Here's my latest Flash Fiction Friday entry. The prompt:
Write anything under 1000 words that includes the following sentence:
The elephant found me.
For extra points, include the phrase
stinky smelly stenchuous odoriferous elephant dung
So here goes:
A Fate Postponed
I’d just fallen off a cliff—a truly death-defying fall. As a matter of fact, all my companions assumed that I hadn’t survived and went on their way. And I suppose I wouldn’t have lived much longer, but as fate would have it, the elephant found me.
I was lying there, feverishly dreaming of the gentle kisses of my One True Love, when I was awakened instead by the insistent nudges of the aforementioned pachyderm’s trunk. Or was it the stinky smelly stenchuous odoriferous elephant dung that brought me to consciousness? Either way, the dream was decidedly preferable to my waking sensations.
Now, in the book none of this actually happened; this whole plotline is a rather demented aberration from the familiar story. And in the movie, well, it was a horse and not an elephant that woke me up, but as we’re already fabricating, I might as well go for it.
So as I was being transported on the elephant’s back, I was able to formulate some plans for warfare against oliphaunt-riding Southrons. And I guess you know the rest: Helm’s Deep, the Paths of the Dead, serious battles against overwhelming odds and, ultimately, good triumphs over evil and the Age of Men is ushered in, but not without a price.
The elephant gave me only a temporary respite to play my part (although, if I do say so myself, a fairly glorious one) in the affairs of this world. And now it is time for me to succumb to my postponed fate, while my One True Love will remain awhile to contemplate the loss and loneliness of an Age that has waned and a choice made many years past.
Friday, September 22, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Five Years Ago Today
Five Years Ago Today
(Note: I know that my memories pale in comparison to anyone who actually suffered real losses, and I don’t mean to diminish in any way their stories. This is just about how 9/11 affected me.)
Five years ago today I arrived at my job at National Geographic in Washington, DC. The morning was bright, sunny, and clear, an absolutely idyllic day. I was a few minutes late to work, and oblivious of the events of the morning. I walked across the hall to the office of an editorial assistant and was just chatting in a friendly manner when she said, “have you heard?” and I said, “heard what?” She told me about the plane hitting the first tower in New York and directed me to the TV down the hall, where I watched the coverage, hypnotized, along with a number of other employees. We soon learned that a second plane had impacted the other tower, and as we remained glued to the horrifying coverage, the reporters began talking about something happening in Washington, although they didn’t know what. They just said that there was smoke visible, that apparently there was a fire somewhere and initially they thought it was in the area of the Old Executive Office Building downtown. I don’t remember how long it took them to learn that the Pentagon had been hit and report that.
I do remember, vaguely, the panic and confusion that set in when we learned that the attacks were so close to home. I called my parents, who were retired and hadn’t yet heard anything about it, and told them that I was fine but that apparently there had been three terrorist attacks and they needed to turn on the TV. I believe it was around 10:30 when we were given the word that we should all go home.
What a nightmare—the whole federal government and most of the rest of the DC workforce leaving the city in a mass exodus, never knowing what was going to hit us next. Most of the coverage was about New York City, and understandably so, since there was so much loss of life there. But we were quite affected in DC as well. I called a friend of mine who worked at the World Bank and lived at Pentagon City, just across the Interstate from the Pentagon. I knew she took the metro to work, and since the Pentagon was the Metro stop just before hers, I talked her into coming home with me because I didn’t think there was any way she could get home—roads around the Pentagon were blocked off.
It took me forever to get to her office; for that matter, it took forever to get out of the parking garage. My rush-hour commute was normally around 50 minutes, but that day it took me close to 3 hours to get back to my northern Virginia home. We were listening to the radio the whole time; I believe I was in shock and not really registering any of it. I used to drive past the Pentagon every morning on my way to work; if I’d have been a little over half an hour later I would have seen the plane hit.
By the time we were fairly close to my townhouse, my friend asked me to turn off the radio. I was a little annoyed at first, because I wanted to know what was happening. But I finally realized how affected she was; she was Portuguese by birth, raised in Mozambique when it was still a Portuguese possession, and she had lived through the revolution there, so this was bringing back all her memories of civil war. I had to pull over a few blocks from home so she could get out of the car and vomit.
When I arrived home one of my roommates came running to the door hugging me and said, “Oh there you are, you’re safe, you’re safe!” Like I said, I think I was in shock and my reaction (internally) was “of course I’m safe, I don’t work at the Pentagon, what are you hysterical about?” Although I am an emotional person, I just don’t react like that in times of stress. Anyway, like the rest of America, I remained glued to the TV for most of the remainder of that day. Sometime in the early evening we learned that I-395 had been opened up to traffic again, so I drove my friend back home. She lived in a high-rise apartment building, so we went up to the roof and watched the flames and thick black smoke pour out of the Pentagon.
