea. “I thought you were this fun girl who liked to do fun things, not some sad sack of a sorry squirrel! I think I’ll have to hop along and find some friends who can keep up with my company. Call me again when you decide to pull your sticks out of the mud, m’kay?”

And, with one last jeer, the Flea abandoned friendship in the lifeboat of a passing wallaby.

“Oh, no…” moaned Capybara, already feeling the daunting emptiness well up inside her. “What am I going to do without Buffalo Leech or the Flea? I’ll have no one to talk to, no one who relies on me. I’m all alone!”

“I can help you out,” replied a slinky voice in the mud beneath her feet. Tapeworm rose up on its paper-thin body until it was eye-level with Capybara. “But I don’t trust just anyone. I’m very vulnerable, you see, and I need to make sure a friend of mine has a strong constitution.”

That sounded reasonable to the Capybara. The rest of her afternoon was shared with a swapping of secrets, trying to find the next story that they could both relate to. By the time the moon shone through Tapeworm’s translucent body, both had decided that they could trust each other completely as friends. Capybara was content, and they curled up together in a perfectly chosen patch of grass to commemorate the new companionship.

When morning came, Tapeworm was nowhere to be found. Capybara searched and searched, but it was like Tapeworm had vanished into some dark recess somewhere it could never be found. All Capybara had left was a sinking pit in the depths of her stomach, as if the potential of this new friend had created an abscess in its absence that ate away at her last sliver of strength. Capybara was certain that she and Tapeworm were compatible. After all, they had shared so much together in just one night! Why would it just up and disappear like that? There was nothing Capybara could do, now, except wallow in pain and loneliness, wishing on a star that Buffalo Leech would find its way back to her.

A carefree twitter floated down in response to her sobs. Starling landed on her back with the lightest skip, hardly noticed at all until he came to perch near Capybara’s ear.

“No need to squeak around all sorrowful-like, buddy. Tell me what ails ya, and lemme see if I can’t do something about it.”

After listening to her sob-story, Starling had nothing but the realest of sympathies.

“That’s what happens when you surround yourself with parasites. A bunch of little creepy crawlies whose only purpose in life is to suck the energy out of yours. But don’t you worry, naw-ah! Starling’ll keep you company for a little bit. But then, buddy, you gotta learn how to live on your own. Think ya can handle that?”

Capybara sniffled and felt like protesting, but deep down she knew that whatever protests came out were just leftover manipulations from Buffalo Leech, the Flea, and Tapeworm. Starling sang agreeably as she nodded, and she felt his song lift a little the burden of her heart.

Over the next week, Capybara slowly but surely recovered the life sucked from her by those nasty parasites. First the blood drawn by Buffalo Leech returned to her, then the itching to move prompted by Flea vanished, and finally the deep feeling of longing caused by Tapeworm passed through her. Starling was a pleasant and well-rounded conversationalist, never dominating, and always interested in hearing about Capybara’s current state of thinking or feeling. He was, for a season, a good friend.

But he was not hers, having a family to provide for, and she was okay with that. When they parted on good terms, Capybara felt refreshed, confident she could now stand on her own four legs. She still was worried about being alone, but that was natural – Friends made or lost, they were not made forever. Neither were they made to be exclusively hers. But at least she now knew that any friend who felt like a bloodsucking parasite was no friend of hers. She would feel no remorse in cutting it off, even if it meant her search would continue.

Such a selective Capybara has never looked healthier.

The Lonely Scavenger

The forest of Hatuga sometimes acts outside its nature. It is not unusual to get a sunburn in the middle of Winter, or be buried under snow six feet deep in the high time of Summer. But, if a thing occurs without interference from circling elements, is it not anything else but natural? True, that thing might first strike us as bizarre or strange, but this does not discount it from being a natural thing at its root. Nature can be quite contradictory, after all; the only excuse is when a thing tries to become that which it flat-out cannot be. Then, it becomes truly unnatural.

