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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 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 the shrubbery nodded 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 always seemed to 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 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 booming like the wardrums of the Dwarven Hordes. The sound alerted 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, you see) 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. It is good to be back 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 vituperation 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. For - suddenly - 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 sounded, black tips sinking into the earth 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 - shafts decorating it like the quills of a hedgehog.
The undergrowth was dense, and the two-legs could not see well enough to hit their mark. Their frustrated, gruff voices were irate.
“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 amalgamated with 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 peaceful 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 that demesne of short two-legs - a place riddled with towering mountains, some of nature, others of the two-legs’ construction. Not so 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 with it (castles and fortresses, these were called). It had taken them only a few hundred years. 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 abhorrence filled its little form.
Suddenly, caught off guard, it found itself in a pillar of black air; the dark substance clung to it - clouded its skin and tangled in its hair, assailing and stinging, the way honey bees behave with thieving bears. The breeze writhed and twisted in agony and fright, shrinking to half its size. Nothing ablated the duress of the darkness. Then it spoke; the breeze could understand what it said - whispering rancorous things in its ears - but it did not listen. It gusted skyward, speeding with the same vigor it 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, asphyxiating 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 - a 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 learned to sap their essence - and the breeze was glad that Kumulo-niimbus lived. It inquired, curiously, “Where have you been, old friend?”
He did not reply, for suddenly he seemed to cough and splutter, heaving like a tidal wave. His white fluff darkened. Alarmed, the breeze cried, “Are you alright?”
As soon as it began, Kumulo-niimbus settled - when he next spoke, his voices were nadir. “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
Kumulo-niimbus was unable to answer, still coughing and wheezing quietly. The breeze inflated to twice its normal size, and - wrapping it limbs around its friend’s cushiony girth - pulled him along. High into the sky they. irrupted. There came a squelching, slushy sound - thick tendrils of inky blackness sloughed from the cloud, squirming as they dropped, fading into nothingness without their host. Soon, it seemed they were purged. Together, the breeze and the cloud flew as if they were tenacious newborns again.
“Ooh, friend, thankees you have from mees!” Kumulo-niimbus sung happily. “Ee blackyness is all gone; gud, gud!”
Overfilled with wonder, the breeze asked, “What was that?” The inky darkness was as thick as mud, yet far more evil than any mud spirit the breeze had encountered.
For response, Kumulo-niimbus queried, “Doo ee knows about thee gurst trees that are tak’un from the forests?”
The breeze shook his ethereal head. Kumulo-niimbus could see, and his many shrill voices asked, “Doo you knows abouts the ‘phanters?”
‘Phanters… The word was mellifluous (and unfamiliar) to the breeze. “I don’t know of them, friend. What are they?”
“They are creatures’urs, ‘n’ are loik vury ol’ two-legs - you sees, they ‘r’ gud ‘n’ ‘rinklyz, ee are. Most beast’urs call ee ol’-‘oulder-walkers’urs. But, theys ‘r’ ‘phanters, ois says. Back’urs some moon-turns agos, ee two-legs’urs went on ee ‘venture, into the ‘unglyz, vury far in ee northern land’urs.”
Kumulo-niimbus loved to conflate knowledge as much as water droplets. He went on, “Ee spirts’urs were ‘nable to touch thems, for a wizard accompanied them.”
A wizard! The breeze had only heard rumors of those two-legs; it was said they could control spirits by reading aloud a strange tongue from their parchments.
“Thems marched deep in’tur ee ‘unglyz. There’s where ee founds ee ‘phanters, for ee first toim’ees. Trample the trees, ee did - yons ‘ells over loiks you blew as a ‘urricane, friend! Ee ‘phanters tramples ee trees to clear ee ones whose spirits have returned to ee earths’urs. Ee two-leg’urs not understands, no, no… follow’ered ee ‘phanters, ee did,‘n’ gathered ups all ee trees that fell. ‘N’ then, ‘hey made fires’s to make ee ‘phanters run faster, ‘n’ more ‘rees would falls’urs - even with spirits in them! Ee ‘izard’urs prevented others spirits’urs from coming to ‘elp!”
“That’s terrible!” the breeze exclaimed.
“Ois agrees!” Kumulo-niimbus cried, his voice tinged with angst. “The two-legs make them destroy… ‘N’ after they pass, they collects all that fell... ee plants ‘n’ ‘nimals.”
The breeze was aghast at the thought. “Where do they take them?”
“Oh, to this land,” said Kumulo-niimbus. His droplets scurried to form a stick, pointing towards the ground below. “The two-legs dumps them in ‘urnaces. It’s sucked dry; ees resin ‘n’ ee water removed.” He made a grimace. “Then, it’s all burned ups!” he continued. “Bad, vurry bad!”
