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It is an indisputable fact that the forest of Hatuga is very much a forest. If there was ever a standard by which forests were defined, there is no doubt that Hatuga would be said standard. True, there is much to associate with a name, much you could expect from a “forest”…but not all of those expectations might be true. Hatuga, you see, is a forest filled with many types of everything – a little bit of this, a dash of that, and a whole helping of whatever you never expect. Sometimes the biggest surprise, when faced with a this or a that, is something you don’t expect to find in yourself. That expectation is the hardest to control, for it can change when you least expect it. Meanwhile, the rest of Hatuga remains as it has always remained.

Here is one thing you might not expect: in the eastern middle of the forest, at the edge of a small clearing amidst a grove of mangos, buried hundreds of feet beneath a canopy of tropical trees, protrudes a dome. There is not one hint of civilization besides that dome, sitting atop an untouched field of Zoysia grass and daisies. Beset on all curves by translucent glass, light from the sun gently pierces the foliage to glaze off its fragile armour – one would think it was for show only, if they allowed themselves to be blinded a first glance. But there is a way inside –
the only entrance into this tropical igloo – through a cedar door of smallish height sitting at the end of a tunnel. One can see a shape inside bustling about, so let us enter to greet it.

The eye is promptly overwhelmed with shelves upon shelves towering tall as houses, stocked with ancient tomes and vast records of knowledge from all across the globe. These are scaffolded across uneven floors, connected by woven ladders, cradling volumes in pristine shape evidenced by leathery pheromones freshening the air – a greenhouse curating literature.

This dome was, in fact, a library. No one knows who built it or for whom, but it came to be there all the same, and one can get the gist as to whom the intended audience was: There is not much fiction besides classic novels, there are no comics, there is no technology; only the stores of objective scientific fact and subjective theories that comprise the epistemological system of man’s meaning-making faculties. In other words, just a bunch of big books with big words on big subjects for big boys and girls. It is a house for expanding understanding.

The curator, though, was neither a big boy nor a big girl. He was an orangutan, a relatively young one (about two-hundred and thirty-two years old in a month), who took up residency within the glass library. He had given himself the name Wswiasage Panatok-Unteras, an ancient name from the language of the Faded Civilization. Those who visited the library simply addressed him as “Mr. Sage.” He insisted upon it, for familiarity’s sake.

Normally, the library was filled with readers, scholars, and the generally curious. But today was a Sunday, a day Mr. Sage closed his doors upon, so that he might have a break from research to participate in recreational occupations. One can only expand their mind so much, before the brain grows tired and needs to discharge before leaping back into the page. That is why Mr. Sage always looked forward to Sundays as a necessity.

This Sunday, however, was more than any regular Sunday. This Sunday, Mr. Sage was in an especially jovial mood. A hospitable mood. It couldn’t be anything other than hospitable, after all, since the reason this Sunday was so special had something to do with a guest coming to tea that afternoon. And there is nothing a civilized ape enjoys more than a jolly-good, old-fashioned tea party.

Flipping out of a hammock strung between the “O” Section (a knowing coincidence on the orangutan’s part), Mr. Sage daintily plucked up a comb to brush his coarse coat thrice over. Snatching the chain of his bronze pocketwatch, he glanced the time just as the library clock chimed nine. An hour left for preparations.

Hurrying on his knuckles, Mr. Sage scaled the spiral staircase to a small enclave, hidden on a beam near the roof. In that enclave was stashed his dashing wardrobe, hung with threads of different eras and hats of every genre. Classical was the theme today, and that simian librarian had the perfect outfit picked out. He threw on a velvet vest and powdered wig, topped it with a bowler hat, lowered the pocketwatch into his coat, and slid on a pair of white gloves. There was no need for pants or shoes, since the party would be held indoors. He almost forgot his bowtie in the hurry.

When he had finished, the orangutan beheld himself in the mirror. He was a gangly mammal, but long arms and short legs are very becoming on his species.

“There are great apes,” said Mr. Sage, complimenting his reflection, “and then there are grand apes. You, my handsome chap, are the grandest ape there is.”