High above the munros of western Hatuga soared a thing that many called “unnatural.” That thing was a bird of prey, a magnificent Bearded Vulture, who went by the name of “Ivan.” It was a name he had to remind himself of multiple times a day, since there was no one around to call him by it. Yes, Ivan was quite the friendless flier, as Bearded Vultures are a species whose sentence is solitude. He tried his talon at chumming it with the rest of the animal kingdom, but never did it dawn on him how frightened they were by his ostentatious display. Not even Ivan’s naïve entreaties could break that natural bond between his visage and terror itself. But he assumed they had somewhere to be, and refused to hold it against them.

Bearded Vultures take great pride in how they decorate themselves; Ivan was no exception, rubbing his ruffles with rust from the soil. He took pride in preening, a laborious effort until his naturally white feathers burned a sunset orange. Plucking up a few choice bones from the ossuary he called nest, Ivan flung on the rib-cage of a chicken as a mask and the skulls of mice as rings, then set off to once again to impress the neighbors in vain with his gaudy attempt at compensating for those secret flaws that no one would educate him on.

Alas, what did the poor bird expect? The same result, no matter how many months he tried to achieve a different result. Off would bolt the neighbors, bird and mammal and reptile, scared to death of his rattling across the skies – lest they end up the next decoration, some sort of bracelet or crown! After five hours of searching for new friends (or even acquaintances) in vain, Ivan landed in a valley for drink. His imposing stature, bright makeup, and sharp beak shone on the surface. The more he stared at his reflection, the more frustrated he grew. These animals didn’t flee before him in a hurry to meet prior arrangements! No…he knew the real reason now. He was disgusting.

The more Ivan though about how disgusting he was to his neighbors, the more disgusted he found himself. The more disgusted he was with himself, the more he felt like…no, he truly did begin to cry. Why wouldn’t he? He was so alone – an unnatural existence staining Hatuga’s munros. The thought frightened him: was to be spurned by all truly the natural order for a Bearded Vulture like Ivan? There was no way a lonely, disgusting creature like himself was strong enough to defy nature.

Stripping off his heavy bone jewelry, washing away his heavy iron stains, Ivan quietly cried to himself until he passed out from weariness at the bank of the pond.

Ivan slept almost peacefully through the morning. When it had almost entirely passed, he awoke with a start to find himself in the midst of a heard of mountain goats. They grazed about him, completely unafraid of the scarlet eyed raptor in their midst. Not wanting to break the peaceful spell, Ivan just sat.

“Excuse me?” Ivan’s eyes refocused down below his enormous wings, where a small, dewey-eyed goat whispered to him. “Are you going to eat that patch of grass?”

“So that’s what it is,” Ivan realized in his head, keeping the revelation to himself. “These goats don’t realize what I am! They think I’m a goat, too, which means…”

Ivan smiled, bent his preened and polished neck towards the dirt, and began to munch on the grass. The small goat smiled back, and stripped a root nearby. Ivan almost cried again – this time for joy.

A week went by, and Ivan did his best to blend in with the herd of mountain goats. He continued to eat the same grass they did, and felt his strength fading fast. Of course, he was beyond himself with happiness at finally being accepted, so the growlings in his gizzard could be stomached if it meant being a part of community. But that wasn’t the only discomfort. The mountain goats, insisting that his painted scarlet feathers were absolutely atrocious, forced him to scrub out all the fashion he prided himself on until he was his natural state of blank. This meant that the filth acquired by wallowing on the ground instead of flying through the sky was all the more apparent.

When mating season commenced, the male goats invited Ivan to join them in their annual ritual. This ritual involved fierce duels, for which Ivan was not equipped unless he absolved his guilt in gouging them with his talons. But he was worried he would be exiled if it came to that, and so was gouged himself, his feathers turning purple and blue as the rival goats stomped him with their hooves and battered him with their horns. He also failed to climb mountains as the other goats did, his awkward knees not built for crawling up a cliff face as their powerful legs and seasoned hooves. Ivan’s talons scritched and scratched, losing their edge, and with nothing to show as he struggled to find purchase that would carry him to the heights of the rest of the herd. But he was one of the goats now, and could not bring himself to use his wings against their kindness, for the sake of his own inclusion.

