Category: Plants & Animals

How He Learned To Breathe Fire

12/20/2011

As a child, there was a year that Allister believed himself to be a dragon. Not pretended, mind you. Believed.

It was the first autumn that Allister could remember. And he awoke one cold morning and exhaled smoke. And, though there were certainly some precautions to be aware of (a practiced calm was needed to prevent accidental fires), the new gift brought with it a powerful swelling of self-assurance that Allister felt deep within his little soul. And he felt bigger than he was. And that was a needed change because Allister had always felt so small (you remember there was a time when Allister could fit inside a walnut shell).

In two days time, school would start. Allister's first day of school. And his parents had said, "Just look everyone in the eye and say hello. That is all you need to do to find your place in this world." But, up until he had discovered he could breathe fire, Allister could not do even that simple task. Allister would use all of his energy, all the muscle he could muster, to try to raise the weight of his head. So much energy and muscle that he would strain his neck. But, his head would not raise.

But, that day- oh, that very morning when he first breathed smoke- that all changed.

The weight of his own head suddenly seemed lighter. It all seemed lighter. Allister breathed in air and exhaled smoke and felt secure.

And the morning Allister set off for school, a morning that some find filled with apprehension and fear, his small feet left the proudest of imprints in the cold, hard ground. He could not wait to see others, to meet others. His chest swelled with wonder- wonder and fire- and his smoke came forth in white tufts.

When Allister finally saw someone, he was instantly struck by her beauty. She was much older than he was. (But, being the child that he was, "much older" was usually not as old as he thought.) Her skin was darker than his and delicately soft. And Allister remembered feeling lucky just to have had the good fortune to walk to school at that particular time on that particular day.

But, her head was bowed.

Allister, of course, knew how heavy a head could feel. (But, being the dragon that he was, "heavy" had become a word that was manageable.) And, from his low vantage point, he looked up to her bowed head and found her hazel eyes. And, because he did not want to scare her with his fierce dragon-ness, he simply nodded and let a trickle of smoke waft up from his nostrils. And, in the short time it took to pass her, Allister knew that he had gotten through the heaviness because she smiled. She even let out a trickle of smoke of her own and Allister realized that she, too, was a dragon.

And that was how it went for days and weeks on end. Allister would see her each and every morning on his way to school. And they would smile and nod at each other. And, as the time passed (winter kicked in with its snow), they both expected the other to be there. And, as they both expected each other to be there, their faces began to show more and more the marks of anticipated happiness- as if each and every morning they knew a surprise awaited. It was enough to keep both their heads from bowing, whether or not either of them believed they were dragons or not.

But, Allister (of course) did believe he was a dragon. He knew he was. And he knew she was, too. Their puffs of smoke were exhaled in billows.

And, though they never had a conversation, they left many a correspondingly parallel footprint in the snow.

Then, one day in the middle of winter, her head bowed again. And Allister, from his low vantage point, could see why. Her right eye was slightly bruised. Enough that you could tell, but not enough that you could tell if you did not look. And she smiled still. And Allister tried to smile back, but he could see that something had changed for her. It was not just the bowed head. Or even the bruise. Her smoke was barely visible as she hurried past Allister.

For two more days more, she hurried past. And, then, she wasn't there.

Two more days passed and Allister did not see her, only her footprints remained.

Then, the news trickled in. A young maid's body had been found and the picture in the paper revealed that it was her.

Allister had never known she was a maid.

Soon after, rumors trickled in. Words and phrases that Allister was too young to understand collected and wafted and billowed forth. She had denied advances made by her employer, a man whose estate was located in some secluded area far in the hills. And, one day, in a particularly angry rage, he hit her with a blunt object. The object was found. A trial was held. And, in the end, the murderer was let free. He had known the judge, had donated money to organizations, and it was decided that the death was an accident.

But, Allister knew it was not an accident. He had seen the bruised eye two days before and he saw her empty footprints in the snow. And he tried his best to protect them. But, though spring was still days away, the affects of its heated breathe could be seen melting the snow.

He should have done something, Allister thought. Allister believed. He should have saved her. But, what could he have done? The world was unfair and Allister began to feel his smallness again. So, he did what you do when you feel small. He did what you do when the world is unfair and it takes away something beautiful. Allister did what you do when the world wants to forget, but you know the importance of remembering.

Allister did what you do when you are a dragon.