The next day I returned to work, where I learned that two National Geographic employees, Ann Judge and Joe Ferguson, had been on Flight 77 that hit the Pentagon, along with a group of teachers and students they were accompanying on a field trip, of sorts. I didn’t know Ann or Joe, but many of my friends and colleagues did; one of my best friends worked in their division (Geography Education Outreach). We were all in shock. Not much work got done the remainder of that week.
The following week there was a memorial service held by NGS for Ann and Joe in a hotel across the street, because our spacious auditorium was not going to hold the number of people who wanted to attend. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for me to attend, since I didn’t know them personally, but it soon became apparent that that didn’t matter. That memorial had such an impact on me; it was beautiful, with an audiovisual presentation made with all the talent that NG has to offer, along with all the love that friends and colleagues had for them. I really felt that I’d gotten to know two remarkable people. But one of the things that affected me most deeply was that over and over again the tributes mentioned how much they loved their work, their passion for what they were doing. And I couldn’t help but think, “No one could really say that about me if this were my memorial.” And it was true. I had a job in a remarkable organization, and I really loved the people I worked with, but I didn’t love my job. I didn’t love the 9-5, and I really hated the commute. And the whole thing made me do some soul-searching.
Well, the upshot was that by the end of that year there were layoffs and I went to my supervisor and told him that if our department got hit, I’d volunteer. I knew the severance package would be good, and I could use it for another dream I had (and to pay off some debts). I ended up going to Africa the following summer; originally the plan was to teach English at a university in Mozambique, but that fell through. Instead of working there, I spent two months as a volunteer with a humanitarian organization, where I made lifelong friends and left a piece of my heart. I'll go back one day, and still work on their newsletter. I returned home, and after a series of other experiences (long-term subbing and almost going back to school for a teaching certificate), I ended up in Georgia, living w/ my parents and doing freelance work from a basement office.
A couple of years ago I went to Ground Zero in New York and the church that the firefighters had used as a sort of rest station, and last night I watched just a few minutes of a program on the firefighters on 9/11, but when they got to the part where you could hear the bodies dropping, I just couldn’t watch any more. For the most part, I haven’t watched a whole lot about it ever since that very first day, even when everyone else was still glued to the TV and radio. It happened, it was horrible, but my own processing didn’t include me wanting to understand every detail. I think I might be getting closer to wanting to go back and revisit some of it now that five years have passed. I know it didn’t happen to me; but really, it did happen to all of us.
May the families of the victims find peace.
(Note: I know that my memories pale in comparison to anyone who actually suffered real losses, and I don’t mean to diminish in any way their stories. This is just about how 9/11 affected me.)
Five years ago today I arrived at my job at National Geographic in Washington, DC. The morning was bright, sunny, and clear, an absolutely idyllic day. I was a few minutes late to work, and oblivious of the events of the morning. I walked across the hall to the office of an editorial assistant and was just chatting in a friendly manner when she said, “have you heard?” and I said, “heard what?” She told me about the plane hitting the first tower in New York and directed me to the TV down the hall, where I watched the coverage, hypnotized, along with a number of other employees. We soon learned that a second plane had impacted the other tower, and as we remained glued to the horrifying coverage, the reporters began talking about something happening in Washington, although they didn’t know what. They just said that there was smoke visible, that apparently there was a fire somewhere and initially they thought it was in the area of the Old Executive Office Building downtown. I don’t remember how long it took them to learn that the Pentagon had been hit and report that.
I do remember, vaguely, the panic and confusion that set in when we learned that the attacks were so close to home. I called my parents, who were retired and hadn’t yet heard anything about it, and told them that I was fine but that apparently there had been three terrorist attacks and they needed to turn on the TV. I believe it was around 10:30 when we were given the word that we should all go home.
What a nightmare—the whole federal government and most of the rest of the DC workforce leaving the city in a mass exodus, never knowing what was going to hit us next. Most of the coverage was about New York City, and understandably so, since there was so much loss of life there. But we were quite affected in DC as well. I called a friend of mine who worked at the World Bank and lived at Pentagon City, just across the Interstate from the Pentagon. I knew she took the metro to work, and since the Pentagon was the Metro stop just before hers, I talked her into coming home with me because I didn’t think there was any way she could get home—roads around the Pentagon were blocked off.
It took me forever to get to her office; for that matter, it took forever to get out of the parking garage. My rush-hour commute was normally around 50 minutes, but that day it took me close to 3 hours to get back to my northern Virginia home. We were listening to the radio the whole time; I believe I was in shock and not really registering any of it. I used to drive past the Pentagon every morning on my way to work; if I’d have been a little over half an hour later I would have seen the plane hit.
