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A Story of mine, Chapters one and two, WiPs.
Constructive Criticisims only if you please.
Suggestions for chapter three are wanted.
Through the air went a serene presence - a breeze, wafting desultorily over a yellow wheat field, gathering the heat tucked in the soil. The thin, lengthy stalks swayed like a sea of liquid gold. There was a gentle splash, nearly soundless, as two or three drops of dew slipped from a granule. Lit by early morning rays, each filled with a dozen rainbows, they splattered softly on the greenery below. The little clovers and grasses and wildflowers thirstily sipped and swallowed the cool refreshment. The droplets disappeared amid the crinkled dark crevices. The breeze drifted onwards, and as it went another sound shook through it - to any within hearing, it was like an army of glass ants dancing upon a glass floor. But, all was normal, dear reader… It was the sound of trickling waters, from a nearby river.
This wandering breeze glided down the damp, sloping river bank. There could be found many a plant, entwined with one another like a single entity as they vied for footholds and nourishment. The breeze whispered secretively to a tuft of shrubs, the language one only it knew, speaking of the many things it had encountered during its travels. The shrubbery seemed to nod its plethora of heads in appreciation. The breeze had a fondness for sharing its insights and experiences. There was so much to tell, and a great deal it had seen!
If you asked a transient breeze to tell you a story, it would immediately stop and share a tale of the ages long ago. Very little evaded the senses of breezes, and their memories seemed to always call up times that had never been recounted. Perhaps your breeze would speak of the lumbering redskin Ogres, who would roam from the mountains, down to their river camps in pursuit of the spring fish.
As most folks once knew, such Ogres were simple beasts, with an immense love of food and comfort, and prone to frequent disagreements. In the evenings they would gather about a crackling fire, with a roasting catch on a spit. The Ogre Chieftain had first dibs, and should any dispute this he would be quick to pummel them until they couldn’t even move their jaw to chew, let alone bite down (for their teeth would be missing!). After all, that was how the Chieftain became the Chieftain.
When he had his fill, his underlings would bicker in their deep, fluffy voices.
“HEY! Oi was ‘upposed ter have da tail iss time, Smort!”
“Yew!? Na, yew got ur tail ‘ast tym, ‘n’ ‘asides, oi deserve da tail cause I was uh one wot spot’ed dis fish in der first place!”
“Whot!? Grrr, why yew lyin’ litt’l dung ‘eap, oi ‘m the ‘un wot did da werk! Oi caught tha’ flippin’ fish, di’jin yew seez? ‘N’ did yew see wha’ ee did tah me ‘and? Ee bloodied et all oop, wi’ dat spiky skin o’ ‘is!”
“Oh, harr, harr. Yor ‘and all ‘urt, is it? Ha, yew idjit! Oh, por yew al roight. Hohoho!”
This was the usual vulgar back and forth - their voices booming like the wardrums of marching hordes. The sound signaled every creature to steer well clear, for it was coda to resolve this with an Ogre Brawl. Anything at hand would be hoisted and flung, in every direction - trees, boulders, Ogres… Eventually, the largest would always sit on the rest, taking his fill of food and drink while the others complained and moped.
Occasionally, when the tribal healer was about with his belt full of freshly concocted brews, they would forget about brawling, and have a ‘drinkin’ test.’ Out would come the bottles of potent Head Split Ale, or the sickly smelling Blood Whiskey. The latter was a gruesome concoction, be warned - made from boiled men-folk (or two-legs, as the breeze thought of them) (Ogres were dearly fond of them, for eating) and mixed with a handful of Honeyroot. While they drank and drank, many a song would be sung, in the primeval Ogre tongue. Deep voices, intermingled with the sporadic gurgling belch, carried on for hours. As the night would wear away, eventually only one would remain cognizant to enjoy his spoils. And this was always the tribal healer, who’d perfidiously spike the others’ drinks with a tendril of sleep root.