He followed her footprints up into the hills and the secluded mansion of her employer. When he reached the enormous gates of the estate, he breathed in deep all the pain and hurt and confusion and unfairness of the cold air. He sucked it down into his lungs, where he felt his furnace burning. And he believed whole-heartedly, whole-lung-edly, that the power of that furnace would consume those feelings, would create a raging fire that he could draw forth and shoot from his mouth to burn down the gates, the mansion, the estate, and the man who murdered his beautiful friend.

He huffed and puffed and heaved and exhaled and, with each new inhale, he breathed in deeper. But, there was no fire. There was some other force at play preventing him from doing his dragon-ly deed. Maybe the murderer was a dragon, too. An evil dragon. And the deeper Allister would send the pain down, the more he realized how empty his furnace was. His face turned blue with hyperventilation and, still, nothing. And Allister burst into tears. There was only so much pain and hurt one person could consume. And Allister fell to his knees and sobbed, his head in his hands.

He missed his friend.

And the gates opened. Servants, butlers, and cooks poured out. Allister would later learn that they had all quit that day when they heard the news of their employer's acquittal.

An elder butler picked up Allister and held him. "I know, I know," he soothed in a smoky, deep bass voice. And Allister felt that he really did know. He could see it in his eyes and he could see the whisp of smoke come out of his mouth. "Take care, my friend. And hold your head high. We need people like you."

And Allister took that to heart. People like him were needed. Big hearts were needed. And, when spring arrived some days later, he woke to find that her footprints were gone and he could no longer exhale smoke. But, he was not disheartened. He had cried watery tears for some time. So, it only made sense that his fire would have been extinguished. But, it would return. He knew it would. Just like the snow.

And it did. His breath and the snow. In, one year's time, they both came back.

And that year, in the middle of winter, the mansion caught fire. Most people said it was an accident.

But, Allister knew a different story.

Allister had remembered exactly where each and every one of her footprints had been. And, when the snow fell, he spent his mornings before and his evenings after school, retracing and recreating her steps because....well...because he knew he had to. He had to protect her memory. He had learned over the course of the year that there were two types of dragons and what set them apart was what they protected. Some protected only the shiny and beautiful things that were theirs. Those dragons always craved more. And the other dragons protected the shiny and beautiful things that belonged to no one (or rather to everyone). These dragons, too, always craved more.

And which one you were was a choice (perhaps the most important one) to be made because it was what kept your furnace burning.

And Allister knew that she had returned. He knew that beauty did not vanish. Try as anyone might to destroy it, it would spread. It would grow.

And she had become that powerful dragon that Allister always knew she was. And, although most said the cause was a creosote buildup in the estate's many chimneys left unattended by chimney sweeps who never returned to work, Allister knew that she had followed her tracks to her murderer's home.

And she had left the old man alive, surrounded by the ashes of what he had protected, cowering and quivering, "There's nothing left. It's all gone."

And that was when Allister chose, though he could not always see his smoke, what kind of dragon he was.

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His Lyrebird's Lament

8/9/2011

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Have I ever told you that Allister had a lyrebird?
I cannot remember.
And no matter really because, whether I have already told you or not, the fact remains true-Allister had a lyrebird. Or, rather, Allister knew a lyrebird. Or, rather, the lyrebird knew Allister.
Or...rather...both.

And, like all lyrebirds before and after, the lyrebird Allister knew was a gifted mimic and could impersonate everything from cuccaberras to the saws that cut through the trees of its forest home.

But, unlike all lyrebirds before and after, the lyrebird Allister knew was named Douglas Quibley. And that is because Allister named him Douglas Quibley.

Douglas Quibley and Allister were close. So close that Allister did not "keep" him. That is to say that, at the end of an evening, Douglas Quibley would go his own way and Allister would go his. There was trust. So much trust, in fact, that Douglas Quibley had even shown Allister where his own family lived.

And each and every evening, without doubt, Douglas Quibley would be back on Allister's porch for a night cap.

And Douglas Quibley would sing. Oh, how Douglas Quibley would sing. Each evening brought with it a new tune that Douglas Quibley had put together from the sounds he heard throughout the day.

Oh, he had wombat songs and new tractor engine songs and trees rustling in the wind songs and (once Allister had introduced him to the sport of cricket, of course) the play by play of Melbourne versus Victoria songs. Remnants and measures and beats from all of those would trickle into and mix with the old ancestral lyrebird melodies, forming what would one day be Douglas Quibley's magnum opus- the song he would pass on to his children.

And each and every night, Douglas Quibley would walk home (lyrebirds are not the most devoted practitioners of flight in the avian family) and Allister would put out his porch lantern and go to sleep.