Ivan also came to terms with the fact that, although the community had accepted him, the individual goats did not. The little goat that grazed with him first never got past her meager greetings. The others, though treating him tolerably well, did not attempt to know him better or closer than if he was just a visitor. Maybe they did see that he was a vulture, and didn’t think it worth pursuing a relationship with him because his presence was of no use to the future of mountain goats? Worry compounded Ivan’s weakness, day-by-day, until he could hardly flap his wings to get off the ground anymore. His heart was just as grounded – and yet still it lied to itself, that this was better than being alone.

One morning, Ivan was roused by the feared bleating of the herd. A shadow flashed across the ground, a fierce shriek, the announcement of a Harpy Eagle as she terrorized the mountain goats with gleeful dive-bombings.

“Ivan,” shouted the herd, almost in unison, “You’re one of us, Ivan! Save us from that bully Harpy!”

van, his heart suddenly alighted by the opportunity to become useful, ignored all his prior fears and weighted wings and took to the skies. He would prove himself, and maybe they would finally accept him as a fellow mountain goat!

The Harpy Eagle didn’t know what hit her at first; she was not expecting an assault from below. Even less so from a fellow raptor, since she was the largest of predatory birds behind Ivan, whose size was closer to an albatross than to his own species. Truly a battle of griffons, talon-locked, crashing into cliff faces and shredding trees. Ivan gouged as best he could, but his claws just didn’t grasp like they used to, pared down to ensure he did not fatally wound his herd. His beak was also blunted, having been close to caving in after one too many collisions with the bony crowns of his bleating brethren. It was still a struggle for her, but Harpy finally slammed Ivan onto his back against a Munro Top. Panting and bleeding, they rested there, gentle winds ruffling their crooked feathers.

“I am surprised,” Harpy gasped, “That a big bird like you could barely put up a fight. There’s plenty to share, though, and I’m willing to cut you in if you can pull your own weight in a hunt better than you can in a duel.”

“I won’t let you hurt them,” wheezed Ivan. “That’s my herd down there. They’re counting on me to protect them.”

Harpy was dumbstruck until laughter struck her even harder. She croaked and cawed at Ivan as he lay on his back. He felt very small, and became aware of his weak wings and growling gizzard again.

“They’ve taken you for a fool, scavenger,” Harpy plainly stated, her expression now serious and unwavering. “Those goats, jealous of your power and your beauty, have pulled you down into the mud with them. They’ve tried to make you a goat, not only to use you, but also to make that which they envy look absolutely ridiculous.”

“They have not! They accepted me-“

“Have they?” Harpy extended her claw, helping Ivan back onto his feet. He towered over her, still, but in this moment she seemed much more empowered than he. What was it, Ivan wondered, that filled this solitary raptor with such conviction?

“I’m glad, even if we butted heads for a moment, that we ran into each other. I’m sure you know the feeling of loneliness that I do, and maybe it’s because you’ve felt it longer that you caved in and settled with sheep. But I ask again, have they really accepted you? Do you feel that it’s right, natural, even, for you to be grazing about down there? Or do you belong up here in the clouds, with me?”

Ivan was torn, and Harpy could read it in his dulled, scarlet eyes. It wasn’t just loneliness – he did not want to betray his friends.

“In three days,” she said, “I will return to hunt. Watch your so-called ‘herd,’ and let me know if they truly see you as a part of them as much as you think they do.” With that, Harpy leapt into the sky and soared, higher and higher on her unapologetically grey wings.

When Ivan returned to the goats, he was met with appreciative bleating and the stomping of hooves. But something new in their interactions with him became clear, some deep-seated resentment towards him. He had never noticed how they talked down to him and isolated him at the same time that they included him in their activities. He was there, but he was not really a part of them. Even their gratitude for chasing away Harpy was backhanded, questioning his ability and wondering why it took him so long to do what should have been natural to him.

The three days didn’t even need to fully pass for Ivan to finally see the mountain goats for what they were. They were miserable creatures, constantly fighting to prove superiority over each other, and eating nonstop to fill some sort of hole in their hearts. They envied Ivan, the individuality of his fashion, his ability to scale the Munro Tops by wing rather than by hoof, and even his sonorous voice. Every activity they included him in, though out of the spirit of community, was meant to break him down into just another miserable goat in the mountains.