A conceited notion, perhaps, but not if you consider just how learned Mr. Sage really is. Truly, he had read every book in that library, front to back, becoming a walking, talking library himself. No one was more pleased than Mr. Sage to impart wisdom upon his companions, today especially. For it was today that he would reunite with an old friend, one whom he had not seen in ages. Last time they met, she was but a little girl. He, an uneducated monkey. They would play in the trees together, cracking open coconuts to wear as hats while feasting on the tender sweetness of the Honey Globe. Rolling around the forest on top of thick Hami, child and monkey spent their youth in the pleasant distraction of dreams. The stars were maps of their future, and they would trace the lines together in the cool midmorning.

They might still be but children in age, for Hatugans grow at a very slow rate, but their desires do not remain so static. Mr. Sage was excited to see, over their newfound tradition of tea, which constellation his old friend’s interests had spied and pursued. And he had a surprise for her in relation to their stargazing hobby; a surprise that he could hardly wait any longer to share.

Not long after the table had been set, arrangements prepared…a knock at the door! With a hop and a skip and a shamble, Mr. Sage swung as fast as he could towards the sound. He landed with a lumber towards the entrance, flicked up the latch, and gave a bow upon flinging open the hatch.

“You rang-utan?”

Mr. Sage chuckled at this little lame joke and glanced up to see his guest’s reaction.

What stood before him came as a shock. Surely this was not the same girl he gazed up at the stars with, all those years ago? Yet, despite being quite aged now, she is dressed in the same plaid jumper and frilled shirt she wore as a child. But he marked that jumper unraveled at the hem, that blouse yellowed from white, both held together more by mud than thread. Her face and hair were just as filthy, the latter frayed and knotted and the former clogged to the pores. She bared her rotten teeth and inflamed gums at him, trying to smile, but lacking the muscle-memory for it.

Mr. Sage wasn’t simply aghast; he was seriously debating whether or not he should let such a swamp creature into his treasured library. But he was a gentleman, and no Grand Ape would turn away an honored guest – no matter how seemingly undeserving of honor they appeared. Had he not read so many stories preaching, “Don’t judge a book by its cover?” So the host stepped aside, beckoned his guest in, and asked politely, “Would you like to freshen up first?” He had not even finished his offer when the girl ducked down, grabbed a palmful of mud and smeared it enthusiastically across her neck. This answered any further attempts Mr. Sage could take to preserve his tidy environment.

Not to be put down by a disappointment, Mr. Sage led his old friend into the atrium.

“Let me first say, it is a singular pleasure to see you again after all these years. I was not sure my invitation would find you, given the current state of carrier pigeons, but it looks as though my doubts are unfounded! If you would be so obliging, I would be pleased to show you the full extent of this –“

Mr. Sage turned just in time to see his guest tugging on both ends of a volume of “Principles of Hematology,” trying her best to tear it in half. The poor orangutan was so rattled that he hooted (a no-no in his self-education to be more man than monkey) and snatched it out of her grubby hands.

“Why do you do this?”

The girl shrieked like a chimpanzee and crouched down on her knuckles. This shocked Mr. Sage out of anger. Afraid he had offended, he recomposed himself and tried again.

“My apologies, old friend. I don’t mean to be forceful, but please respect my efforts in amassing this accumulation of literature! Every volume was sought for a reason, and I’d hate to see vandalism come to even one.”

Still leering with suspicious eyes, the girl straightened back up and redirected her focus to the mud on her forearm. She went to work, gnawing at it distractedly. Mr. Sage continued the tour – though he couldn’t quite tell if his guest comprehended a single explanation. Or, at the very least, harbored a shred of interest. As they weaved on through trees formed of stacked books, Mr. Sage assumed it was the latter. Concerned about his capabilities as a host, he decided to skip forward in the schedule. Only for her benefit, of course.

“What do you think,” he urged, “about breaking for tea?”

The proposition passed unmarked over the earthy girl’s head, and so Mr. Sage determined that the break would be for his own peace of mind, if not for hers.