The cloud scrunched tightly in his truculence, his pure white color turning the dark shade of a thunderstorm. Rivulets of energy seeped from him, and into the breeze. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated its imagination, unbidden. Horizontal torrents of rain streaked by; a frosty gale howling above white-cap waves; there came the sounds of heaving seas like a thousand roaring Ogres, concomitant with the sounds of clapping thunder and cracking timbers; shrapnel and debris launched from the sinking skeletal frames of two-leg vessels and flew like carrion birds, greedily circling a carcass-strewn battlefield. So long ago…
They had raged over the Grimgale - the breeze and the cloud - hoping to show the other spirits they were not to be meddled with. The old brawn vibrated voraciously through the breeze. To howl again… The thought made it shiver.
With a start, the breeze’s senses returned. All was a blur, sounds and sights nearly imperceptible. A nagging sensation overwhelmed it - not unlike a starved beasts desire to feast. Gathering up all the will it could muster, the breeze thought, I do not want to transform!
Gradually, like efflorescence greeting morning sunlight, the sensation faded. The breeze felt the familiar freshness of its breath, vision and hearing returning. It remembered Kumulo-niimbus - Friend! The cloud was still held tightly in its grasp - sparks skipping threateningly upon his water droplets, daring to rumble - but his energy slackened and staid, his white luster returning.
All about, other clouds and their breezes sailed by, pacifically…
Spirits of the air congregated when they sensed a storm was forming, being perpetually friendly beings.
Sadly, the breeze thought, They are not spirits. So few remain…
Far below was the territory claimed by the two-legs; standing silently were distinct cold grey mounds, comprised of subterraneous rock. The breeze squeezed its friend lightly. The two thought in silence for awhile, each thinking a different thought. Kumulo-niimbus reflected upon his near transformation to a thunderstorm with giddy happiness, glad to have avoided the treacherous mishap. His past experiences had been unfavorable.
After a long time had passed, the breeze decided to give voice to its curiosity. “Where are we going, friend?”
In reply, Kumulo-niimbus reshaped himself in a falcon.
The breeze was surprised - but then understanding dawned: his friend wanted to dive, and the breeze obliged him, becoming a downdraft. Warm air ballooned in its lungs as they plummeted toward the distant earth - a menagerie of hues looming: brown, green and blue. The horizon was a jagged line of mountains, encircling them like a massive crown.
Drawing nearer, groves of trees were visible. The land was like a bear’s scruffy fur - green patches suggesting he’d recently scampered down a mossy bank. His veins were blue, twinkling as though thick with rare azure crystal. Not a creature stirred upon this land like a bear-pelt…
Something caught the breeze’s eyes: at the base of a hillock, in a clearing surrounded by a grove of pine trees, were two figures. It drew a sharp intake of breath, which sounded through the air as a fierce whistle. Foxes! it realized - their fur glowing white as brightly as Kumulo-niimbus.
“Thems’urs ares not normal fox’ez, friend,” the cloud whispered. “Can you tell?”
The foxes returned the breeze’s gaze, their eyes a mysterious blue like palimpsests of sky and sea. The breeze was unsure whether to be amazed or frightened. Through the din of its own howling, it called out, “Spirits!” For spirits they were.
Kumulo-niimbus’s voices chorused, “Ee ‘r’ emanatings’urs adroitisms’urs! Ons ‘r’ ee oldest’urs o’ us’uns spirits’urs.”
The oldest of spirits! “But, I thought they had all returned to the earth?”
The cloud was silent. They were only a small gust away from the foxes now. The breeze became aware of their fangs… a dark redness besprinting them. Kumulo-niimbus smoothly spread his vapor wings, plopping upon a flat boulder beside them.
Both old spirits lowered their heads respectively, their black noses touching the grassy earth. “Kumulo-niimbus,” one growled, “you are the first to arrive.” Raising their heads, a single ruby-red drop fell from one’s jaw. Red glistened fresh around their mouths, matting down their fur. Blood? the breeze wondered. Kumulo-niimbus did not seem to notice. His singsong voices chimed in the air, his words in an unusual tongue, “Ay-eeem tars’urs!” He bent into a bow, cloudy wingtips sweeping the ground, leaving thin vapor trails. The breeze knew this customary green from long ago.
Kumulo-niimbus began to morph, his mass shrinking in the breeze’s grasp. He took on the appearance of a small grey fox. Cloud-spirits - the breeze knew - immensely enjoy taking on forms matching their companions - Kumulo-niimbus especially.
The cloud spoke, using two-legs’ words, “Whens do ee others’urs come?”
The foxes mutely turned to look over their shoulders. The sky was aflame with the low sun, beams of amber and crimson light running from the infernal orb like molten rivers or venomous snakes - from their mouths poured flame that burned through cloud-edge and plant-leaf. A great spirit. All creatures had an understanding of the sun’s power, for he was the firstborn, and creator of many others: fire, earth, life…
One fox growled, “When the sun is behind the mountains.”
Kumulo-niimbus nodded his acknowledgement, and turned towards the breeze. “Friend, the spirits’urs hold a council. We ‘ecides if’n wees go to war with ee two-leg’urs!”
…
All sound and sight faded; it was a year later.
The breeze awoke from its dream. Familiar sights and sounds of home saturated it. A bee droned past, transporting bundles of sweet pollen on his legs. The breeze’s gaze shifted to a jutting root in the river bank - tucked beneath was a white ball. “Off’n ter ‘ome ois shoo bees,” the ball mumbled. “Mmnn, nappers first.” The rabbit twitched, and gave a snore.