That carried on, for some time. And, the detail and precision and pure innovation of sound from Douglas Quibley entertained and astounded Allister. And he would close his eyes and soak in the sounds of Douglas Quibley that brought forth the long lost memories of Allister Cromley.

Then, one evening, Douglas Quibley did not come to Allister's porch.

Something was wrong and Allister sprinted into brush to the home of Douglas Quibley.

And he was right. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

Feathers were strewn all about. The nest was torn to shreds. There was blood on the ground and wave marks in the dirt that disappeared deep into the brush.

And, somewhere nearby, Allister heard the snake's hiss.

He instantly jumped back. But, the hiss was followed by a sorrowful moan of song. And Allister cleared away the shrubbery to reveal his dear friend, Douglas Quibley- still alive, doing what he did best. Douglas Quibley sang a song of mourning.

And, as always, the sounds were so precise and succinct and so crystal clear that Allister could picture the whole incident. The snake had struck his son first. There had been no hiss. There had been a movement of branch and, then, a strike. The forest had erupted in a chorus of shrieks from koalas and sugar gliders and bandicoots and even the cuccaberras that blended together into a stunningly piercing harmony.

And Douglas Quibley and his wife had attacked, had tried to defend through scratches and pecking. But, the snake whipped its tail into Douglas Quibley and threw him to where Allister found him. And, as he lost consciousness, Douglas Quibley heard his wife shriek. But, then, it was black.

When Douglas Quibley came to, there was no sound. If a pin had dropped in that dense forest, Douglas Quibley would have heard and recited it crystal clear. But, the forest was pinless. And, so, Douglas Quibley instead recalled and recited with impeccable clarity the subtle somber tones of the silence.

And, then, he recalled the sounds of his son and wife. Happy chirps, they were.

Allister looked into Douglas Quibley's eyes and they were dark and deep and hollow and sad and lost.

So lost.

Allister had seen the look once before- in a young private who cradled the head of a friend killed in action in France and shouted, "What is this, what is this?"

And Allister did not know at that time to tell the young soldier and he had not learned enough to tell Douglas Quibley, either.

So, Allister let Douglas Quibley go. He let Douglas Quibley do what he needed to do.

And Douglas Quibley needed to walk. Douglas Quibley needed to echo the chirps of his family because he was afraid he would not remember them. And he needed to recall the venom of the snake's attack because he could not forget it.

And, as his lyrebird disappeared into the brush, Allister knew that it would be some time before he saw Douglas Quibley again. Allister knew, then, that Douglas Quibley would find the snake, that Douglas Quibley would kill the snake.

And he did.

Allister knew that (and you will, too) because, one evening many evenings later, Douglas Quibley stumbled back to Allister's porch. And Allister welcomed him and offered him a nightcap. Douglas Quibley was polite in his refusal. But, it was apparent and abundantly clear that Douglas Quibley had not come for a drink. He came to sing his song.

And, so, he did. He sang the sounds of his clawed feet on dirt and the rustle of the leaves and the sounds and noises of all the fauna guiding him. That particular snake was a most vicious and hated snake and many in the forest had suffered a loss from its venomous fangs. And Allister heard the support that Douglas Quibley must have felt. And he heard the long days and long nights. And, all throughout the song, the recollection of the snake’s hiss and his family’s chirps weaved in and out.

Even when he found the snake sleeping, even when he surprised the snake from behind, even when he had sunk his claws into the snake’s eyes the recollection of the hiss and his family’s chirps weaved in and out.

And when the snake shrieked in pain and the whole forest erupted in cheer, Douglas Quibley still weaved in and out the hiss and the happy chirps. And they seemed to blend at that point in the song until the happy chirps erupted over the hiss and broke free to form their own melody. And Douglas Quibley sang of the victorious celebration when the snake died. Loud and booming and all-encompassing. Koalas and sugar gliders and bandicoots and cuccaberras and wombats and animals that Allister had never seen. All cheering, until…until…until…the cheering stopped.

And it was quiet. The forest was still without pins.

And that was it.

But, even then, even the whole walk to Allister’s porch, Douglas Quibley sang the tune of the happy chirps of his family and sometimes, still, the hiss would come back and Douglas Quibley looked to Allister with that lost look.

And Allister said, “I don’t know what this is. I don’t. And I’m sorry.

But, Allister knew then something that he had not known before.

He took Douglas Quibley to a secret place hidden deep in the brush. A place only Allister knew. A small cove where water trickled and flowed from solid rock. And he held Douglas Quibley up to it.

Allister could not make Douglas Quibley forget the hiss. He could only teach him a new song.

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