When they reached the dining table, tucked away above hundreds of winding rope stairs to a sequestered nook where a towering window filtered dawn’s faint rays as a greenish-blue hue all across the library, the guest was imbued with newfound energy. She hooted and screeched, hobbled over to the window, bunched up her nose against the tempered glass – completely missing the artistic array of finger sandwiches. Was it for the cool of the touch, or the view outside? Mr. Sage grew weary trying to figure out this backwards puzzle, but at least there was hope in the new excitement animating her movements.

He successfully leads her back to the table, with much coaxing, and – lo and behold! She sits properly in the chair! Somewhere in there, buried beneath a layer of grime, the friend Mr. Sage once knew must have retained a sliver of memory for their teatime tradition. Oh, he was ecstatic!

“Wait right here. Help yourself to some sandwiches. I’ll be back with the tea, tout suite!”

Mr. Sage left his guest at the table, unaccompanied, and clambered across a rope to his kitchen. The jade teakettle whistled atop its flaming perch, right on time – Up it was plucked with the delicacy of a savant, guiding the marinated water into two porcelain teacups by the dipping of smooth, furry hands. As the Orangutan poured, his expectations rising, he could not help thinking – for, how could he? – about what nature of change had befallen his past companion.

“It is peculiar…” he mused, “that she would specifically degenerate her behavior to that of an ape. Which is of course, what I happen to be by nature. Is this some sort of retribution to me, for having not reached out to her sooner? Is she secretly mocking how far I have come in self-betterment? Or have I advanced my intelligence so far that now she sounds like little more than a beast?”

Mr. Sage twirled his orange beard and chose not to think too hard on these skepticisms. Remember: do not judge a book by its cover! The girl chose to act this way for reasons known by her alone – Mr. Sage had no claim to control over her. But, perhaps, she would see how he is – his patience for her sake – and it would move her to be a smidge more considerate. All this modest ape desired was a smidge of human goodwill from her, so that there would be reason for continued human goodwill from him.

A clatter announced the tea tray’s flight across the ladder back to the long table where the girl sat, bewilderingly without any signs of an upset while Mr. Sage was away. She seemed mesmerized by the distorted world outside the window; peaceably, in that vignette, she appeared of contemplative intelligence and measured emotion. Her host looked out the window, towards whatever she could be staring at, but it was no use – the only view beyond the glass were faint outlines of existence outside the library, and a swirl of pale hues born from green. The orangutan swung into his seat, then slid one of the teacups across to his old friend.

The girl broke from her trance to catch the gift. She eyed Mr. Sage, still suspicious, as he raised his own teacup: a toast! She hooted softly, raised the teacup, took a loud slurp.

Mr. Sage nearly falls out of his chair from fright as something whizzes past his ear and shatters behind him! Their false peace broken again by the girl, who had hurled her teacup at the grand ape! A terrible shot she is, though Mr. Sage wished she had hit him instead – that would give him a reason to toss her out, and spare his collection. But she is a terrible shot, so now the cookbooks behind him are cursed, cursed with the odor of eternally staling Earl Grey.

The girl screeched and clapped wildly with delight. She leapt onto the table, seized with the throes of a manic dance. Sandwiches are punted over the balcony, butter is smeared into the silk doilies, and the tea party is, in effect, indisputably ruined.

Oh, distressing day! Mr. Sage mourns the broken serenity of this, the only haven he has ever known, and for a split second considers tossing his guest out the window by the hem of her grungy jumper, assault or not. He opted instead for a heated lecturing.

“What is your grievance with me, miss?” lamented the generally calm gentle-ape. “I invited you here to share the riches of my gorgeous library, and you have responded with offended shrieks and unwarranted violence! Yes, I suppose you might argue, I own none of these books – but this reality makes it all the more outrageous. Why would you to so irreparably spurn that which I share with your fellow Hatugans?”

A wild series of hoots was the answer – response that could only be interpreted as drowning his reprimands out. But it did succeed in halting her jaunty dance. Mr. Sage did not cower, despite his self-judgment as a prejudicial villain, but continued.

