Tag: fable

Don Pigeón

The forest of Hatuga sees death and rebirth on a daily basis. Fires burn down forests so that new trees may grow; floods wash away old sediment to make clear what was once buried; predators eat prey so that the new generation made be heard. Each time this occurs, it is taking what has come before, and improving on it with something new or refreshed. Nothing of consequence is lost, only refocused into a natural working order. Civilization is founded on this fundamental cycle of life and death. It never ends, but is perpetually feeding into itself; expanding outwards, never changing direction.

Only once, in all of Hatuga’s history, did this cycle actually reset.

It began, as most stories do, with a tragedy in the most widespread flock in the forest. Don Pigeón was a bird of no ambition, in the most normal way possible. He took for granted the seed that was given to him, and was comfortable in his day-to-day flocking from bath to perch to town to perch again. There was routine to his life, there was community to his life, there was no reason to change what he did and how he did it whatsoever. He was a family fowl.

One Winter, as his flock was preparing to migrate South to more tepid climates, it was determined that his beloved Grán Pigeón was now too old to make the journey. All the best arrangements were made for her, to remain warm and well-supplied while the rest of the casa was away. This was not an abnormal occurrence, and the protocols had been reliably compiled over the years by expert pigeons who were also deemed too weak to escape the clutches of Winter. So Don Pigeón gave his dear sweet nonna a peck on the cheeks, that bird who had done nothing short of provide emotional encouragement throughout his entire life so that an existence without ambitions was digestible, and bid her farewell.

The next time Don Pigeón saw his nonna, she was laid out before him on a bed of birdseed, but far away in the realm of Death. While the flock was gone, there were complications with supplies – a disease that not only rotted the food they had stocked up, but also the inside of Grán Pigeón’s feeble stomach. He perched before her, furious at fate that had decreed him powerless in the face of natural cycles.

That event was the catalyst for the first ever stroke of ambition to enter Don Pigeón’s brain. His question: Must we remain so powerless? His answer: no. He did not have a solution in mind quite yet, but he wouldn’t stand for this unfair, illogical, depressing reality. The unknown did not hinder his determination, but had, in fact, given him a hint in Grán Pigeón’s passing. No more taking for granted what could be snatched away in a second – No more strutting about in aimless abandon – No more lounging in baths, cooing with neighbors, ruffling feathers without a care in the world.

This was his world. And, for the first time since he was cursed with ambition, he cared.

The hint Death had given Don Pigeón as to his first step was to find a solution that might have prevented Grán Pigeón’s expiration. Disease was nothing new. But it wasn’t so much the disease that was problem as was the fact that nobody knew what she was going through. There was no way to check up on her, to make sure she was doing all right, and no way to send her what she needed. Food, medicine, anything that could keep her alive, there was no way to get it to her. Therein was the first answer to Don Pigeón’s question revealed.

In less than a month, the first Pigeon Parcel Service Center was constructed. It was a rudimentary setup in a cramped nest that Don Pigeón founded with a few of the cousins who were also hit hardest by Grán Pigeón’s passing. For another month, the only thing that was leaving the center was hope – no one had any mail they wanted to deliver clear across Hatuga. The cousins left, one by one, until only Don Pigeón remained. But he remained steadfast, for he knew, if he had the possibility of feeling this hopeless, so at least one other Hatugan out there must feel the same as he.

And there was. Weasel had seen one of his daughters run off with a Stoat, when he had been openly explicitly averse to the arrangement. Now, he resented his actions, and wanted desperately to be part of whatever family his daughter made. Don Pigeón, pledging his devotion to delivering this sentiment, took Weasel’s letter and set off immediately where he was directed. For two full days he traveled nonstop, until he landed on the doorstep of their makeshift burrow. The multitude of reactions that slowly spread across the features of the Weasel’s daughter as she read the letter touched him – it was a reward he had not expected. As was the gift she offered out of the goodness of her heart for his kind deed: a basket of nuts that grew only in that isolated part of the forest, deep underground at that. With his heart and belly full, and a positive reply for the Weasel in his claws, Don Pigeón finally felt like his dream was on its way to fruition.

And it was, for word of mouth spread among the large and the small, amongst all species, that Don Pigeón was the bird to ask for if one wanted to get in touch with any other part of Hatuga. He would fly miles and miles for you, so that you could reach out to loved ones beyond reach. It was amazing how many in that forest had drifted apart – or were just curious about their neighbors, penning no one in particular just so they could learn more about their home.

Gradually, to Don Pigeón’s delight, his family began to return to the roost. Not to congratulate him, or to join him as employees, but to help him take control of the delivery machine he was building. Don Pigeón was taking minimal fees, fees that did not justify the time and lengths for which he was flying all over Kingdom Come. Now, with a rate in place, there were more than sentimental reasons to make the trip; the Pigeón family began accumulating all sorts of rare materials and resources, normally isolated to one region or another, gradually gathered at the Pigeon Parcel Service Center (or PPSC for short).

