Through the air went a gentle presence - a breeze, wafting slowly 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 grain. Lit by early morning rays, each filled with a dozen rainbows, they softly splattered on the greenery below. The little clovers and grasses and wildflowers thirstily sipped and swallowed the cool refreshment. The droplets disappeared amid the crinkly dark crevices. The breeze drifted onwards, and as it went another sound shook through it - to any within hearing range, 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 were to 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 was one only it knew, speaking of the many things it had encountered during its travels. It seemed that the shrubbery nodded its many 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 passing 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 always seemed to call up times that had never been recounted before. 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 a great 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 the first dibs, and if any should 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 dis time, Smort!”
“Yew!? Na, yew got der tail ‘ast tym, ‘n’ ‘asides, oi deserve da tail cause I was da 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, harrr, 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 would boom like the wardrums of the Dwarven Hordes. The sound alerted every creature to steer well clear, for it was usually resolved 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, you see) and mixed about with a handful of Honeyroot. While they drank and drank, many a songs would be sung, in the ancient Ogre tongue. Deep voices, intermingled with the occasional gurgling belch, carried on for hours. As the night would wear away, eventually only one would remain conscious to enjoy his spoils. And this was always the tribal healer, who’d 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 that our breeze spoke to the shrub. And now, as it swirled and swam, its thoughts turned to its own great joy. It is good to be back home! It somersaulted in the air, surging with a desire to gust. It had been a year since it had been back to this oasis, its home. Long ago, this was where it began… only a small gust, 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 pleased, the creature dropped the morsel he had been nibbling and arched his stiff back, absorbing the warmth of the breeze.
“Oh, mee surr back,” he sighed, speaking in a queer rustic accent. “Gud ‘ol friendly wind’urz, many thankees.” Only the rabbit’s kin, the breeze, and a small handful of others could understand his language.
He relaxed his back, his little figure trembling. In the peculiar little voice of his, he said, “Brrr… oi shou’ be getting’ on soon, oi g’ss.” He stretched his weary paws. “’Ome’s a long wayz offen.”
Within the rabbits mind, roguish complaints bounced about disorderly. Gurffs ‘n guhss! Too manyz kloos calls furr one rabbidy ‘n a day! 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. He had not had an easy morning. 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, mind you, but ones who were much shorter and broader, with spindly roots dangling from their chins. They would ride 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. But, rumor had it they were actually Elephants. Every year they surged into the woodlands, trampling and crushing. What was most horrible was that should any animal rise to flee, there was a twang like the grunt of a giant beast, 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 frequency these days.
The little rabbit had nearly suffered a similar fate - being squished underneath one of the things hulking, bestial feet. Desperately, the breeze had summoned up its strength and buffeted against it. Yet it hardly budged! The floppy grey leaves upon its head merely flapped. It was about to squash the rabbit… just before one of the colossal tree stump-like pads smothered the little creature, he somehow managed to nip and dash aside.
But, he had leapt from the frying pan and into the fire. For, suddenly, he was descended upon by a rain of those angry, sharp-tipped… things. Arrows, as they are known. They whirred and whistled through the air. FTHYWWW! Collision after collision sounded, the black tips sinking into the earth as easily as if it were made of mud. Soil and twig and leaf were crumbled and broken beneath. Nearly imperceptible gasps of pain emanated from the earth - these shafts decorated it like the quills of a hedgehog.
The undergrowth was dense, and the two-legs could not see well enough to hit their target. Their frustrated, gruff voices filled the air.
“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!?”
The rabbit had just barely gotten away, hiding in the earthy recess where a tree had once stood. The intruders marched onwards, leaving a scar of flattened vegetation in their wake. Such heedless destruction… thought the breeze.
Presently, it seemed as though the rabbit were reliving the event, for his tail twitched and his eyes were squeezed tight. His heart raced wildly. The breeze scratched the little creature’s ears in a comforting manner. He began to calm, and as the breeze gently stroked his fur, questions emerged in its 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 answers.
Old memories swirled into its train of thought.
…
A year ago to the day, it had soared out from its peaceful oasis, as it always had in the early spring. It soared out over the surface of the river. And after days of gliding and skimming, it left behind the soft soil and verdant woodlands. It entered that land of the short two-legs - a place of towering mountains, some of nature and some of the two-legs own construction. Not so long ago, the two-legs had only been primitive creatures, who concerned themselves with life deep in caves, and meals over fires. Back then, they had not captured monstrosities with which to ride upon. Nor would they fire their arrows at the slightest sign of movement.
There, in the land of the two-legs, the breeze had discovered that the world was so different. They had drawn out the energy of the earth, and formed mountains of hard grey shapes with it. Castles and fortresses, these were called. It had taken them only a few hundred years to perfect this. The two-legs were as powerful as the ancient spirits! With a sudden, rare display of contempt, the breeze gusted harshly. It thought, Nature had not been so quick to form the lakes and trees! Both marvel and disgust had filled its little form.
Then, suddenly, caught off guard, it had found itself caught in a swirling pillar of black air. The dark substance clung to it - clouded its skin and tangled in its hair. It seemed to attack and sting, the way honey bees behave with the thieving bears. The breeze writhed and twisted in agony and fright. It shrunk to half its size. Nothing seemed to dislodge the darkness. Then, it began to speak. The breeze could understand what it said - whispering unpleasant things in its ears - but it did not listen. It gusted up to the sky, speeding with the same vigor it once had as a young one, above the churning waters of the Grimgale. It blasted into a white puff of cloud, and the particles of water reached out their hands and grabbed the dark air, smothering it. The breeze heaved with relief, and thanked the cloud, giving it a strong current of air to carry it on.
“Yooz no needin’ thankees for us, friend!” sung the cloud, with its chorus of soft, high pitched voices. The breeze was surprised to recognize its old friend.
“Kumulo-niimbus, is that you, old friend?”
“Yes!” came a cheerful reply.
Very few of the old spirits remained in this world - it seemed the two-legs had learned to sap their essence - and the breeze was glad to see that Kumulo-niimbus was alive.
The breeze inquired, curiously “Where have you been, old friend?”
He did not reply, for suddenly he seemed to cough and splutter. He heaved like a tidal wave. His white fluff began to darken.
Alarmed, the breeze cried, “Are you alright?”
As soon as it had begun, Kumulo-niimbus began to settle. When he next spoke, his voices were weak. “The dark air… the two-leg’s smoke. Vurry bad, yes, yes...” his voices faded to a sputtering cough.
“What do you mean, friend,” asked the breeze, not meaning to be pushy, but unable to resist its curiosity.
His friend was unable to answer, still coughing and wheezing quietly. The breeze grew to twice its normal size, and - wrapping it limbs around its friend’s cushiony girth - pulled him along. High and far into the sky they soared. There came a squelching, slushy sound. Thick tendrils of inky blackness sloughed from the cloud. They squirmed as they dropped, and faded into nothingness without their host. Soon, it seemed they were all purged. And together, the breeze and the cloud flew as if they were young spirits again.
“Ooh, friend, thankees you have from mees!” Kumulo-niimbus sung happily. “Ee blackyness is all gone; gud, gud!”