Ivan flew to a Munro Top for the first time in a long time, to be alone with his thoughts like he used to be. And it was no surprise that all the thoughts waiting for him were terribly depressing first. Not only was his part in the herd built on lies, but the lies were multifaceted. The herd had lied to Ivan, for he was never really one of them and they had no intention of accepting him as one of them in the first place. Ivan had lied to the herd, for which he physically and mentally weakened himself in order to be accepted by them. And, worst of all, Ivan had lied to himself, and now must go through the withdrawal of separating himself from the goats he thought he had grown close to over the past month.

There was a flutter of wings, deceptively light, which Ivan craned his neck to see Harpy perched next to him. Harpy Eagles are patient, and she made no further attempts to reason with him while his wounds were this deep. He was nursing scars both self-afflicted and society-afflicted, and she knew she would not be able to find words that evenly healed both types of infections. He would need to sort through it himself. For now, she would hunt.

When the Mountain Goats had first found Ivan at the watering hole, observing his lonely shadow for some time, they thought bringing him into their herd was an ingenious way to both eliminate a potential foe and wield him as a weapon to keep their herd safe. They pleasured in how ridiculous he looked while trying to please them, laughing at his pathetic attempts to seek approval and even how he spurned his own natural gifts to adopt theirs.

They no longer laughed as Harpy tugged one of them straight off the face of a munro, sending them bleating until they were dashed on the rocks below. Not of fear, but pure jealousy of the natural talents of an eagle, and all those gifts that made her such an adept predator. They would be predators, too, if they could help it. But they couldn’t even help themselves as they scrambled to safety while Harpy was busy with her freshly fallen dinner.

The Mountain Goats conspired to punish Ivan for sitting out and refusing to sacrifice his dignity for the herd. How dare he, when they had done so much to include him in their mating rituals and mountain climbing! If he felt outcast before, they promised to double their efforts in making him feel both a part of and apart from the herd, and eagerly anticipated how despondent that mighty wyvern would feel in beholding himself to sheep.

Just when they were patting themselves on the back for their clever cruelty, a terrified baaa-ing sounded out from the outer fringe of their circle, carried up, up, and away into the night sky, then plummeting to a halt in the valley below. The sheep were struck with fear – had Harpy finished her feast already, and was back for more? They counted amongst themselves, but even the mountain goats as a herd could not keep track of their own, for the individual mattered very little when they all thought alike.

They realized their mistake as an enormous flap of wings alerted them to the dragon hovering above them – the vulture ready to scavenge the decay of their community. So excited and self-righteous was the mountain goats’ persecution of Ivan, that their vocalization had carried through the Munro Tops up to where he had been lost in thought. Now aware of the obvious truth, Ivan painted his feathers to their former glory, sharpened his talons and beak on a whetstone, decorated his magnificent frame with all his hard-earned jewelry, and filled his gizzard with the fulness of conviction and righteousness that he had been sacrificing at the altar of companionship. Freed from those chains that bound him to the ground, he took to the skies and returned to the herd. Not to join them, but to put them in their natural place.

For the rest of their days, the jangling of bones and the steady beat of wind thrust downwards filled the Mountain Goats with fear. They gnashed their teeth and stamped their hooves in rage and jealousy, but their horns did them little good as they were plucked up by the raptors preying on their insecurities. Ivan felt no joy or vengeance from his hunts – he had realized that to sometimes be alone was the natural state of things. And if there was one thing his time as a goat taught him, it was to not be ashamed of his gifts. There will always be a Harpy out there to complement them, if one searches the skies and not the ground.

Song of the Sprite

The forest of Hatuga is intentioned. Every miracle in nature is a precise mathematical equation – observable but beyond our own computations. Regardless, we can appreciate how these miracles affect us, move us, imbibe us with our own paths forward in a world where a meaning made to last is sometimes rarer than a miracle.