As he accumulated goods and goodwill, so did Don Pigeón gather the nature of nature. He became the confidant of rumors all around the jungle – not by choice at first, mind you, for some people will spill their guts to just about any random stranger who would listen. And Don Pigeón and his family were very good listeners. With the Don, it began from a place of empathy. Slowly, steadily, empathy changed to interest. And interest in truth, like in finance, compounds in the knowledge bank of Pigeón. The Don knew this as a useful tool right away…But for what? He did not have the answer, for his heart had yet to reach that level of corruption.

What it informed firstly, was Don Pigeón’s sympathy for what made life difficult for certain Hatugans. Whether they were lacking in defenses against the natural elements, or a certain confidence in the natural evolution of their species, or a shortage of natural resources, Don Pigeón employed a number of his brightest minds to brainstorm and blueprint what could be done about the problems plaguing their ecosystem. 

But the other pigeons did not have the giving heart their Don was gifted with. They became cognizant of dormant dreams of their own, things that would never come to fruition if they remained employed in the PPSC. This was Hatuga, however – there was no reason for any Hatugan to be employed! But they could not resist the exotic imports dropped on their doorstep, and the traveling that took them to lands they’d only imagined but now had a reason to experience. The easy solution for them, would be to pressure Don Pigeón for concessions. He was the generous sort, and they knew he could never deny his family.

In order to afford such concessions, Don Pigeón expanded his outfit. Other birds had been pining to get their knock-knees through the doorway, but Don Pigeón had kept them at bay through reputation, for the sake of reputation. Monopolizing the delivery service industry ensured that everything remained under his control, for the sake of the customer, but it was becoming harder and harder to control what he could not see.

So he made concessions. To his family, his own employees, he assured raises all around. To independent delivery outfits, he allowed the opportunity to stake a claim in the industry, with one caveat: their new businesses would operate as extended branches of his own. In this diplomatic way, Don Pigeón satisfied both his allies and his opponents, while also expanding the reach of his services.

But there was one very subtle advantage that only Don Pigeón was immediately conscious of. In order to afford raises to his workers, Don Pigeón knew it was necessary for competing brands to exist. He did not put his name on these new branches, the 1-Day Shipping from Falcons, the Heavy Cargo Shipping from Condors, the Penguin’s Aquatic Shipping. Instead, he encouraged healthy competition, the illusion that all of these outfits were not owned and controlled by him (they were, of course). And, where there is competition, there is competitive pricing; already addicted to widespread interconnection, the residents of Hatuga were all too happy to pay more and more, over the course of months, to retain the new boundaries that Don Pigeón had pushed back for them. And, with the loyalties of these “rival companies,” Don Pigeón ensured that any new aspiring entrepreneurs could be quashed before they even got started.

Progress moved swiftly. Don Pigeón now had his toes all over the North, West, South, and East of Hatuga, while the central branch controlled everything discreetly. Confident he had garnered enough influence and importance in the lives of his fellow Hatugans, the Don began the next step in his goal to diminish the struggles of his fellow countrymen: the implementation of industry.

Crippled in a hunting accident? We can supply you a leg, or a rudimentary vehicle that runs on the wind. Elements too strong for your natural defenses? We can build you a house. Got an allergy, a sickness, a wound? We have chemicals to put an end to that. Any aspect of life that brought fear or insecurity to a Hatugan, Don Pigeón sought to eliminate it – to control it. It was for the benefit of all of Hatuga that he would make life more liveable, and less fearful. To do that, he would need to bring together specialists, those who had only pursued certain fields for hobby or evolutionary inclination, and put them on his ever-expanding payroll. And Hatugans, welcome to any change that made their lives convenient, only saw this carefully regulated industrialization as Nature in action. After all, growth is in the trees, in the waters, in their very genes; so what is so unnatural about growing civilization like this?

But for all his benevolence towards those investing in the bright new Hatuga of his dreams, there was still one citizen he could not bring himself to tolerate: Sloths. The Sloths partook of industry as much as any other Hatugan, no greater and no less, but their slow speed and general laziness dictated that they only consume, and not contribute. Dictated? No, Don Pigeón would not be dictated to by a bunch of ungrateful Sloths. If they wished to be part of his brave new world of technological and sociological innovation, they would need to give up some part of themselves, as all Hatugans had – time, money, or expertise, it did not matter. What would be required to encourage them?

The parcel service had become so overburdened, that some of Don Pigeón’s Octopus scientists had been working on a way to relieve the burden when it came to written mail or messages. They had created a device that would broadcast soundwaves, but it relied on tether points to extend their scope. Don Pigeón did not need a second explanation. Gathering the full might of his construction crews from all directions, radio towers were erected almost overnight, and enough devices were manufactured to be sold the next week. There were two frequencies with thousands of channels: one that allowed private calls for personal messages between Hatugans, and another for broadcasting entertaining discussions on life, philosophy, and current events. So, not only was the burden on his work forces lightened, but he now had a way to bring those pesky Sloths to see the light – whether by encouraging participation in community and culture, defining what it is to be a good Hatugan, or just flat-out insulting Sloths as a species in general. He let the intellectuals have their fun, their experiments, sure – but these were his radio waves, and he would ensure that only what was best for Hatuga was given credence as truth. Such was his responsibility as head of the family.