Caught in the warm glow of slumber, the breeze recalled what transpired that year ago.
Before the sun was behind the mountains, a dozen spirits gathered. As the light of the sun faded and stars and moon twinkled into life overhead, they came to a decision, “We bring war to the two-legs!”
The breeze was unvoiced in this decision. It looked on in awe at the impressive creatures assembled: a stout bear, an inquisitive raccoon, a lively otter, a sharp-beaked raven, a bulky puma, a solitary turtle, a tenacious squirrel, a venerable old oak…
Now, the breeze was disappointed that it had not taken part, for during its wanderings it obsessed in thought, forming a strong opinion. I do not like war. If only I’d acted…
War there was to be. It was determined not to let any harm come to Kumulo-niimbus. Thinking of his friend made the breeze feel sad and teary.
It became aware of a puffing sound. A little creature flapped arduously by - a small owl. “Rrrr!” he cried, struggling to levitate. “Are you -- ee friend -- of Kumulo-niimbus?” he squeaked amid deep gasps of breathe.
The breeze lent him an uplifting current of air. He reclined with a contented sigh. “Oh, yeah…”
A pot owl! The breeze thought insouciantly - such owls were rarely glimpsed, for they were prodigiously good at concealment and nefariously devious. It replied to the Pot owl’s question, “Yes! Have you seen him?”
Without hesitation he replied, “Yeah’r, come ‘n’ ‘ollow mees.” He fluttered away, suddenly already a long way down the river, furiously beating his fluffy wings. “Oor, come on ee wing’urs!” he said, chastising his own wings.
The breeze gusted after him, casting supporting air tendrils. Down the winding river they went. Occasionally the owl dipped his feet beneath the glassy surface, rising with a plump morsel - the slimy skin of a fish glinting. He splashed and slopped about, grappling with the heavy burden. “Urff! Grrbblbl gurrr!” he groaned. Chagrin words clattered through his brain as he berated himself for his incompetence.
The breeze channeled stalwart torrents to lift him. He promptly devoured his morsel with a few swift pecks. “Mmm-mmph!” he exclaimed, satisfied.
They went on like this for what seemed like hours. A dragonfly accompanied them, until he was suddenly eaten by a kingfisher.
The breeze felt a slight impatience, concealing it as it said, “How much further?”
The owl was silent for a time. Abruptly, there was a flap, a flurry of falling feathers - he veered away from the riverbank. “Come wiv me!” he shouted. They hurtled past rough, dark tree trunks, dodging through thorn bushes, the owl moving with vivacious agility. They burst through a tight growth of shrubs, into a sheltered clearing. And there was Kumulo-niimbus, floating white and fluffy in the middle. “Friend!” he paean, “Yous ‘r’ ‘ere!”
“Thankees, Dorbz.” he told the owl, “You may ‘ave ees berries’urs now.”
Dorbz brightened, and flapped away into the dense vegetation, fiendishly seeking the stash of berries Kumulo-niimbus had prepared for him. The breeze and cloud heard him thwacking many stems and leaves as he went.
“Weez talk tu’gever,” Kumulo-niimbus whispered, “take’usn’s ‘into ee ‘oodland’urs.”
Sensing its friend was troubled, the breeze blew towards the shadowy nexus of the wood, Kumulo-niimbus depositing misty waters upon the tree trunks.
“Ayz’ll tell you ‘omething, friend,” his voices rang crisply through the silent undergrowth.
“You ‘r’ ee ‘etter breeze than most,” he extolled. The breeze squeezed him affectionately. “After ee war councils, ayz ride wi’d a’nuddur breeze. Ee not nearly as ‘leasurable or suitables’urs as you, friend - frequently gusting ‘poradically ‘n’ bein’ a vicious cyclone!” The cloud sparked, agitated by the recollection. “’Nyways,” he became more cheery, “weez delivered messages to all spirits’urs. Said, we did, ‘If’n you wants’urs to get rid of ee two-leg’urs, come! Join us!’ and ‘hey ‘ollowed’rs us’ns!”
He morphed a patch of droplets into the a fox’s face, and looked toward the breeze. His words were melancholic, “Friends’urs, afore yoos tells me of your ‘ventures, there bees ‘omething else ayz must show you - baaads.”
The breeze was concerned, trailing Kumulo-niimbus on a labyrinthine course past arbor and fern stalk. The light resembled the patterned fur of a jungle cat, dark and dappled by foliage.
Kumulo-niimbus signaled his friend to slow, holding up a fox’s paw. They arrived on the verge of a petite sward, festooned by a menagerie of wildflowers - Harebell, Fireweed, Buttercup, Cingfoil - the breeze had learned what the two-legs called them. Standing as a cynosure in this colorful aperture was a massive trunk - ample enough to fit six two-legs side-by-side. The owner of the trunk was a venerable, antediluvian oak - the breeze saw its bark was a crumpled patchwork, its branches protracting far over the environing treetops. Instantly it saw this tree was a great spirit. I have seen him before… The breeze ruminated, for he was same venerable oak from the war council. Our General, Oaknam…
Something was wrong… The venerable one’s leaves were wilted. A dark substance shone from beneath the folds in his bark. He is dying! the thought clanged through the breeze like a collapsing cave.