Most breezes would tell you stories akin to this, and you would still hear their voices trailing off softly as you departed at the end of the day. This was the very tale our breeze spoke to the shrub. And now, as it swirled and swam, its thoughts turned to its own joyfulness. Home! It somersaulted in the air trenchantly, surging with a desire to gust. It had been a year since its return to this oasis, its home. Long ago, this was where it began… only a small flurry, born in a great thunderstorm.
Burning with a desire to share its jubilation, it stopped and stroked the tail of a rabbit, causing it to shimmer like the running waters nearby. Clearly ebullient, the creature dropped the morsel he had been nibbling and arched his stiff back, absorbing the breeze’s warmth.
“Oh, mee surr back,” the rabbit sighed, speaking in a queer rustic brogue. “Gud ‘ol friendly wind’urz, many thankees.” Only the rabbit’s kin, the breeze, and a small handful of others could understand his language.
“Brrr… oi shou’ be getting’ on soon, oi g’ss.” He stretched his somnolent paws.
“’Ome’s a long wayz offen.”
Within the rabbits mind, roguish vituperations bounced about disorderly. Gurffs! Too manyz kloos calls furr one rabbidy ‘n a day! Oooh, oi! Noi beez der ‘nough of on karrots! Usn’s neeez em fer grubblin’ ‘n’ growing big feets!
The poor creature probably has a right to grumble - so thought the breeze, sympathetically. The breeze had seen and heard all, as it always did. This was the time of year when the two-legs would come - not the men-folk, but ones who were much shorter and broader, with spindly roots dangling from their chins. They rode on the backs of their rumbling, grumbling, stinking monstrosities. These things appeared like boulders, wrapped in a wrinkly old leaf. This was why most creatures called them the old-boulder-walkers. Rumor had it they were actually Elephants. Every year they surged into the woodlands, trampling and crushing. What was most invidious was, should any animal rise to flee, there was a twang like the grunt of a giant brute, and a segment of tree-limb tipped by black stone would careen forth and strike it… The breeze tried to dislodge the unpleasant image from its mind. It had seen it many a time, and with ever growing regularity.
The little rabbit nearly suffered a similar fate - being squished underneath one of the thing’s hulking, boorish feet. Desperately, the breeze tried buffeting against it; yet it hardly budged - irrefragable - the floppy grey leaves upon its head merely flapped. Just before one of the colossal tree stump-like pads squashed the rabbit, he managed to nip and dash aside.
But, he had leapt from the frying pan and into the fire. (As some men folk say.) The breeze watched as he was descended upon by a downpour of those angry, sharp-tipped… things. Arrows, they are called. They whirred and whistled through the air. FTHYWWW! Collision after collision, black tips sinking into the ground as easily as if it were a mire. Soil, twig and leaf were crumbled and broken ubiquitously beneath. Nearly imperceptible gasps of pain emanated from the earth - decorated in shafts like hedgehog spikes.
The undergrowth was dense, and the two-legs could not see well enough to hit their mark. They spoke in gruff, irate voices:
“Aggh! Where are yah, rabbit?”
“Skrawny runt!”
“Mangy piece of fluff! I’ll burn its fur off nice and slow if I --”
“Grr! You shortbeards, you lost it!?”
Further dialogue was rife with foul expletives. The rabbit had just eluded them, delitescent in the earthy recess where a tree once stood. The intruders marched by, leaving a scar of flattened vegetation in their wake.
Such heedless annihilation…
Presently, it seemed that the rabbit was reliving the episode: his tail twitched and his eyes were squeezed tight. His heart raced wildly, his mind timorously buzzing. The breeze scratched the critter’s ears in a comforting manner - he began to calm. Questions emerged in the breeze’s mind.
Who are these two-legs? Why do they want to destroy our forest? What are those things they hurt the animals with? And why do they do it?!! The breeze could not place any ripostes.
Old memories swirled into its train of thought.