But the Don could not have foreseen how his messaging took a life of its own beyond the radiowaves. Some Hatugans sympathized with the sloths. They didn’t mind contributing to enjoy conveniences, but the sheer volume of sacrifices they made did not equal what they were receiving in return. Ths was especially true of the primates, whose opposable thumbs were invaluable for low-reward, low-prestige, purely physical technical roles, especially when building machines.

Others became increasingly aware of how, no matter where they turned, the philosophies of whoever owned these radio channels (for Don Pigeón was too humble to attribute all the societal changes to himself alone) were being forced down into their ears relentlessly, and with very aggressive language. Not only that, but a new type of building was on the rise, literally – skyscrapers, stuffed to the brim with either low-import, high-reward communication experts in the case of the business districts, or with families and herds of varying species in the residential districts (many of which did not naturally get along). And the trees! The number of trees that had to be removed to make space, especially as more and more species migrated to territories not their own, convoluting food chains and complicating ecosystems. 

Whoever was making all these changes couldn’t see the trees for the forest, so focused on the big picture that they overlooked all the little threads coming undone across their canvas. But it was painted nonetheless, and the thousand words had come home to nest – specifically those decrying, denouncing, and demonizing Sloths.

Language on the radiowaves had shifted from a subtle reinforcement of “Hatugan values” to calling out Sloths directly by Genus. Some Hatugans, whether they were pro or anti progress, began to lash out at Sloths as an easy and slow-moving target for venting their frustrations. The Sloths continued whatever they had been doing, calling out their oppression, but otherwise so set in their ways that they knew they could not adapt. Hatugans began demanding action, and, for the first time in the forest’s collective history, they elected a democratic council to help guide their newfound nation towards a better state of being.

Not long after the election, a disease broke out among the Sloths. No scientist could truly nail down the source with factual evidence, but it was widely determined to be the result of a fruit that was not native to their territory, suddenly introduced and producing spores that the Sloth immunity was not adapted to. Those that were not killed off by this contagion were administered a drug meant to reduce the inflammation caused – sadly it only saved a fraction. A fraction which, through policy enforcing a quarantine on the Sloths and those who retained close connections or fraternization to their species, crowding them into absolutely horrendous and sickly living conditions, reduced the total population of Sloths in Hatuga to one-hundred percent extinct.

The tragedy was touted as “not wholly undeserved, and a necessary sacrifice for the betterment and optimization of Hatugan society.” Such was the exact phrase with identical wording touted on every audible radio channel. Some Hatugans bought into it; others did not. They no longer trusted the radio, or their makeshift government, or their collective culture rapidly dissolving their individual identities, or even their very neighbor. Heck, the recent disease that erased the Sloths even made them question if all this progress was even a good idea to begin with! The climate, so fired up with electricity and polarity, finally burst into a hundred sparks of individual rebellions, revolutions, acts of dissent. Sparks that erupted with an all-out war.

It was the first, and only, Civil War Hatuga would ever see.

Carnage knew no bounds. From North to South, East to West, sea to sky, and even underground – Hatuga was evenly split between those who were Hell-bent on tearing down these monuments of progress and idols of civilization, and those who would kill to protect them. Both sides were evenly matched, not in numbers, but in power – for a majority of the primates, skilled in building machines, manufactured terrible contraptions that dealt destruction enough for the forces they lacked. The land was rendered infertile, collapsing skyscrapers wiped out whole communities, and months of progress were deleted in a few days. Knowing that it was do-or-die, that neither side could withstand such unrestrained conflict for long, the main forces parlayed for a treaty – they would meet for a great battle on Mount Gula, and the winner would determine the fate of Hatuga.

It was all a farce. No matter which side reigned victorious, there was only one true winner, and determiner of Hatuga’s fate. His name: Don Pigeón.

 Don Pigeón knew that this war was inevitable. The greed of his cousins all those years ago proved to him that only he had the goodness of heart to put Hatuga’s needs before his own. He had already determined a solution for every outcome, each one with the forest’s best interests at heart. And, as he soared above the opposing sides as they marched off to battle, scaling both sides of the ridged crests across Mount Gula’s back, he felt a feeling he had never acknowledged before – but had felt many times in the past. It was a feeling of fullness. Every aspect of Hatugan life, from identity to mobility to communicability to malleability, was actively and currently being controlled by him. He was a force of Nature, one that had brought Nature’s order to heel. That feeling of fullness…It was because he had accomplished this, and only he. He had fought against Death, the same Death that had robbed him of his nonna. While he hadn’t yet defeated Death, he had indeed conquered life. Don Pigeón, Master of Life! He was a god.