One miracle, felt by Hatugan Forest-Peoples of all directions, was a song. A song born of a fiddle, soft and bright, arriving with the dewdrops of a rainy noon as the heavens pour on cloudless days. This phenomenon happens once every lunar cycle, and has been deemed as a holiday of rest, to enjoy the comforting melody as it wafts through the trees. Every Hatugan near to the sound would stop their work, and prepare themselves for the rejuvenating strings – for rejuvenation takes a surprising amount of concentration. Faint and far away the song might seem, but, listen closely enough, and you would notice how every intricate note, plain as day, was playing inside your own mind.

One young man did not seek rejuvenation at this point in the lunar cycle. He sought inspiration; what was the secret of that song from the forest that made it so deserved in the minds and hearts of his fellow Hatugan? And why was his heart more moved to sing than to listen? To follow these questions, the young man pursued them into the depths of the forest, seeking out that isolated, intimate source.

Three days into his journey, some of which was comprised of beautiful, pointless circles, the young man happened upon another young man. They shared a good-natured talk, shallow perhaps, but still extending all the cordial respects granted to those with shared values, then continued on their separate ways. They soon realized their separate ways were not separate at all, not even vaguely similar, but very much exactly the same. And, as they glared at each other as if owed an explanation, they saw that another had joined their party, who was just as disappointingly confused to see his party-of-one expanding. And expanding, as more were tallied to the group, until they numbered seven in total.

The fifty-ton gator in the room finally had to be addressed, leading to volatile responses all around. The majority consensus was that each individual believed they had been called by the song, and it was their personally handpicked destiny to uncover its secrets. To what end? Well, some claimed they knew, and the rest deferred the question back to their destiny. But one thing they all knew: that their pursuit was their own, and no one else was entitled to take it away from them. Even if that meant taking away someone else’s pursuit instead.

Hatugans are not prone to inciting physical violence, and so the fire that raged from the sparks of iron clashing exploded into most inflammatory bickering. Underneath the cover of enormous radiant spores, argument after argument was jabbed between the fellow dreamers. They tried to outreason their opponents with their own reasoning, only to be reasoned away by another’s – so on and so long until the stars were even hiding until the differences in their similarities were resolved. Or, at least, they tired themselves out, which was even less likely.

Melting points had begun to spill over, mixing with other metals, but the sound had changed. Over the cacophony of frustration and bitterness, the mysterious song, for the first time in its history they were sure, began to play for the second time in one month. But, this time, it was next to them – still faint, but now spirited gracefully between them by a figure blithely fiddling on an ancient instrument, root and vine harnessed together by animal hair. It looked like it shouldn’t be able to make a noise at all, but the elegant figure, four heads taller than the tallest wanderer there, was extracting from that earthen fiddle the genuine melody that had inspired them all to venture into the depths of the forest in the first place.

“You argue about which of you is best equipped to learn this song,” said the figure in a melodic voice, now taking clearer shape as a pale greenish lady of elvish descent clothed in all the fineries of the fungal canopy above, “But you forget to ask three questions. Can it be taught?”

She struck a sharp chord with her bow. Immediately, the song seemed to be called from whichever far away recess it had been bouncing about in, like a bleating sheep called down from the mountains, into the grove. All were calmed as, for the first time in their experience as the audience, they felt the song right there next to them. Not within them, or far away without, but at their right side.

“At the same time you play, can you listen?” The elven lady moved her bow in rapid, staccatoed motions that shouldn’t have produced the song that was currently playing. But it was playing nonetheless, bouncing around behind her like an obedient puppy with a pulsating glow. The wanderers were mesmerized, and might have felt like joining in the dance had they not understood that to do so at that exact moment would provide an obvious no to the second question.

“And, lastly, why does it matter?” The sprite began to sing. Never in the song had they heard a voice before, now realizing that these notes were meant to compliment and enhance the sound of the fiddle, rather than offer its own tangent of cluttered meter and notes. Her long willow hair swept around each dreamer individually, spreading a warmth among the party as they realized that each one of them had been graced with the secret of the song. Almost unconcerned, or perhaps trusting that the song was now with them and she no longer needed to be there, the sprite and her fiddle disappeared between the mushrooms, slowly rising until the song had spread across the germinating flora above them and absorbed by the dark of the forest.