Kumulo-niimbus’s wolf countenance looked from the ill tree to his friend. “‘Oisoned by ee two-legs’urs, friend,” he elucidated. “The blackyness that ee two-legs’urs ‘pew in the air - tis killingz ee Oaknams’urs…” he shook his cloudy mane sorrowfully. “If the two-leg’s corruption ‘ontinues’urs, then even young ‘n’ strong spirits’urs will be poisoned.”
“Will he be alright?”
“Ees vurry, vurry ill --”
The two talked on, unaware of a hubbub building - creatures great and small were lumbering, scurrying and scampering from the undergrowth. The friends silenced, witnessing them gathering around the poisoned oak. The sight of their stricken General caused them great distress.
The breeze’s eyes met the star-like orbs of a white fox. Another from the war council…
“Be still!” The effect was instantaneous - all activity ceased. Oaknam had spoken. Dear reader, were you there you’d feel like a mountain of damp, grainy soil were heaped upon you. Confident he had the attention of all, Oaknam’s voice could be heard. It faltered, wobbling like a bird struggling with a throat full of water - but then it cleared, sounding rich like a two-leg’s recently plowed loamy field. The breeze knew it was decorous to listen, and so it tried - yet it found his words hard to follow, for he spoke of strange things.
A debriefing, the breeze surmised. Oaknam told the spirits of the upcoming war. Each of his words was sagacious, but the breeze detected burning animosity behind them. Oaknam spoke of fire-spirits charring two-leg homes, of rock-spirits crumbling fortresses - bloodied visages burst in the breeze’s mind. It was mortified! The ill general spoke of slaughter… I have to stop this! A tornado churned, tugging at the breeze’s essence.
Without waiting for deliberation, the breeze cried out, “Wait!” It was startled by its own outburst. Never had its essence riled so. Kumulo-niimbus’s fox features expressed surprise. Oaknam was silent, the spirits turning glares upon the breeze. Feeling very aware of many a sharp fang, the breeze harnessed its inner gust.
Its voice was not dissimilar to the howls of a ferocious storm. “I ask you, General, do not slaughter the two-legs! Put them in chains if you must, but do not slaughter them!”
The breeze noticed the General’s eyes glinting like pools of water, seeming sad, hooded by layers of moss and contorted bark. “Breeze,” he beckoned placidly. (The breeze berated itself, for now it saw the old one was nearing his death.) “You are not a war-seeker. I know you are a gentle creature. Killing two-legs must seem lunacy to you now.” In the corners of his’ eyes were tiny green bubbles - the poison holding a strong grasp over him. He blinked in a futile attempt to expel the taint. “I appreciate your pacifism. What you propose is great wisdom. And so,” he addressed the spirits, “I ask all of you to imprison two-legs whenever possible - show mercy if they ask for it.”
He turned his weathered countenance back to the breeze. “When the war ends, you will understand why it was fought,” he gave a sputtering cough. When he continued, his voice was hoarse, “Your friend, Kumulo-niimbus, will tell you more… about… this.” He shuddered into silence.
The breeze’s essence spun, close to becoming a whirlwind - it fought to remain tranquil.
Kumulo-niimbus’s voices filled the abeyance, “My friend,” he said, his reverberations palliating the breeze, “Ayz know yoos no likes it, but ee war is necessarys’urs. Ee two-legs’urs will only change if’ns wees force thems’urs tooz!”
A gruff agreement came from the oak, his voice hardly louder than a falling drop of mud. His eyelids closed peacefully. The discord of his essence faded…
Return to the earth.
Mournful cries came from the coterie of spirits. The breeze’s animosity and trepidation became sadness. It felt a fresh, mighty resolve. A belligerent energy roiled amongst the spirits.
Then, Kumulo-niimbus was heard, faintly reciting mysterious words, “Ru ra’risti, ee’urs skar’arz unz oor. Fees’urs dee-wam bak.” He morphed into a tree - a match to Oaknam, leaf for leaf. This was a traditional way to honor the memory of a fallen spirit.
The white fox reared on hind legs, pointing his snout towards the firmament. ARRR-ARROOOOOOOO!! His wolf-like warcry flowed like a thousand winds.
“Spirits,” he snarled suddenly, bearing the strong tone of a leader, “Oaknam leaves us with a charge to carry out. You heard his words - we must do his bidding!”
Air rushed swiftly across the clearing, animal-spirit fur lifting, tree-spirit twigs bending. It was a grim affair as the hoard of woodlanders began to march. Dear reader, they followed the white fox obsequiously, going in the direction of the two-leg land.
“Stayz close, friend!” Kumulo-niimbus cried, the breeze raising a squall to propel them after the army.
The war had begun.