Don Pigeón circled overhead as the first wave clashed, a buzzard to the dreams and futures of so many Hatugans. Given the voracity of the bloodshed and the spirit of the fighters, he calculated that the side opposing his regime would be victorious within the next hour. But it was no matter – he had his talons in their ways of living, so modernized and civilized they had become, that the next generation would surely forget the atrocities of their ancestors and turn a blind eye to suspicion. He had monitored their private calls, owning their methods of communication, and so knew how to get inside their heads or blackmail the members of whatever new government might from the bloodshed. He would win their trust, with a delicate touch and deliberate messaging, and create an even better way of life for Hatuga.

Don Pigeón was right about one thing: how easy it is for a single generation to forget the objective circumstances recorded about their history. Since the state of Hatuga controlled the radiowaves, advocating for one culture under Pigeon, many fables had been lost to public knowledge. If they had not been, perhaps the factions raging against one another might have done so more quietly, or chosen a different location altogether. Mount Gula was named specifically for an old legend, one that had been told to scare little Hatugans into not biting off more than they ought to chew – which the current society certainly had. A Hatugan herself, one that had grown so large that, like Don Pigeón with his totalitarian grip on the whole forest, she had become a force of Nature. A force of Nature that Hatuga had rendered dormant so that she did not devour everything, but now called forth to defend its lands and reset the cycle – to undo the damage Don Pigeón had done to all of Hatugakind.

The Hatugans in the midst of battle believed that they were being subjected to an earthquake, or that their instruments of war were so powerful that the very earth was caving in. Only Don Pigeón, high above the doomed combatants, could realize with fear that they had awoken a monster, longer and taller than the range feeding into Mount Gula. It rolled over on its spiked back, crushing both sides with falling rocks or its body shaking off the dregs of slumber as it shook off Hatugans to their deaths hundreds of feet below. In five minutes, the war was over. 

Don Pigeón, last survivor on that battlefield, was staring straight into the molten eyes of Puripu – The Gator of Impressive Girth.

But it was not Puripu who stared back, for her mind had long gone into the depths of dreamscapes. Her body, too, had become one with stone, dirt, trees, with a belly full of magma and teeth of steel. What Don Pigeón now beheld was the physical conjuration of Death, a Death Hatuga had summoned to reset the cycle and cleanse the forest. If devouring Don Pigeón was the solution, it was an easy fix. But that would accomplish nothing – he was the root of an infectious disease, one that had spread and darkened all corners of the map. So, turning its head, the Gator of Impressive Girth set about the task Hatuga had given it free reign to do: kill and eat.

For three whole days of nationwide terror, the Gator steamrolled through Hatuga without stopping. Entire cities were leveled, all skyscrapers toppled, all factories on fire. Radio towers crumpled into ruin and thousands of Hatugans were reduced to nothing by the Gator’s rampage. In the final hours of her nonstop destruction, she thrashed violently, shaking her body apart. The stone that formed her powerful body cracked, sending pieces flying into the last remnants of Don Pigeón’s short-lived world order, until all that was left were the reminders of his folly. Puripu finally collapsed into a landslide of rubble and igneous rock, a natural disaster that put both her and Don Pigeón’s tyranny to rest.

Don Pigeón’s extended family had remained in the PPSC to protect their assets and profits, and so were eliminated with all traces of that once humble and harmless delivery service. As for Don Pigeón, he lived on. Somewhere, beyond the mists of Western Hatuga, the once proud force of Nature had fled to escape the scrutiny of the survivors, the innocent and the guilty who would have to repair the damage he had done. No one could tell you the state of his heart in that moment, whether or not that well-meaning bird still existed within him and he removed himself for the good of Hatuga once again, or if the humiliation and inability to control any longer was too much for him to coexist alongside them all. But he had lost the war to conquer Hatuga herself – exile to the Unknown seemed appropriate.

There were many losses – but Hatuga knows what is best for itself. There was no other way to remove poisoned minds, a polluted culture, a corrupted character, than to reset the way of life and undo the progress and conveniences that Hatugans had accumulated for themselves. It was a period of great mourning, certainly, but the next generation were no longer destined to become Don Pigeón’s puppets, pets, or laborers. They would prioritize the family, doing what was best for their local communities as a whole instead of the whole of Hatuga, seek progress where it was necessary instead of for its own sake, and give up on all pretensions of conquering death and other sorrows that were beyond their power. Hatuga was Hatuga, once again and forevermore. As was natural – all things as they should be.

How the Panther Lost Her Poise

In the land of Hatuga, there are Haves, and there are Have-Yours. Have-Nots are nonexistent, for the forest is so overabundantly fruitful that one cannot live their life without declaring at least one thing to be solely their own. There are many, however, who are never happy unless they possess the one thing treasured by someone else. These are the Have-Yours, and ravenous beasts who will cease at nothing until they have seized that which they covet most from their neighbor. And, even after that, their dissatisfaction persists.