The wanderers split up. Each returned to their home, almost in a trance. The productive kind.

For three months, nothing seemed to come of this encounter, and the lunar holiday continued on time after that abnormal encore that was the talk of the towns for a time. Then, rumors spread throughout Hatuga, that one young woman was promising that she had, in fact, discovered the secret of the song. Those rumors turned into advertisements, for this young woman had gathered a band together, which would be performing her own reinvented interpretations on the original song for a live audience.

The first few shows were sold out, and the tour was a raving success for fifteen days. But fatigue set in, and the young woman became unsure that she could reach these same highs if she tried to pull off the same event again. Moreover, her songs were extremely difficult to write, originality always clashing with popularity, and the pressures of expectation were mounting. After the tour, content with a pseudo-satisfaction that she could claim to have been a great artist at some moment or other while reminiscing on her past success, the young woman retired from the music business to focus a little bit more on herself.

The rest of the wanderers were not so visible to the public eye as they wrestled with the secret of the song. The second wanderer had become jealous, having put all of his advertisements for the same sort of event the young woman was throwing in all of the wrong places, and so his concert never really picked up at all. Another wanderer became daunted by the task put before her, and decided that criticizing the song was cathartically quicker and expended less effort than trying to build or improve it. These two linked arms, and devoted their time to tearing down the systems that valued the song of the sprite – even going so far in their bitter exclusion to lobby in public for the lunar holiday to be scrubbed from their calendar.

The fourth wanderer dove into a focused study and appreciation of the things that had been revealed to him. In fact, he became so focused, so studious, that nobody in Hatuga could really tell you what those revelations were. He would always assure you, when asked, that he was improving the formulas, heightening the notes, drawing power from words unspoken except by the heart. And, if you asked him to elaborate, he would dance around the subject like the elven sprite, now a faded image in his mind, and never really give you anything tangible to understand or appreciate. But he seemed satisfied in his studies, so perhaps there was some meaning to it, and perhaps he would arrive at a shareable conclusion one day.

The fifth wanderer became a menace. Not intentionally, but their shared love of the song and themselves merged to create a sort of monster that could only be satiated by sharing both with the world. The collective groan of Hatugans everywhere as she would arrive, from nowhere to right in the middle of a private interaction, would send Hatugans fleeing in all directions. She played her version of the song with no rhyme or reason to it being played, except that she liked to hear herself playing it, and hardly wondered why her audience couldn’t sit still for one second longer to share in the joys that had been revealed to her.

The sixth wanderer thought on his experience, appreciated it, and started a family. He enjoyed recounting the story to his children, to inspire them and fill them with wonder and an appreciation for purpose. But it was in the higher sphere of spirituality that the song belonged, not in his practical life. And so he kept it at arm’s length while focusing his efforts on things that were kept only at a finger’s length. He found satisfaction in this, as did his family, and it heightened their appreciation of the lunar holiday more than most of their Hatugan neighbors.

For a year, no one heard or saw the seventh wanderer. He seemed to disappear from community altogether, and the villagefolk were genuinely curious what had happened to him. Then, one lunar holiday at the start of a new year, everyone became aware of a change in the song. It was natural, beautiful, somehow deeper and more complex, but still filled with all the subtle magic in the original. This did not start off as the public perception, however, as many insisted it was still just the same old song, just with the added effect of ambient noise that didn’t fully recognize the lunar holiday or appreciation the purity of the song.

But, over time, more and more became aware of this change. It did not replace the song they had grown up with, but enhanced it, grew with it, and gave a little more spirit to the lunar holiday than a mere day of rest and rejuvenation. It became a day of inspiration, filling them with hope for their individual pursuits, and reminding them to let the day pass through them, rather than just pass through the day. And, while everyone knew this new song to be the seventh wanderer’s work, especially those close to him, no one quite understand how he got there, or where he had gone. But since they were filled with the inspiration, it was a blessing every lunar holiday to remember, deep down, that they could find out, too.