A year ago to the day it soared from its oasis as it always had in early spring. It soared over the surface of the river. And after days of gliding and skimming it left behind the soft soil and verdant woodlands. It entered the demesne of short two-legs - riddled with towering mountains, some of nature, others of the two-legs’ construction. Long ago, they had been primitive creatures, concerning themselves with life deep in caves, and meals over fires. Back then, they had not captured those malodorous monstrosities with which to ride upon - nor would they fire their arrows at the slightest hint of movement.
There, in the land of the two-legs, the breeze discovered that the world was so different. They had tapped the energy of the earth, forming mountains of rigid grey shapes (castles and fortresses, these were called). It had taken no more than a few hundred years. The two-legs were as powerful as the ancient spirits! With a sudden rare display of contempt the breeze had gusted harshly. It thought, Nature had not been so quick to form the lakes and trees! It shook with both marvel and abhorrence.
Over the green river, which came from the mountains in the east, was to be found a small tree. In the winter of this land, snow was not too prominent, and this tree would stand like a statue, watching the river. Then would come spring and the tree would bloom a thousand pedals of pink. The river would be full of salmon, and the little smooth pebbles at its base would be clearly visible. Bears would often come by, and what gave the little tree a great disgust was when they scratched their rumpuses on his trunk. The tree would reach down with a spindly twig and poke them behind the ears when such happened.
Summer would come, and the bears would move farther north following the salmon and searching for berries. Near the end of summer the clouds would be out heavily, and their would be storms that bathed the tree, or winds that would bend the tree… but the tree would be okay with all of that, for he wanted to prove to himself that he had the strength to withstand it. One day would come, so often thought the tree, when something really nasty would challenge his strength and courage.
Fall would be the next season to come, the next time for the little tree. He would sit there by the green river, watching colorful leaves float by; and would fall asleep many a time in the cool breeze blown from the mountains to the east. He loved the fall, the little tree did. He loved to drink from the cold, he loved to bask in the dying heat, the sweet relief of winters approach. This season he preferred to call ‘the unclenching of my leaves’. And it was that action that was the most joyous to him. For then he would rid himself of the rest of the years tarnish, and would stand alone, clean, unburdened, by the green stream.
Now, the green stream and the little tree were good friends. They would talk long through the days, and in the nights when the moon would send its silver rays of light down and the green river would feel like a river of priceless stone.
The green stream poured from the mountains in the east, but he zigzagged so far and wide that he seemed to be around every part of the land. As such, he knew a good deal of information. He and the little tree would talk endlessly about the affairs of the big folk, as they called Men. For it was Men that largely decided their fate. Men would chop trees or damn rivers, and other things would too of course, but for some reason Men were the most bothersome. The little tree did indeed fear Men, but he knew from the green river’s stories that Men where also kind. They planted trees, they tended to them, and they helped rivers… and even sailed upon them. To this end the green river and the little tree were very excited. They wanted to meet some big folk and talk to him, to learn of how they performed such great works.
One day, with a late-summer’s wind sighing in a clump of reeds at a bend in the green river, where a duck family where resting after a long swim, something quite unusual and exciting happened.
“I think someone is coming,” said the green stream in his sleek, gentle voice. And the two friends waited and listened to the trembles of the earth, which were too gentle to be a big person’s footfalls.
“A badger, by the feel of him,” said the little tree to the green stream.
“Aye,” responded the green stream.
Indeed, a badger was afoot. He was a little bloke, but with a fairly matured coat. Sleek, fluffy, and rightly stripped it was. “Rightly strippt’ed oi am!” sung the badger as he walked through the undergrowth of the forest.
“Rightly strippt’ed oi am, but don’t start tinkin’ I bisn’t cuddly!” This he said as he came upon the clearing where the little tree and green river awaited.
“Howdy, blokes!” Called the mischievous badger.
“Quirdly, is that you?” asked the green river.
“Bet your pebbles oi am, green river ol’ friend! But hush now, don’t get all excitorial, or whatever the word.”