Once, not too long ago, the most feared predator in the forest was neither the wolf, the lion, the snake, the polar bear, or the caterpillar, none of these which you might normally guess. No, for in those days the Panther was the supreme hunting machine. She was not just the agilest of cats, but hunted in enormous packs that could number as large as forty – forty human-sized cats, pitched as the night, leaping soundlessly through the canopy before pouncing without warning on their prey three stories below. They were lean, lithe, and could grip limbs with even less effort than your average gibbon – whether those limbs were the tree branches they bounded across, or the limbs of unaware feasts devoured in seconds as that swarm of treetop piranhas descended in a swirling tornado of fur and claw.

Panthers used to be a well-oiled machine, a pack of hunters even more singular in their collective mind than wolves. The wolves of Hatuga, in fact, learned their techniques from the Panther, only to replicate their system with the flaws that come only naturally to an imperfect translation. Guttural growls in their muscular chests, short like a morse code trapped in their lungs, would vibrate through the trees and coordinate every attack – the obstacles in the brush, the map of the trees, the status of the prey, and, most importantly, their method of approach. For each Panther trusted her sister with her own fulfillment, and therefore her life. No, there was not one greater example of efficient communication than the Panther – most feared of jungle predators by the tight-knitted nature of their community.

But an efficient machine is not immune from the chance accident that sends a spring popping off into the void, the destiny of one panther who chanced to land on a rotting branch during a scouting expedition. She fell all the way to the floor, unperturbed as her plummet was softened by the pads on her feet, executing the pack’s prepared protocol and thereby landing safely thanks to the teachings of her sisters.

Now, in the panthers’ territory, there lived many other Hatugans both predator and prey alike. The least of these, a predator by nature but treating himself like prey, was Watersnake. Watersnake lamented his lot, a venomless reptile with drab markings, unseen and passed on by all. His scales were not eye-catching, so he concealed himself in the dirt. His bite was not dangerous, so, from the safety of his hiding places, he hurled insults. And his tail, though he could mimic the much more infamous Rattlesnake by vibrating it at high speeds, he kept still. He did not want to attract fearful attention that he could not back up with devastating action.

Today, though, was a desperate day in the life of Watersnake. He was feeling particularly self-destructive, tired of the flecks of dirt always in his eyes and hateful of his fellow Hatugan. So, when the panther plummeted ad landed safely next to him, he seethed with righteous injustice.

“Why would this creature,” he slithered through his despondent thoughts, “blessed with a beautiful coat, a graceful tail, powerful claws, and a fearsome roar, also be blessed with the utilities to fall thirty feet out of the sky and land as if it had never left the ground? It’s not fair! Not fair, no!”

That was his last thought, before the natural fuel of frustration and pessimistic comparisons propelled Watersnake to lash out. He knew it would be his last lash, but at least all in Hatuga would finally know him, either for his bravery, his stupidity, or the mark left by his action, as the worm who dared challenge the apex predator.

When the Panther felt a sting on the end of her tail, she was worried she might have shredded it back up among the branches. But then – the rattling. The familiar death rattles of a Rattlesnake, poison dangerous enough to paralyze a Panther in under a minute, and kill her in three. The Panther hardly glanced at Watersnake – his mouth full of her tail, his eyes blazing with the fires of finality, and his own tail vibrating like a bee’s wings to keep up the facade – before she shredded that sorry snake to chunks between her claws and fangs.

But the damage was done. The Panther had been convinced by the display that her tail, her source of pride and balance, was now poisoned. And her training in these situations was very clear: her tail had to go. With tears in her eyes from the forthcoming loss and not just the present pain, she clamped her teeth at the base of her tail and gnawed until she was able to pull it free, separating the toxin she feared was working its way up from doing further harm.

The Panther did her best to try and make it back to the pack. The longer she searched, the longer her vision stretched, until it was obvious to her that the loss of blood from her posterior was just a much a danger as the venom had been. She was not so familiar with her surroundings from the forest floor, wasting the meager supply of consciousness left in her possession on trying to spot the branch that failed her in the treetop as a starting point. Her head was still upraised when she finally collapsed from the self-inflicted wound.

As the Panther’s vision blurred back to life, her first waking thought simply being shock that she was still alive, it came to her attention that she had been moved inside a canvased shelter. Gaudily decorated, earthy and warm, a smorgasbord of furs and metallurgically tailored art pieces.

“You’re awake! For a second there, I was worried you wouldn’t, but here you are.”

The curtains partitioning the inside from the out parted, and a young man came waltzing in on the smoke of a blacksmith’s fire outside. The Panther was still woozy, but that did not hinder her first instinct: to snarl at the intruder in this strange tent, though it probably belonged to him. She did not care about learning his intentions, for he was strange to her.

The young man, still more boy than man, laughed at her. His good-natured cheeriness calmed her down instead of steeling her defenses.

