Allister remembered the day quite clearly, though he would forget about it, from time to time. He was four. He was happy. He was excited, even. The air was fresh. The trees rustled with the spring's breeze. And Allister saw the goose. Perhaps it was not the first time he had seen a goose. That he could not proclaim with any certainty. But, it was the first time he could remember seeing a goose. It kicked it's feet along the pond. His grandfather's pond. So content it seemed. It's black neck craning up and down. It's wings lost somewhere into it's feathered body. Like it was all one piece. No wings. Legs, body, neck, and head. That was it. A ridiculous beast that was so proud of itself. And Allister wanted to touch it.
Where his grandparents were, he never knew. And it mattered little at the time or before that time even, for those types of questions only occur after an accident. And, whether or not that matters or not, seems to only matter whether or not there is an accident. Nevertheless, Allister wanted to touch the goose. And so he did.
He tip-toed ever so lightly. Four year old tip toes. He could see the wings now. It was more than legs, body, neck, and head. It, too, was wings. And Allister reached and touched it's back. And the neck snapped back. The wings were thrown up. And the beast lurched forward, gnashing it's goose teeth, flaring it's demon eyes. Allister turned to run. But, there was nowhere to go. The beast, goose-stepped, goose-ran at Allister and swung it's mad, ugly head until it threw forward and bit Allister's calf with all it's goose might. Allister screamed as if the goose had actually drawn blood, as if it actually possessed fangs and not goose teeth. And his grandparents suddenly appeared as the goose fled the seen. And he was held in that way that grandmother's do, that knowing warmth that eventually eases away tears.
And the day ended like the day before-with night. And Allister awoke and awoke and awoke and, one day, found himself much older. This day came after Allister had fought in the Great War. After Allister had hurt and was hurt, in turn. After Allister had gone to school and after he had learned to tie his shoes. These things were done in no particular order and certainly not in the order they have now been recorded.
Nevertheless, he found himself at a pond's edge, once again. And before him stood a goose, once again. It's wings camouflaged, but not enough. Allister knew now. And Allister ran. He felt the bite in his calf and he surged forward, fueled by the rage of a goose's nip. A mad man with a mad mission. The goose never knew what was coming. Not until it turned around, that is. And just like that, the goose snapped around, snapped back, stumbled forward, tripped over it's own webbing, screamed a honk, and flew off before Allister could touch it. And Allister stood at the pond's edge and wondered, "Where's the logic?"
Allister had no more won a victory for humankind than had he forced a loss for goosekind. The goose would come back. Geese tended to come back. And, it could be rationalized, even without thorough proof that the goose that flew away was not the goose that had nipped Allister at four. And, if the goose had lived that long much less found Allister, than it most certainly deserved it's immortal belligerence.
But, it would not be the last time Allister wondered the thought. And, funny enough, the logic always seemed to lie somewhere between being bitten and not being bitten-which was, in itself, a most illogical place.
Where his grandparents were, he never knew. And it mattered little at the time or before that time even, for those types of questions only occur after an accident. And, whether or not that matters or not, seems to only matter whether or not there is an accident. Nevertheless, Allister wanted to touch the goose. And so he did.
He tip-toed ever so lightly. Four year old tip toes. He could see the wings now. It was more than legs, body, neck, and head. It, too, was wings. And Allister reached and touched it's back. And the neck snapped back. The wings were thrown up. And the beast lurched forward, gnashing it's goose teeth, flaring it's demon eyes. Allister turned to run. But, there was nowhere to go. The beast, goose-stepped, goose-ran at Allister and swung it's mad, ugly head until it threw forward and bit Allister's calf with all it's goose might. Allister screamed as if the goose had actually drawn blood, as if it actually possessed fangs and not goose teeth. And his grandparents suddenly appeared as the goose fled the seen. And he was held in that way that grandmother's do, that knowing warmth that eventually eases away tears.
And the day ended like the day before-with night. And Allister awoke and awoke and awoke and, one day, found himself much older. This day came after Allister had fought in the Great War. After Allister had hurt and was hurt, in turn. After Allister had gone to school and after he had learned to tie his shoes. These things were done in no particular order and certainly not in the order they have now been recorded.
Nevertheless, he found himself at a pond's edge, once again. And before him stood a goose, once again. It's wings camouflaged, but not enough. Allister knew now. And Allister ran. He felt the bite in his calf and he surged forward, fueled by the rage of a goose's nip. A mad man with a mad mission. The goose never knew what was coming. Not until it turned around, that is. And just like that, the goose snapped around, snapped back, stumbled forward, tripped over it's own webbing, screamed a honk, and flew off before Allister could touch it. And Allister stood at the pond's edge and wondered, "Where's the logic?"
Allister had no more won a victory for humankind than had he forced a loss for goosekind. The goose would come back. Geese tended to come back. And, it could be rationalized, even without thorough proof that the goose that flew away was not the goose that had nipped Allister at four. And, if the goose had lived that long much less found Allister, than it most certainly deserved it's immortal belligerence.
But, it would not be the last time Allister wondered the thought. And, funny enough, the logic always seemed to lie somewhere between being bitten and not being bitten-which was, in itself, a most illogical place.
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