…
End of Chapter One
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 the shrubbery nodded 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 always seemed to 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 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 booming like the wardrums of the Dwarven Hordes. The sound alerted 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, you see) 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. It is good to be back 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 vituperation 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. For - suddenly - 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 sounded, black tips sinking into the earth 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 - shafts decorating it like the quills of a hedgehog.
The undergrowth was dense, and the two-legs could not see well enough to hit their mark. Their frustrated, gruff voices were irate.
“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 amalgamated with 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 peaceful 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 that demesne of short two-legs - a place riddled with towering mountains, some of nature, others of the two-legs’ construction. Not so 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 with it (castles and fortresses, these were called). It had taken them only a few hundred years. 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 abhorrence filled its little form.
Suddenly, caught off guard, it found itself in a pillar of black air; the dark substance clung to it - clouded its skin and tangled in its hair, assailing and stinging, the way honey bees behave with thieving bears. The breeze writhed and twisted in agony and fright, shrinking to half its size. Nothing ablated the duress of the darkness. Then it spoke; the breeze could understand what it said - whispering rancorous things in its ears - but it did not listen. It gusted skyward, speeding with the same vigor it 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, asphyxiating 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 - a 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 learned to sap their essence - and the breeze was glad that Kumulo-niimbus lived. It inquired, curiously, “Where have you been, old friend?”
He did not reply, for suddenly he seemed to cough and splutter, heaving like a tidal wave. His white fluff darkened. Alarmed, the breeze cried, “Are you alright?”
As soon as it began, Kumulo-niimbus settled - when he next spoke, his voices were nadir. “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
Kumulo-niimbus was unable to answer, still coughing and wheezing quietly. The breeze inflated to twice its normal size, and - wrapping it limbs around its friend’s cushiony girth - pulled him along. High into the sky they. irrupted. There came a squelching, slushy sound - thick tendrils of inky blackness sloughed from the cloud, squirming as they dropped, fading into nothingness without their host. Soon, it seemed they were purged. Together, the breeze and the cloud flew as if they were tenacious newborns again.
“Ooh, friend, thankees you have from mees!” Kumulo-niimbus sung happily. “Ee blackyness is all gone; gud, gud!”
Overfilled with wonder, the breeze asked, “What was that?” The inky darkness was as thick as mud, yet far more evil than any mud spirit the breeze had encountered.
For response, Kumulo-niimbus queried, “Doo ee knows about thee gurst trees that are tak’un from the forests?”
The breeze shook his ethereal head. Kumulo-niimbus could see, and his many shrill voices asked, “Doo you knows abouts the ‘phanters?”
‘Phanters… The word was mellifluous (and unfamiliar) to the breeze. “I don’t know of them, friend. What are they?”
“They are creatures’urs, ‘n’ are loik vury ol’ two-legs - you sees, they ‘r’ gud ‘n’ ‘rinklyz, ee are. Most beast’urs call ee ol’-‘oulder-walkers’urs. But, theys ‘r’ ‘phanters, ois says. Back’urs some moon-turns agos, ee two-legs’urs went on ee ‘venture, into the ‘unglyz, vury far in ee northern land’urs.”
Kumulo-niimbus loved to conflate knowledge as much as water droplets. He went on, “Ee spirts’urs were ‘nable to touch thems, for a wizard accompanied them.”
A wizard! The breeze had only heard rumors of those two-legs; it was said they could control spirits by reading aloud a strange tongue from their parchments.
“Thems marched deep in’tur ee ‘unglyz. There’s where ee founds ee ‘phanters, for ee first toim’ees. Trample the trees, ee did - yons ‘ells over loiks you blew as a ‘urricane, friend! Ee ‘phanters tramples ee trees to clear ee ones whose spirits have returned to ee earths’urs. Ee two-leg’urs not understands, no, no… follow’ered ee ‘phanters, ee did,‘n’ gathered ups all ee trees that fell. ‘N’ then, ‘hey made fires’s to make ee ‘phanters run faster, ‘n’ more ‘rees would falls’urs - even with spirits in them! Ee ‘izard’urs prevented others spirits’urs from coming to ‘elp!”
“That’s terrible!” the breeze exclaimed.
“Ois agrees!” Kumulo-niimbus cried, his voice tinged with angst. “The two-legs make them destroy… ‘N’ after they pass, they collects all that fell... ee plants ‘n’ ‘nimals.”
The breeze was aghast at the thought. “Where do they take them?”
“Oh, to this land,” said Kumulo-niimbus. His droplets scurried to form a stick, pointing towards the ground below. “The two-legs dumps them in ‘urnaces. It’s sucked dry; ees resin ‘n’ ee water removed.” He made a grimace. “Then, it’s all burned ups!” he continued. “Bad, vurry bad!”