“I’ve always heard you Panthers were fearsome creatures, and it’s amazing to see how true that is in person! Oh, there’s no shame in how I found you passed out in a bush, nearly dead. There was so much blood that I never would have found you if it hadn’t trickled its way down to me.”

The Panther tried to rise. Her legs were weak, and she wobbled about until she collapsed again in a pile of furs. The young man reached out to comfort her, but quickly retracted his offer when her jaws snapped at his outreached digits. Turning her attention cautiously from him, she began to lick the stump where her tail used to be. She could still feel the ghostly presence of that severed limb, flicking about in a reality where it still existed. Her licks were small, pitifully half-hearted.

“Look,” whispered the boy meekly. “I could make you a new tail. Nothing that would replace what you had, of course…but something is better than nothing. I happen to be a skilled metalsmith, and, I promise: it will be the best work I’ve ever made. Because I’ll make it specifically for you.”

The Panther was too drained of energy to reason whether she should trust the boy or not. Instead, the warmth of good intentions emanated from him relaxed her suspicions, and the skill displayed by the sculptures littered about the tent reassured her as a testament to his dedication. Besides, he had tended to her well enough while she was asleep, bandaged the stump where her tail had been. What threat did a clawless, fangless, furless little beast pose while she was awake? 

Confident in her power when matched up against her host, even in her anemic state, the Panther consented to a test run for whatever machination he had in mind. The metalsmith’s excitement was palpable, for his talents had never actually been used for something practical before. 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Give me two weeks, and I’ll have the perfect new tail for you. I promise, you will not regret it.” 

For two weeks, the Panther was tended to as an esteemed and valued guest by the metalsmith. He would work on her tail in the misty hours of the morning, hammering and molding solid gold into rings, then linking them together with complicated gears and wires. In the afternoon, he would go out hunting, returning with some wild fowl just as the sun began to set. And, at night, he would sleep outside under the stars, allowing the Panther free reign of his own personal territory inside the tent. The metalsmith was also persistently friendly with her, carrying on pleasant conversation through just about any subject they could think of. If she wanted to talk about it, he had something to contribute, and she almost made a game out of finding some topic that might eventually leave him speechless. 

Eventually, she did. The night before the makeshift tail was to be completed, as they were watching the stars together, the Panther asked the metalsmith why he only made statues for the longest time. Pretty things, she admitted, having grown fond of staring at their intricate shiny coats all day, but still quite useless in the grand scheme of the forest. Silence was never the boy’s first response, so she almost wondered if he had wandered off somewhere when no answer came.

But he was deep in thought, having never really explored that part of his motivation before. 

“You know how,” he explained, “you were once so very good at hunting? But you would only hunt for what you knew you could catch, and what you knew you would eat? And that you never had to guess why or how you knew you would catch and eat, but you knew by the fact you could that it was worth the pursuit? It’s kind of like that.” 

The Panther didn’t quite understand, but what she did notice was a somber tone had overtaken his demeanor, a shade she had not seen before. She wanted to know, get more out of him – but she felt she should not. That was his territory, and the least she could do was leave that part of the encampment to him. But the most she could do was gently tug his shirt with her teeth, not tearing it, and offer him a place back inside his tent for the first time in weeks. So she did. And the sleep she had that night, curled up next to the metalsmith’s side, was the night the phantom pain of her tail finally evaporated into a vague memory.

The next morning the Panther awoke to see the metalsmith sitting next to her. Bright-eyed, smiling, almost glowing with confident radiance, legs crisscrossed at the base of her resting place. And there, in front of his folded knees, lay the new tail in all its splendor. 

The tail was a work of mechanical genius. Several golden rings, inlayed with crushed Amethyst, Sapphire, and Onyx to harden the exterior and give it a blackened sheen. Within each ring was a complex array of gears and regulators, harnessed to piano-thick wires that ran through each interior. These wires and wheels kept the golden rings bound together as they swayed back and forth, up and down, all around,  with every bit the fluid movement of a Panther’s tail mimicked as was the style.  

The Panther would have been skeptical to accept something so quickly, but she had grown to appreciate the metalsmith’s art. To wear one of his original pieces excited her in a way she had never felt before. She first considered it might just be the highs of receiving special attention and gifts from someone she had grown to care about. What she would discover, much much later, was that this was her first experience as being considered an individual, and not part of a larger whole – even by herself. 

Panthers exist within the pack; outside the pack, panthers do not exist. This is how the species has stockpiled infamy, branding themselves as predators not to be trifled with. And now, for the first time, a panther considered itself the Panther, distinguished among its kind by her enviable replacement tail. 

The Panther, therefore, felt an explicit need to show off her tail to the rest of her pack. To reassure them that she was still alive and capable of hunting, of course. But also to make the most out of her good fortune and generous friend by showing them both off. The metalsmith was not keen to the idea of waltzing into a den of panthers, but he wished to monitor his friend closely. If he observed any pain or discomfort where the concealed harness held his masterwork in place, he would want to adjust it immediately lest her wound break open again. 