“Does our past mean nothing? Memories of catching fireflies near the Gnuggin River? Plucking fresh fruit from Waffletripe trees, so refreshing under the hot noonday sun! When I think back to the constellations in those summer skies – how crabulous Cancer inspired hunger, how haughty Hercules inspired awe – I can only mark how the you I knew then has faded away, as those bright celestial patterns! And what once was fills me with deep despair.”

Mr. Sage was so caught up in his lamentations, too busy dabbing his eyes with the tablecloth, that he did not realize how his woe touched the jungle child. She stopped hooting, staring simply at him, perplexed. Her eyes lowered from his wrinkled brow, began searching for something among the rubble of deli and spreads.

Her eyes lit up at a paper napkin. Dexterously, the girl set to work – folding this way and that, with a crease here and a cut there – so absorbed that even Mr. Sage was pulled from dismay into curiosity. Eventually, the girl crept forward, head bowed, and offered the finished product to her host.

Behold, though it be shabby and without finesse, a modest origami crab. A tender gift, not expected from the likes of this unrestrained jungle child.

Hope! The enlightening feeling that filled Mr. Sage with energy and compassion could only be attributed as such. He gingerly took it, as though it might be deception, and studied the form.

Mr. Sage hooted in excitement. The girl perked up. She hooted as well. Soon, the two were screeching happily together, jigging atop the table arm-in-arm. To think, language was the only barrier between the present and the past. Mr. Sage lowered his restrain, and now they were equals once more. These two opposites, man and monkey, enjoyed an afternoon filled with feats of daring, abusing the library’s isolationist approach of staggered alphabetizing to leap off ledges and bound across bookshelves.

They laughed when the sun set, plopping down in exhaustion between the X section. There, they lay a while, and Mr. Sage was certain; his old friend was ready to see his surprise. Humming softly, he helped the girl to her feet. She seemed so tired that she might crawl onto one of the shelves and sleep, but curiosity lured her along like a somnambulist. That, and Mr. Sage’s impromptu excitement to see her reaction to what he had to offer.

Up, up, up the winding stairs into another loft. Further up a ladder into the top of the glass dome Mr. Sage led her, oil lantern in hand – an observatory. There was little up this high but a clear view in all directions, still not high enough to breach the canopy. In the center of this sacred space was an artifact of an older time, Mr. Sage’s true treasure: a rusted telescope.

He placed the oil lantern on a table near the door. Ushering his guest towards the telescope, the orangutan mimed for her to peer into the eyepiece. She was wary at first, but so tired that her eye eventually rested on it for support.

Oh, Heavens! There they were, in all their spatial splendor, a glittering refraction for worlds light-years away! The girl appeared to be struck speechless, and Mr. Sage pointed out the fragments of constellations they used to watch, whose environment had long since changed and reduced those ancient heroes and beasts to stardust. But one still remained visible as a point of reference. That old crab, Cancer, whose pincers had only grown longer and shell had only hardened, remained firmly rooted in his spot among the stars. He surveyed the remains of his comrades from below, buried beneath the refuse of new planets and the bones of the old, untouched by time and dislight.

Yawning, the jungle girl moved away from the telescope and curled into a ball on the hand-woven rug, woven by Mr. Sage himself to mirror the night sky. She completely ignored the two lawn chairs he had set up for them – another pair of antiques from the old world that the grand ape had acquired – but he chuckled good-naturedly to himself and let her be. Why impose on what makes her comfortable, as uncomfortable as it might seem to him? There are those who prefer to lounge in lawn chairs, and there are those who prefer the rug. In fact, given that he wove it himself, he was flattered a little – perhaps his guest did appreciate his hospitality, after all.

Mr. Sage settled into one of the lawn chairs, smiling and relieved that he had found his old friend again, buried deep beneath mud and aversion to decency. He was so happy, so content, that he drifted into a lullaby that they had once composed together during sleepless nights. Their Cosmic Lullaby:

“A veil of peace covers Earth –
A cloak of darkness smothers mirth –
In the black expanse of space, comets keep their pace
To the sound of stars’ sweet symphony.