The cloud scrunched tightly in his truculence, his pure white color turning the dark shade of a thunderstorm. Rivulets of energy seeped from him, and into the breeze. A blinding flash of lightning illuminated its imagination, unbidden. Horizontal torrents of rain streaked by; a frosty gale howling above white-cap waves; there came the sounds of heaving seas like a thousand roaring Ogres, concomitant with the sounds of clapping thunder and cracking timbers; shrapnel and debris launched from the sinking skeletal frames of two-leg vessels and flew like carrion birds, greedily circling a carcass-strewn battlefield. So long ago…
They had raged over the Grimgale - the breeze and the cloud - hoping to show the other spirits they were not to be meddled with. The old brawn vibrated voraciously through the breeze. To howl again… The thought made it shiver.
With a start, the breeze’s senses returned. All was a blur, sounds and sights nearly imperceptible. A nagging sensation overwhelmed it - not unlike a starved beasts desire to feast. Gathering up all the will it could muster, the breeze thought, I do not want to transform!
Gradually, like efflorescence greeting morning sunlight, the sensation faded. The breeze felt the familiar freshness of its breath, vision and hearing returning. It remembered Kumulo-niimbus - Friend! The cloud was still held tightly in its grasp - sparks skipping threateningly upon his water droplets, daring to rumble - but his energy slackened and staid, his white luster returning.
All about, other clouds and their breezes sailed by, pacifically…
Spirits of the air congregated when they sensed a storm was forming, being perpetually friendly beings.
Sadly, the breeze thought, They are not spirits. So few remain…
Far below was the territory claimed by the two-legs; standing silently were distinct cold grey mounds, comprised of subterraneous rock. The breeze squeezed its friend lightly. The two thought in silence for awhile, each thinking a different thought. Kumulo-niimbus reflected upon his near transformation to a thunderstorm with giddy happiness, glad to have avoided the treacherous mishap. His past experiences had been unfavorable.
After a long time had passed, the breeze decided to give voice to its curiosity. “Where are we going, friend?”
In reply, Kumulo-niimbus reshaped himself in a falcon.
The breeze was surprised - but then understanding dawned: his friend wanted to dive, and the breeze obliged him, becoming a downdraft. Warm air ballooned in its lungs as they plummeted toward the distant earth - a menagerie of hues looming: brown, green and blue. The horizon was a jagged line of mountains, encircling them like a massive crown.
Drawing nearer, groves of trees were visible. The land was like a bear’s scruffy fur - green patches suggesting he’d recently scampered down a mossy bank. His veins were blue, twinkling as though thick with rare azure crystal. Not a creature stirred upon this land like a bear-pelt…
Something caught the breeze’s eyes: at the base of a hillock, in a clearing surrounded by a grove of pine trees, were two figures. It drew a sharp intake of breath, which sounded through the air as a fierce whistle. Foxes! it realized - their fur glowing white as brightly as Kumulo-niimbus.
“Thems’urs ares not normal fox’ez, friend,” the cloud whispered. “Can you tell?”
The foxes returned the breeze’s gaze, their eyes a mysterious blue like palimpsests of sky and sea. The breeze was unsure whether to be amazed or frightened. Through the din of its own howling, it called out, “Spirits!” For spirits they were.
Kumulo-niimbus’s voices chorused, “Ee ‘r’ emanatings’urs adroitisms’urs! Ons ‘r’ ee oldest’urs o’ us’uns spirits’urs.”
The oldest of spirits! “But, I thought they had all returned to the earth?”
The cloud was silent. They were only a small gust away from the foxes now. The breeze became aware of their fangs… a dark redness besprinting them. Kumulo-niimbus smoothly spread his vapor wings, plopping upon a flat boulder beside them.
Both old spirits lowered their heads respectively, their black noses touching the grassy earth. “Kumulo-niimbus,” one growled, “you are the first to arrive.” Raising their heads, a single ruby-red drop fell from one’s jaw. Red glistened fresh around their mouths, matting down their fur. Blood? the breeze wondered. Kumulo-niimbus did not seem to notice. His singsong voices chimed in the air, his words in an unusual tongue, “Ay-eeem tars’urs!” He bent into a bow, cloudy wingtips sweeping the ground, leaving thin vapor trails. The breeze knew this customary green from long ago.
Kumulo-niimbus began to morph, his mass shrinking in the breeze’s grasp. He took on the appearance of a small grey fox. Cloud-spirits - the breeze knew - immensely enjoy taking on forms matching their companions - Kumulo-niimbus especially.
The cloud spoke, using two-legs’ words, “Whens do ee others’urs come?”
The foxes mutely turned to look over their shoulders. The sky was aflame with the low sun, beams of amber and crimson light running from the infernal orb like molten rivers or venomous snakes - from their mouths poured flame that burned through cloud-edge and plant-leaf. A great spirit. All creatures had an understanding of the sun’s power, for he was the firstborn, and creator of many others: fire, earth, life…
One fox growled, “When the sun is behind the mountains.”
Kumulo-niimbus nodded his acknowledgement, and turned towards the breeze. “Friend, the spirits’urs hold a council. We ‘ecides if’n wees go to war with ee two-leg’urs!”
…
All sound and sight faded; it was a year later.