“Who are you, and what’s going on?” asked the little tree in a not impolite manner.
“Quirdly’s the name, as I’ve just heard said. But we can do the formalities later, right? Okay, anyway, be quiet.”
“Why?” asked the green river.
“Just do this,” and the badger put his furry paw to his mouth.
The little tree bent a tiny twig around to touch his trunk… not that this did much good, for the little tree could speak from any part of his body, for he possessed neither mouth nor vocal cords. What he possessed was something he called ‘the cuddly’.
There came presently a gasp, like a stone being flung off a mountain into thin air. Whether one of the creatures present gave the sound, or not, may never be known. The reason for its exclamation is about to be described, mark you, dear reader.
…
“Hurrawwl!” The cry came from the woods, and with it charged a figure tall and spindly, who shook the earth as a matador against a bull. The man, for it was a man, came brandished with a heavy club. This he carried in his right hand, which was stretched away from his body. The man was clothed in furs, and wore vast leather boots. He seemed to run, kicking up dirt and stones, but it was a strange run, even in the little tree’s eyes. The man was falling, and he fell with his head right at the base of the little tree. There were sticks in the man’s back, three of them, and from their points of injection bubbled forth a dark red substance.
The little badger sat curled up, shaking, very near where the man’s club had smashed into the earth. Before the little badger could pull himself together, another sound interrupted the air. Bushes were being thrust aside, trees scrapped against, dirt flung places… and there could be heard the sound of metal clinking, which the little tree had never known before.
Again from the forest came a man… he towered high like a bear on its rear legs. The little tree looked at him in absolute fear and in awe. Such a stranger… so fast… So thought the little tree. The newcomer looked first at the fallen man in the fur-coat, then to the little badger curled by the club, then to the green river, and finally to the little tree.
The man whispered “This place is magical…”
He rolled his right shoulder, which was covered in various plates of metal. He blinked his eyes, shadowed by a raised helmet-visor. He shifted his feet in the dirt, the metal of his boots scraping with the rocks. Then he lowered his left arm, to which was fixed a magnificent piece. A cross-bow, as it is known.
“Damn fine bastard,” he said, and spit at the fallen man. “You should not have run.”
Meanwhile the little badger had uncurled from his fit of fear, and scurried over to the little tree, climbed up his trunk, and sat cross-legged on one of the higher branches. The poor little tree was bent under the weight of even such a small creature.
A rush… a flash, a clang of metal…. Some other man had sprung from the woods, and there he lay near the fur-clothed man, blood sprouting from his severed neck as though flowers were growing there. The man in the armor wiped the blood from his blade on the little tree’s trunk, then sheathed it in the back of the fur-clothed man.
“Fools!” he roared, “Fools the lot of you to pursue me, you here?! Another one of you lays dead, fallen where I slew him with my neat blade. And know that it will not be so neat the next time it goes hunting. Thus I give my command… stay back!” His voice echoed around the mountains in the east, carried through the earth like a plague, vibrated it, and the little tree with the blood wiped on him felt sick.
Suddenly the armored man fell to his knees on the corpses, and then he slumped his back against the little tree. His head looked up toward the sky, and his eyes closed peacefully. “I am so sorry, little one,” the man muttered. He wrapped his arms backwards, around the tree, and hugged it with great strength. Suddenly he jerked, the man did, and that was when the blood started coming from his lips. It flew quickly out like a spray from a waterfall, at first… then, as time went by, it became a small trickle. Yet all the while it came out, the man muttered things to the tree, like ‘I am sorry, little one.’ A few times he even yelled out, to that invisible foe that he had called to before. Ah, but when he did this, he seemed to go white and more blood would poor out for a moment. But he kept it up… he kept his insane activity until his time passed, until he lay as a near skeleton in the armor.
No one came. No sound in the forest could be heard. The green river trickled gently, bathing the fear.