Betelgeuse orchestrates –
Sirius bright illuminates –
Radiating tempo, collision course crescendo,
With the sound of stars’ sweet symphony.

Pirouette, Rond de jambe,
Pirouette, Rond de jambe
Twirls Nehtor, cosmic dancer.
Chasse, whisk,
Chasse, wing,
Leading on clumsy Cancer.
A beacon of light as they waltz through the night
And lull the universe to rest.

Musicians of the void
Plucking passing asteroids –
Watch the galactic, climactic, unfold.
With every tuneful tinkle those time-old trumpets twinkle
And another starry serenade grows cold.“

His friend snored, very loud and without reserve. This vulnerability pleased the Grand Ape, and made the mess they left across his library almost agreeable. A worthy sacrifice, to get her to know him again! The knowledge to reach and reconnect to another’s heart, against all forces of nature, is very rare to come by; rarer than most of the literature Mr. Sage possessed.

Mr. Sage’s consciousness drifted away into that river above them as it flowed on through the tunnel of time, from dimensions and into dimensions that existed far beyond their own little place in space. He was slow to sleep.

But he was quick to wake, when a clatter startled him back to his head. Mr. Sage rolled around in his chair, eyes already well adjusted to darkness. But his heart was not adjusted enough to see his rediscovered friend, his guest, the jungle girl, with telescope tucked under her arm. There was animalistic fear in her dilated eyes, directed at him. Mr. Sage held his palms outstretched, showing he meant no harm. There was a pause in time, the only observers of the moment those unfeeling gaseous denizens above.

The jungle girl fled, knocking the oil lamp near the door. It teetered for a second, spilling its rank insides onto the table and the rug, then dashed to flames amidst the spill. Mr. Sage was stalled for a minute as he got tangled up in the lawn chair, snapping it at the hinges. Without a second to spare, he rolled up the carpet he had crafted himself, a work of art in its own right, and smothered the flames as best he could. But the damage had been done.

But the girl, in her mad dash, tracked the oil down, down the winding stairs, between the aisles, over the sociable coffee bar and under the ambient art pieces. Each footprint was matched by flames, carried by the wind and their own nature. Mr. Sage scrambled down the ladder, round and round the stairs, but it was too late. He arrived to see his books burning beneath a sky of fire, histories caught up in speedy deterioration as they were licked and chewed and finally devoured by thousands of ravenous tongues. Shelves tumbled into crumbling heaps, pages swirled in a whirlwind unclassified by leather bindings, and the smell of dying tomes was almost enough to strangle the sky. Those grubby flames reached for Mr. Sage, too, but he tore himself away from his terrified stupor and ran for the exit. He managed to salvage a cookbook and a cosmic atlas, one under each arm, as he ducked and dodged the collapsing ceiling. Mr. Sage plunged into the cool purgatory between midnight and dawn just before the fire. Behind him, the library’s glass dome swelled and burst. The books he saved protected him with their thick coats as glass rained down and settled like fresh dew on the grass.

Mr. Sage heaved the books off of his singed body. Tears from smoke and years wasted clouded his vision. He heard rustling in the undergrowth nearby, and could just make out his guest fleeing into the morning, his rusted telescope – meant to be shared as a mutual gift – still lodged under her arm. She limped away with wild abandon, and the ape knew he would never see her again. He did not want to ever see her again. She did not belong in his world, and he did not belong in hers. Their friction would only create the sparks of all-encompassing loss.

Mr. Sage lay back on the bed of grassy glass, feeling not much of anything. He tried to remind himself that he was a Grand Ape, and could rebuild. Hatuga needed his knowledge, after all. But he could not help second-guessing his assurances, and even his understanding of the forest, as the library reached further, further towards the heavens as a tower of fire. Mr. Sage’s sanctuary burned all night, witnessed across all Hatuga over the canopy of trees that once sheltered it.

Under the smoke and the light of the pyre, Mr. Sage stretched out on the jungle floor. He tried to return to sleep – he tried very hard. But he had lost sight of the stars.

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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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