The breeze awoke from its dream. Familiar sights and sounds of home saturated it. A bee droned past, transporting bundles of sweet pollen on his legs. The breeze’s gaze shifted to a jutting root in the river bank - tucked beneath was a white ball. “Off’n ter ‘ome ois shoo bees,” the ball mumbled. “Mmnn, nappers first.” The rabbit twitched, and gave a snore.
Caught in the warm glow of slumber, the breeze recalled what transpired that year ago.
Before the sun was behind the mountains, a dozen spirits gathered. As the light of the sun faded and stars and moon twinkled into life overhead, they came to a decision, “We bring war to the two-legs!”
The breeze was unvoiced in this decision. It looked on in awe at the impressive creatures assembled: a stout bear, an inquisitive raccoon, a lively otter, a sharp-beaked raven, a bulky puma, a solitary turtle, a tenacious squirrel, a venerable old oak…
Now, the breeze was disappointed that it had not taken part, for during its wanderings it obsessed in thought, forming a strong opinion. I do not like war. If only I’d acted…
War there was to be. It was determined not to let any harm come to Kumulo-niimbus. Thinking of his friend made the breeze feel sad and teary.
It became aware of a puffing sound. A little creature flapped arduously by - a small owl. “Rrrr!” he cried, struggling to levitate. “Are you -- ee friend -- of Kumulo-niimbus?” he squeaked amid deep gasps of breathe.
The breeze lent him an uplifting current of air. He reclined with a contented sigh. “Oh, yeah…”
A pot owl! The breeze thought insouciantly - such owls were rarely glimpsed, for they were prodigiously good at concealment and nefariously devious. It replied to the Pot owl’s question, “Yes! Have you seen him?”
Without hesitation he replied, “Yeah’r, come ‘n’ ‘ollow mees.” He fluttered away, suddenly already a long way down the river, furiously beating his fluffy wings. “Oor, come on ee wing’urs!” he said, chastising his own wings.
The breeze gusted after him, casting supporting air tendrils. Down the winding river they went. Occasionally the owl dipped his feet beneath the glassy surface, rising with a plump morsel - the slimy skin of a fish glinting. He splashed and slopped about, grappling with the heavy burden. “Urff! Grrbblbl gurrr!” he groaned. Chagrin words clattered through his brain as he berated himself for his incompetence.
The breeze channeled stalwart torrents to lift him. He promptly devoured his morsel with a few swift pecks. “Mmm-mmph!” he exclaimed, satisfied.
They went on like this for what seemed like hours. A dragonfly accompanied them, until he was suddenly eaten by a kingfisher.
The breeze felt a slight impatience, concealing it as it said, “How much further?”
The owl was silent for a time. Abruptly, there was a flap, a flurry of falling feathers - he veered away from the riverbank. “Come wiv me!” he shouted. They hurtled past rough, dark tree trunks, dodging through thorn bushes, the owl moving with vivacious agility. They burst through a tight growth of shrubs, into a sheltered clearing. And there was Kumulo-niimbus, floating white and fluffy in the middle. “Friend!” he paean, “Yous ‘r’ ‘ere!”
“Thankees, Dorbz.” he told the owl, “You may ‘ave ees berries’urs now.”
Dorbz brightened, and flapped away into the dense vegetation, fiendishly seeking the stash of berries Kumulo-niimbus had prepared for him. The breeze and cloud heard him thwacking many stems and leaves as he went.
“Weez talk tu’gever,” Kumulo-niimbus whispered, “take’usn’s ‘into ee ‘oodland’urs.”
Sensing its friend was troubled, the breeze blew towards the shadowy nexus of the wood, Kumulo-niimbus depositing misty waters upon the tree trunks.
“Ayz’ll tell you ‘omething, friend,” his voices rang crisply through the silent undergrowth.
“You ‘r’ ee ‘etter breeze than most,” he extolled. The breeze squeezed him affectionately. “After ee war councils, ayz ride wi’d a’nuddur breeze. Ee not nearly as ‘leasurable or suitables’urs as you, friend - frequently gusting ‘poradically ‘n’ bein’ a vicious cyclone!” The cloud sparked, agitated by the recollection. “’Nyways,” he became more cheery, “weez delivered messages to all spirits’urs. Said, we did, ‘If’n you wants’urs to get rid of ee two-leg’urs, come! Join us!’ and ‘hey ‘ollowed’rs us’ns!”
He morphed a patch of droplets into the a fox’s face, and looked toward the breeze. His words were melancholic, “Friends’urs, afore yoos tells me of your ‘ventures, there bees ‘omething else ayz must show you - baaads.”
The breeze was concerned, trailing Kumulo-niimbus on a labyrinthine course past arbor and fern stalk. The light resembled the patterned fur of a jungle cat, dark and dappled by foliage.
Kumulo-niimbus signaled his friend to slow, holding up a fox’s paw. They arrived on the verge of a petite sward, festooned by a menagerie of wildflowers - Harebell, Fireweed, Buttercup, Cingfoil - the breeze had learned what the two-legs called them. Standing as a cynosure in this colorful aperture was a massive trunk - ample enough to fit six two-legs side-by-side. The owner of the trunk was a venerable, antediluvian oak - the breeze saw its bark was a crumpled patchwork, its branches protracting far over the environing treetops. Instantly it saw this tree was a great spirit. I have seen him before… The breeze ruminated, for he was same venerable oak from the war council. Our General, Oaknam…
Something was wrong… The venerable one’s leaves were wilted. A dark substance shone from beneath the folds in his bark. He is dying! the thought clanged through the breeze like a collapsing cave.