Constructive Criticisims only if you please.
Suggestions for chapter three are wanted.
Autumn's Breath
Through the air went a serene presence - a breeze, wafting desultorily over a yellow wheat field, gathering the heat tucked in the soil. The thin, lengthy stalks swayed like a sea of liquid gold. There was a gentle splash, nearly soundless, as two or three drops of dew slipped from a granule. Lit by early morning rays, each filled with a dozen rainbows, they splattered softly on the greenery below. The little clovers and grasses and wildflowers thirstily sipped and swallowed the cool refreshment. The droplets disappeared amid the crinkled dark crevices. The breeze drifted onwards, and as it went another sound shook through it - to any within hearing, it was like an army of glass ants dancing upon a glass floor. But, all was normal, dear reader… It was the sound of trickling waters, from a nearby river.
This wandering breeze glided down the damp, sloping river bank. There could be found many a plant, entwined with one another like a single entity as they vied for footholds and nourishment. The breeze whispered secretively to a tuft of shrubs, the language one only it knew, speaking of the many things it had encountered during its travels. The shrubbery seemed to nod its plethora of heads in appreciation. The breeze had a fondness for sharing its insights and experiences. There was so much to tell, and a great deal it had seen!
If you asked a transient breeze to tell you a story, it would immediately stop and share a tale of the ages long ago. Very little evaded the senses of breezes, and their memories seemed to always call up times that had never been recounted. Perhaps your breeze would speak of the lumbering redskin Ogres, who would roam from the mountains, down to their river camps in pursuit of the spring fish.
…
As most folks once knew, such Ogres were simple beasts, with an immense love of food and comfort, and prone to frequent disagreements. In the evenings they would gather about a crackling fire, with a roasting catch on a spit. The Ogre Chieftain had first dibs, and should any dispute this he would be quick to pummel them until they couldn’t even move their jaw to chew, let alone bite down (for their teeth would be missing!). After all, that was how the Chieftain became the Chieftain.
When he had his fill, his underlings would bicker in their deep, fluffy voices.
“HEY! Oi was ‘upposed ter have da tail iss time, Smort!”
“Yew!? Na, yew got ur tail ‘ast tym, ‘n’ ‘asides, oi deserve da tail cause I was uh one wot spot’ed dis fish in der first place!”
“Whot!? Grrr, why yew lyin’ litt’l dung ‘eap, oi ‘m the ‘un wot did da werk! Oi caught tha’ flippin’ fish, di’jin yew seez? ‘N’ did yew see wha’ ee did tah me ‘and? Ee bloodied et all oop, wi’ dat spiky skin o’ ‘is!”
“Oh, harr, harr. Yor ‘and all ‘urt, is it? Ha, yew idjit! Oh, por yew al roight. Hohoho!”
This was the usual vulgar back and forth - their voices booming like the wardrums of marching hordes. The sound signaled every creature to steer well clear, for it was coda to resolve this with an Ogre Brawl. Anything at hand would be hoisted and flung, in every direction - trees, boulders, Ogres… Eventually, the largest would always sit on the rest, taking his fill of food and drink while the others complained and moped.
Occasionally, when the tribal healer was about with his belt full of freshly concocted brews, they would forget about brawling, and have a ‘drinkin’ test.’ Out would come the bottles of potent Head Split Ale, or the sickly smelling Blood Whiskey. The latter was a gruesome concoction, be warned - made from boiled men-folk (or two-legs, as the breeze thought of them) (Ogres were dearly fond of them, for eating) and mixed with a handful of Honeyroot. While they drank and drank, many a song would be sung, in the primeval Ogre tongue. Deep voices, intermingled with the sporadic gurgling belch, carried on for hours. As the night would wear away, eventually only one would remain cognizant to enjoy his spoils. And this was always the tribal healer, who’d perfidiously spike the others’ drinks with a tendril of sleep root.