The panthers’ den was carved into the side of a mountain, home to abandoned ruins built by some human Hatugan tribe long forgotten. No one quite knew why the ruins were abandoned, or who built them in the first place, but the panthers deemed this a worthy spot and chased out all other signs of life within a five-mile radius. The silence was eerie to the metalsmith as they entered that territory. To the Panther, she felt the relief of returning home. 

The interior of the cave was several stories tall and deep, with countless ledges (due to the dark) staggered about the cave walls. The glittering reflection of a thousand eyes alerted the Panther that her entire pack was home. The glittering shine of the Panther’s tail alerted her pack that something was amiss. And then they saw their sister’s companion, and they were up in arms. 

The Panther had to strike five of her sisters across the snout before they would stop lunging at the metalsmith with salivating maws. She explained to them why she had gone missing, which they seemed not to have taken notice of. She told them the story of how she came to lose her tail, which they didn’t much care about. And then she told them of what this metalsmith came to do for her. That piqued their attention, for they had noticed the beauty of the twitching artificial tail reflecting moonlight on the stalagmites behind her. They demanded to know this bold architect, the one who dared believe he could replicate the sacred image of a Panther’s tail.  

Truth be told, to a cat, the jeweled tail was absolutely mesmerizing. And it was no secret from her body language that the Panther took pride in the gift – not merely because of its value as a priceless work of art, but also because of the caring feelings behind the person who gave it to her. He had made her stand out as an individual, with this gift making her unique against the standard black coats of the panthers around her, and by his very devotion to tending to her at her worst. 

All the panthers smiled, licking their sister as a sign of welcome and comfort for her loss. They even licked the metalsmith as thanks for taking care of one of their own. But each and every one of those wildcats harbored in their heart a secret – that they coveted what their sister had brought home. Not the tail, not the man, but the happiness that these things seemed to afford her. Needing more time to sort through this new rising feeling of jealousy, the pack invited the metalsmith to spend the night in their den and share their latest catch of Wildebeest. They celebrated with warm milk harvested from dolphins living in the caverns underground, not rejoicing for the return of the wayward panther, but as a routine booster injected into the morale and connection of the pack. But the seeds had been planted; the metalsmith enjoyed the festivities, his good Samaritanship a badge of honor. The panthers watched him closely, fake Cheshire grins reassuring him, seething and plotting all the while to themselves. 

The first casualty came that very morning, before the sun had even stretched its fingers beyond the cover of the horizon. A larger panther, one of the oldest hunters in the pack and the least satisfied with her place in society, was found dead behind a tree. It was evident she had tried to gnaw her tail off, for, rather than bleed to death from the self-inflicted wound, she had choked to death when the tail got lodged in her throat. 

This tragic accident caused a rumble throughout the pack. Not because the death impacted them emotionally, or the sight of a dead sister spurned them, no. It was because they realized that they were now all after the same thing: to be as content and happy as the prodigal Panther.  

Their hair bristling as they passed each other, eyes locked and teeth bared, the panthers spread out through the forest, each finding a secluded spot to begin the delicate removal of their organic tails in favor of artificial ones. Surely, such a sparkly treasure was the secret to their sister’s happiness?  

When the Panther stretched herself awake and yawned in the heat of the afternoon, she noticed that the metalsmith was no longer sleeping next to her. A far-off clanking caught her ears, the sound of metal on metal, that warmed her heart and bid her to come. She trotted off deeper into the cave, searching for her talented artisan. 

The rest of the pack, careful not to disturb their sister with that coveted golden tail, softly kneaded their paws on the pack of the metalsmith until his eyes fluttered open. How surprised he was, to see an entire line of panthers with nubs for tails, bleeding and begging for a tail like she who still slept so soundly. 

Quite the bleeding heart, the metalsmith gathered his tools and followed the pack into the back of the den. After spending hours quickly dressing their wounds, he proceeded to craft them makeshift tails with the abundant gold they brought him from deeper in the caverns. But each tail he made didn’t quite look right, or move in a realistic way, for he had not the two weeks to craft the mechanical parts necessary for a true work of art. What he was making were simple counterbalances – still pretty to look at and moderately functional, but nothing compared to his friend’s specially crafted tail. 

At first, the metalsmith tried desperately to hold on to that good feeling of being useful, and the panthers tried their best to be grateful with what they received. But as the pain in their backsides mounted, and the tails got sloppier and sloppier as the metalsmith’s hands tired from unrewarded charity, and the happiness they saw in their sister remain unreflected in themselves, the more they hated this metalsmith for their tailless state. Finally, one of the younger ones refused what was being offered. 

“Make me a tail like your first, please,” she spat back in his face, keeping her stump away until she received what she believed she truly deserved. 

“That would take two weeks!” spluttered the metalsmith. 