Kumulo-niimbus’s wolf countenance looked from the ill tree to his friend. “‘Oisoned by ee two-legs’urs, friend,” he elucidated. “The blackyness that ee two-legs’urs ‘pew in the air - tis killingz ee Oaknams’urs…” he shook his cloudy mane sorrowfully. “If the two-leg’s corruption ‘ontinues’urs, then even young ‘n’ strong spirits’urs will be poisoned.”
“Will he be alright?”
“Ees vurry, vurry ill --”
The two talked on, unaware of a hubbub building - creatures great and small were lumbering, scurrying and scampering from the undergrowth. The friends silenced, witnessing them gathering around the poisoned oak. The sight of their stricken General caused them great distress.
The breeze’s eyes met the star-like orbs of a white fox. Another from the war council…
“Be still!” The effect was instantaneous - all activity ceased. Oaknam had spoken. Dear reader, were you there you’d feel like a mountain of damp, grainy soil were heaped upon you. Confident he had the attention of all, Oaknam’s voice could be heard. It faltered, wobbling like a bird struggling with a throat full of water - but then it cleared, sounding rich like a two-leg’s recently plowed loamy field. The breeze knew it was decorous to listen, and so it tried - yet it found his words hard to follow, for he spoke of strange things.
A debriefing, the breeze surmised. Oaknam told the spirits of the upcoming war. Each of his words was sagacious, but the breeze detected burning animosity behind them. Oaknam spoke of fire-spirits charring two-leg homes, of rock-spirits crumbling fortresses - bloodied visages burst in the breeze’s mind. It was mortified! The ill general spoke of slaughter… I have to stop this! A tornado churned, tugging at the breeze’s essence.
Without waiting for deliberation, the breeze cried out, “Wait!” It was startled by its own outburst. Never had its essence riled so. Kumulo-niimbus’s fox features expressed surprise. Oaknam was silent, the spirits turning glares upon the breeze. Feeling very aware of many a sharp fang, the breeze harnessed its inner gust.
Its voice was not dissimilar to the howls of a ferocious storm. “I ask you, General, do not slaughter the two-legs! Put them in chains if you must, but do not slaughter them!”
The breeze noticed the General’s eyes glinting like pools of water, seeming sad, hooded by layers of moss and contorted bark. “Breeze,” he beckoned placidly. (The breeze berated itself, for now it saw the old one was nearing his death.) “You are not a war-seeker. I know you are a gentle creature. Killing two-legs must seem lunacy to you now.” In the corners of his’ eyes were tiny green bubbles - the poison holding a strong grasp over him. He blinked in a futile attempt to expel the taint. “I appreciate your pacifism. What you propose is great wisdom. And so,” he addressed the spirits, “I ask all of you to imprison two-legs whenever possible - show mercy if they ask for it.”
He turned his weathered countenance back to the breeze. “When the war ends, you will understand why it was fought,” he gave a sputtering cough. When he continued, his voice was hoarse, “Your friend, Kumulo-niimbus, will tell you more… about… this.” He shuddered into silence.
The breeze’s essence spun, close to becoming a whirlwind - it fought to remain tranquil.
Kumulo-niimbus’s voices filled the abeyance, “My friend,” he said, his reverberations palliating the breeze, “Ayz know yoos no likes it, but ee war is necessarys’urs. Ee two-legs’urs will only change if’ns wees force thems’urs tooz!”
A gruff agreement came from the oak, his voice hardly louder than a falling drop of mud. His eyelids closed peacefully. The discord of his essence faded…
Return to the earth.
Mournful cries came from the coterie of spirits. The breeze’s animosity and trepidation became sadness. It felt a fresh, mighty resolve. A belligerent energy roiled amongst the spirits.
Then, Kumulo-niimbus was heard, faintly reciting mysterious words, “Ru ra’risti, ee’urs skar’arz unz oor. Fees’urs dee-wam bak.” He morphed into a tree - a match to Oaknam, leaf for leaf. This was a traditional way to honor the memory of a fallen spirit.
The white fox reared on hind legs, pointing his snout towards the firmament. ARRR-ARROOOOOOOO!! His wolf-like warcry flowed like a thousand winds.
“Spirits,” he snarled suddenly, bearing the strong tone of a leader, “Oaknam leaves us with a charge to carry out. You heard his words - we must do his bidding!”
Air rushed swiftly across the clearing, animal-spirit fur lifting, tree-spirit twigs bending. It was a grim affair as the hoard of woodlanders began to march. Dear reader, they followed the white fox obsequiously, going in the direction of the two-leg land.
“Stayz close, friend!” Kumulo-niimbus cried, the breeze raising a squall to propel them after the army.
The war had begun.
…
End of Chapter One