…
Most breezes would tell you stories akin to this, and you would still hear their voices trailing off softly as you departed at the end of the day. This was the very tale our breeze spoke to the shrub. And now, as it swirled and swam, its thoughts turned to its own joyfulness. Home! It somersaulted in the air trenchantly, surging with a desire to gust. It had been a year since its return to this oasis, its home. Long ago, this was where it began… only a small flurry, born in a great thunderstorm.
Burning with a desire to share its jubilation, it stopped and stroked the tail of a rabbit, causing it to shimmer like the running waters nearby. Clearly ebullient, the creature dropped the morsel he had been nibbling and arched his stiff back, absorbing the breeze’s warmth.
“Oh, mee surr back,” the rabbit sighed, speaking in a queer rustic brogue. “Gud ‘ol friendly wind’urz, many thankees.” Only the rabbit’s kin, the breeze, and a small handful of others could understand his language.
“Brrr… oi shou’ be getting’ on soon, oi g’ss.” He stretched his somnolent paws.
“’Ome’s a long wayz offen.”
Within the rabbits mind, roguish vituperations bounced about disorderly. Gurffs! Too manyz kloos calls furr one rabbidy ‘n a day! Oooh, oi! Noi beez der ‘nough of on karrots! Usn’s neeez em fer grubblin’ ‘n’ growing big feets!
The poor creature probably has a right to grumble - so thought the breeze, sympathetically. The breeze had seen and heard all, as it always did. This was the time of year when the two-legs would come - not the men-folk, but ones who were much shorter and broader, with spindly roots dangling from their chins. They rode on the backs of their rumbling, grumbling, stinking monstrosities. These things appeared like boulders, wrapped in a wrinkly old leaf. This was why most creatures called them the old-boulder-walkers. Rumor had it they were actually Elephants. Every year they surged into the woodlands, trampling and crushing. What was most invidious was, should any animal rise to flee, there was a twang like the grunt of a giant brute, and a segment of tree-limb tipped by black stone would careen forth and strike it… The breeze tried to dislodge the unpleasant image from its mind. It had seen it many a time, and with ever growing regularity.
The little rabbit nearly suffered a similar fate - being squished underneath one of the thing’s hulking, boorish feet. Desperately, the breeze tried buffeting against it; yet it hardly budged - irrefragable - the floppy grey leaves upon its head merely flapped. Just before one of the colossal tree stump-like pads squashed the rabbit, he managed to nip and dash aside.
But, he had leapt from the frying pan and into the fire. (As some men folk say.) The breeze watched as he was descended upon by a downpour of those angry, sharp-tipped… things. Arrows, they are called. They whirred and whistled through the air. FTHYWWW! Collision after collision, black tips sinking into the ground as easily as if it were a mire. Soil, twig and leaf were crumbled and broken ubiquitously beneath. Nearly imperceptible gasps of pain emanated from the earth - decorated in shafts like hedgehog spikes.
The undergrowth was dense, and the two-legs could not see well enough to hit their mark. They spoke in gruff, irate voices:
“Aggh! Where are yah, rabbit?”
“Skrawny runt!”
“Mangy piece of fluff! I’ll burn its fur off nice and slow if I --”
“Grr! You shortbeards, you lost it!?”
Further dialogue was rife with foul expletives. The rabbit had just eluded them, delitescent in the earthy recess where a tree once stood. The intruders marched by, leaving a scar of flattened vegetation in their wake.
Such heedless annihilation…
Presently, it seemed that the rabbit was reliving the episode: his tail twitched and his eyes were squeezed tight. His heart raced wildly, his mind timorously buzzing. The breeze scratched the critter’s ears in a comforting manner - he began to calm. Questions emerged in the breeze’s mind.
Who are these two-legs? Why do they want to destroy our forest? What are those things they hurt the animals with? And why do they do it?!! The breeze could not place any ripostes.
Old memories swirled into its train of thought.