“I can wait,” came her reply. Same was the reply from the next panther, and the next, and the next, until a hundred panthers were reasonable enough to each wait two weeks for their own amazingly wonderful joy-granting tails.  Two weeks for them…years for him.

The whines were deafening. The metalsmith covered his ears, looking panicked all around him, daunted by the task of pushing what he loved too far to extremes for panthers he barely knew. The first tail was made with the love of a bent-up passion, and the joy at being useful to one in dire need. But now he was being used as a tool by a society of ravenous predators, who took no chances in being satisfied. And so the first meek thought in his generous, charitable heart muttered the unavoidable truth: 

“I can’t.”

The Panther trotted to the edge of the open space just in time to see her sisters descending from the walls, swarming all around her beloved metalsmith, before he was enveloped by the pitch-black eye of that storm of fur. There was a surprised inhalation from the center, which echoed for a while over the sound of tearing and chewing, before it faded away under the chaotic soft padding of paws. When the panthers peeled off, each to their private nook, all that remained of the metalsmith was a pile of bones – stripped clean, nothing to distinguish them from the stones strewn about the cave, save their distinctive shape and the deep cuts of tooth and claw. 

The Panther sat, her tail lying still in the dust. She bent her head down over the bones at her feet, sniffing them, trying to pick up the faintest scent left behind by the craftsman…Nothing. There was truly not one trace left of him.  

There was a sorrowful rip of fabric, a clank, and the sound of only one pair of padded paws stumbling clumsily out of the cave. In her departure, the Panther left behind the golden, jewel-encrusted tail and its harness, the last remain of the man who had saved her life – abandoned, discarded among the bones of its creator. It was by no fault of her own that he was now gone, for what can one panther do against the whole of her society? Nothing, for its work is done in the shadows, and the consequences arrive and depart like the death of will.

The rest of the pack hardly noticed the Panther leave; their eyes were captured by the makeshift tail she left behind. Those eyes gradually became aware of the other eyes around them, hungry and isolating, Only a few minutes of bated breath passed before the pack swarmed again, this time at each other, snapping and batting their ears and whiskers, blood flying, competing for the right to possess that unnatural prosthetic. 

Eventually, the pack came to a very reasonable compromise. Instead of any singular panther donning the tail permanently, they studied its intricate contraptions until each was able to replicate it for themselves. None was as well-crafted as their model, for no cat had the passion, the skill, or the opposable thumbs to rival that original inventor. Instead, each panther compared their tail to the tails of their neighbor, and found those surrounding them severely wanting. And where one believes they are surrounded by uninspired beggars, one tends to grow suspicious, and close off from the rest of society. 

And so the pack, each member safeguarding the posterity of her own posterior, dispersed – each panther sought out her own way, alone, guarding her back against the jealous, coveting paws of her own kind. Having given up seizing the happiness they had seen in the Panther by deciding that it was a façade and did not actually exist, the panthers found solace in security. Their existence became wrapped up in keeping what they already possessed, so long as what they possessed looked better than what they thought others possessed. The tail spoke for the panther, despite not being part of the panther in the first place. 

A panther was still quite capable of hunting on its own, but these were now less-than panthers. They may have replicated the tail successfully, but no one knew how to maintain its synchronicity with an organic body. Metals rusted, surgical connections newly pioneered beyond the original’s designs harbored infections, and every single panther was weighed down by the heavy burden until their joints ached and their bodies bloated and slugged. Slowly but surely, health slipping away as easily as the prey they starved over, the panther population died out. Even in their dying throes, they clung tightly to the tail they thought enhanced their being with the hope that they might one day find joy delivered unto them. But that joy never came, and the only day they ever found was their final. 

As for the Panther, after she threw off her tail, she never quite regained her poise. She could barely hunt, for she was no longer limber, and the jungle grew to adapt in ways that left her hunting methods in the dust. And yet she persevered, spurred on by a need to survive and the pride, not in her tail, but in the individuality born through her tragic experiences. She began to craft weapons, pounce from the undergrowth and water instead of from the canopy, and lay traps and ambushes that better served her diminished speed and agility. She may not have had a tail, or a pack, but she had herself. And she worked hard every day to make sure that would be enough. 

Some Hatugans believe that she began to walk upright to counteract her balance, forage and seek softer foods due to the difficulty of relying on meat every day, and evolve her thumbs into the opposable kind to craft better tools. Some say that these human tendencies overtook her whole form, until you could only tell she was once a Panther by the pointed ears folded away under her jet-black hair. And I would tell you, this theory is highly unlikely. 

Yet… I believe it. For the Panther was still a Have-Not. True, she no longer needed a pack, but she did need a friend like the one she once had. Indeed, we Hatugans believe she would naturally do whatever was necessary to be among those who were like the metalsmith – the one friend who helped her in her time of need, helping her build enough strength to define herself. And no amount of gold, no quality of tail, no solidarity with society, can replace that kind of bond.  She refused to settle for substitutions, ever again. 

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.