…
A year ago to the day it soared from its oasis as it always had in early spring. It soared over the surface of the river. And after days of gliding and skimming it left behind the soft soil and verdant woodlands. It entered the demesne of short two-legs - riddled with towering mountains, some of nature, others of the two-legs’ construction. Long ago, they had been primitive creatures, concerning themselves with life deep in caves, and meals over fires. Back then, they had not captured those malodorous monstrosities with which to ride upon - nor would they fire their arrows at the slightest hint of movement.
There, in the land of the two-legs, the breeze discovered that the world was so different. They had tapped the energy of the earth, forming mountains of rigid grey shapes (castles and fortresses, these were called). It had taken no more than a few hundred years. The two-legs were as powerful as the ancient spirits! With a sudden rare display of contempt the breeze had gusted harshly. It thought, Nature had not been so quick to form the lakes and trees! It shook with both marvel and abhorrence.
2
Rivers and Dreams
Rivers and Dreams
Over the green river, which came from the mountains in the east, was to be found a small tree. In the winter of this land, snow was not too prominent, and this tree would stand like a statue, watching the river. Then would come spring and the tree would bloom a thousand pedals of pink. The river would be full of salmon, and the little smooth pebbles at its base would be clearly visible. Bears would often come by, and what gave the little tree a great disgust was when they scratched their rumpuses on his trunk. The tree would reach down with a spindly twig and poke them behind the ears when such happened.
Summer would come, and the bears would move farther north following the salmon and searching for berries. Near the end of summer the clouds would be out heavily, and their would be storms that bathed the tree, or winds that would bend the tree… but the tree would be okay with all of that, for he wanted to prove to himself that he had the strength to withstand it. One day would come, so often thought the tree, when something really nasty would challenge his strength and courage.
Fall would be the next season to come, the next time for the little tree. He would sit there by the green river, watching colorful leaves float by; and would fall asleep many a time in the cool breeze blown from the mountains to the east. He loved the fall, the little tree did. He loved to drink from the cold, he loved to bask in the dying heat, the sweet relief of winters approach. This season he preferred to call ‘the unclenching of my leaves’. And it was that action that was the most joyous to him. For then he would rid himself of the rest of the years tarnish, and would stand alone, clean, unburdened, by the green stream.
Now, the green stream and the little tree were good friends. They would talk long through the days, and in the nights when the moon would send its silver rays of light down and the green river would feel like a river of priceless stone.
The green stream poured from the mountains in the east, but he zigzagged so far and wide that he seemed to be around every part of the land. As such, he knew a good deal of information. He and the little tree would talk endlessly about the affairs of the big folk, as they called Men. For it was Men that largely decided their fate. Men would chop trees or damn rivers, and other things would too of course, but for some reason Men were the most bothersome. The little tree did indeed fear Men, but he knew from the green river’s stories that Men where also kind. They planted trees, they tended to them, and they helped rivers… and even sailed upon them. To this end the green river and the little tree were very excited. They wanted to meet some big folk and talk to him, to learn of how they performed such great works.
One day, with a late-summer’s wind sighing in a clump of reeds at a bend in the green river, where a duck family where resting after a long swim, something quite unusual and exciting happened.
“I think someone is coming,” said the green stream in his sleek, gentle voice. And the two friends waited and listened to the trembles of the earth, which were too gentle to be a big person’s footfalls.
“A badger, by the feel of him,” said the little tree to the green stream.
“Aye,” responded the green stream.
Indeed, a badger was afoot. He was a little bloke, but with a fairly matured coat. Sleek, fluffy, and rightly stripped it was. “Rightly strippt’ed oi am!” sung the badger as he walked through the undergrowth of the forest.
“Rightly strippt’ed oi am, but don’t start tinkin’ I bisn’t cuddly!” This he said as he came upon the clearing where the little tree and green river awaited.
“Howdy, blokes!” Called the mischievous badger.
“Quirdly, is that you?” asked the green river.
“Bet your pebbles oi am, green river ol’ friend! But hush now, don’t get all excitorial, or whatever the word.”
“Who are you, and what’s going on?” asked the little tree in a not impolite manner.
“Quirdly’s the name, as I’ve just heard said. But we can do the formalities later, right? Okay, anyway, be quiet.”
“Why?” asked the green river.
“Just do this,” and the badger put his furry paw to his mouth.
The little tree bent a tiny twig around to touch his trunk… not that this did much good, for the little tree could speak from any part of his body, for he possessed neither mouth nor vocal cords. What he possessed was something he called ‘the cuddly’.
There came presently a gasp, like a stone being flung off a mountain into thin air. Whether one of the creatures present gave the sound, or not, may never be known. The reason for its exclamation is about to be described, mark you, dear reader.
…
“Hurrawwl!” The cry came from the woods, and with it charged a figure tall and spindly, who shook the earth as a matador against a bull. The man, for it was a man, came brandished with a heavy club. This he carried in his right hand, which was stretched away from his body. The man was clothed in furs, and wore vast leather boots. He seemed to run, kicking up dirt and stones, but it was a strange run, even in the little tree’s eyes. The man was falling, and he fell with his head right at the base of the little tree. There were sticks in the man’s back, three of them, and from their points of injection bubbled forth a dark red substance.
The little badger sat curled up, shaking, very near where the man’s club had smashed into the earth. Before the little badger could pull himself together, another sound interrupted the air. Bushes were being thrust aside, trees scrapped against, dirt flung places… and there could be heard the sound of metal clinking, which the little tree had never known before.
Again from the forest came a man… he towered high like a bear on its rear legs. The little tree looked at him in absolute fear and in awe. Such a stranger… so fast… So thought the little tree. The newcomer looked first at the fallen man in the fur-coat, then to the little badger curled by the club, then to the green river, and finally to the little tree.
The man whispered “This place is magical…”
He rolled his right shoulder, which was covered in various plates of metal. He blinked his eyes, shadowed by a raised helmet-visor. He shifted his feet in the dirt, the metal of his boots scraping with the rocks. Then he lowered his left arm, to which was fixed a magnificent piece. A cross-bow, as it is known.
“Damn fine bastard,” he said, and spit at the fallen man. “You should not have run.”
Meanwhile the little badger had uncurled from his fit of fear, and scurried over to the little tree, climbed up his trunk, and sat cross-legged on one of the higher branches. The poor little tree was bent under the weight of even such a small creature.
A rush… a flash, a clang of metal…. Some other man had sprung from the woods, and there he lay near the fur-clothed man, blood sprouting from his severed neck as though flowers were growing there. The man in the armor wiped the blood from his blade on the little tree’s trunk, then sheathed it in the back of the fur-clothed man.
“Fools!” he roared, “Fools the lot of you to pursue me, you here?! Another one of you lays dead, fallen where I slew him with my neat blade. And know that it will not be so neat the next time it goes hunting. Thus I give my command… stay back!” His voice echoed around the mountains in the east, carried through the earth like a plague, vibrated it, and the little tree with the blood wiped on him felt sick.
Suddenly the armored man fell to his knees on the corpses, and then he slumped his back against the little tree. His head looked up toward the sky, and his eyes closed peacefully. “I am so sorry, little one,” the man muttered. He wrapped his arms backwards, around the tree, and hugged it with great strength. Suddenly he jerked, the man did, and that was when the blood started coming from his lips. It flew quickly out like a spray from a waterfall, at first… then, as time went by, it became a small trickle. Yet all the while it came out, the man muttered things to the tree, like ‘I am sorry, little one.’ A few times he even yelled out, to that invisible foe that he had called to before. Ah, but when he did this, he seemed to go white and more blood would poor out for a moment. But he kept it up… he kept his insane activity until his time passed, until he lay as a near skeleton in the armor.
No one came. No sound in the forest could be heard. The green river trickled gently, bathing the fear.