By the time we were fairly close to my townhouse, my friend asked me to turn off the radio. I was a little annoyed at first, because I wanted to know what was happening. But I finally realized how affected she was; she was Portuguese by birth, raised in Mozambique when it was still a Portuguese possession, and she had lived through the revolution there, so this was bringing back all her memories of civil war. I had to pull over a few blocks from home so she could get out of the car and vomit.
When I arrived home one of my roommates came running to the door hugging me and said, “Oh there you are, you’re safe, you’re safe!” Like I said, I think I was in shock and my reaction (internally) was “of course I’m safe, I don’t work at the Pentagon, what are you hysterical about?” Although I am an emotional person, I just don’t react like that in times of stress. Anyway, like the rest of America, I remained glued to the TV for most of the remainder of that day. Sometime in the early evening we learned that I-395 had been opened up to traffic again, so I drove my friend back home. She lived in a high-rise apartment building, so we went up to the roof and watched the flames and thick black smoke pour out of the Pentagon.
The next day I returned to work, where I learned that two National Geographic employees, Ann Judge and Joe Ferguson, had been on Flight 77 that hit the Pentagon, along with a group of teachers and students they were accompanying on a field trip, of sorts. I didn’t know Ann or Joe, but many of my friends and colleagues did; one of my best friends worked in their division (Geography Education Outreach). We were all in shock. Not much work got done the remainder of that week.
The following week there was a memorial service held by NGS for Ann and Joe in a hotel across the street, because our spacious auditorium was not going to hold the number of people who wanted to attend. I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate for me to attend, since I didn’t know them personally, but it soon became apparent that that didn’t matter. That memorial had such an impact on me; it was beautiful, with an audiovisual presentation made with all the talent that NG has to offer, along with all the love that friends and colleagues had for them. I really felt that I’d gotten to know two remarkable people. But one of the things that affected me most deeply was that over and over again the tributes mentioned how much they loved their work, their passion for what they were doing. And I couldn’t help but think, “No one could really say that about me if this were my memorial.” And it was true. I had a job in a remarkable organization, and I really loved the people I worked with, but I didn’t love my job. I didn’t love the 9-5, and I really hated the commute. And the whole thing made me do some soul-searching.
Well, the upshot was that by the end of that year there were layoffs and I went to my supervisor and told him that if our department got hit, I’d volunteer. I knew the severance package would be good, and I could use it for another dream I had (and to pay off some debts). I ended up going to Africa the following summer; originally the plan was to teach English at a university in Mozambique, but that fell through. Instead of working there, I spent two months as a volunteer with a humanitarian organization, where I made lifelong friends and left a piece of my heart. I'll go back one day, and still work on their newsletter. I returned home, and after a series of other experiences (long-term subbing and almost going back to school for a teaching certificate), I ended up in Georgia, living w/ my parents and doing freelance work from a basement office.
A couple of years ago I went to Ground Zero in New York and the church that the firefighters had used as a sort of rest station, and last night I watched just a few minutes of a program on the firefighters on 9/11, but when they got to the part where you could hear the bodies dropping, I just couldn’t watch any more. For the most part, I haven’t watched a whole lot about it ever since that very first day, even when everyone else was still glued to the TV and radio. It happened, it was horrible, but my own processing didn’t include me wanting to understand every detail. I think I might be getting closer to wanting to go back and revisit some of it now that five years have passed. I know it didn’t happen to me; but really, it did happen to all of us.
May the families of the victims find peace.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
FFF #3: Ordeal
This is a story for Flash Fiction Friday. Here are the rules: "Your assignment, should you chose to accept it, will be to write the very worst short story, between 750 and 1000 words, you can. Must contain at least three of the following words: putrefy, jewellery, encephalogram, aardvark, banana, and zombie. Extra points for using all of them. Cliches are nearly required, as are excessive use of adverbs, sentence fragments, run on sentences... Extra points if you include the opening phrase 'It was a dark and stormy night...'"
So here it is:
It was a dark and stormy night when my beloved received his encephalogram, which, according to freedictionary.com, is “an X ray of the brain made by replacing spinal fluid with a gas (usually oxygen) to improve contrast.” The winds howled through the alleys around the hospital, nearly drowning out the pounding of my heart, pounding, pounding like the throbbing of our loins just before we locked together in the throes of lusty passion, but this time the pounding was the beat of fear, fear for my still and silent Aloysius who lay pronely upon the hospital bed, incapable for the moment of passion (or even, really, the most basic bodily functions).
“Oh Aloysius, my inert and suffering love,” I cried, “You must not depart from me now!” as the nurses escorted me once again to the waiting room, this time threatening to physically restrain me there should I attempt to enter the lab again. “Putrefy in hell, you unfeeling harpy!” I shrieked at the last one’s back as she departed. “Have you no feelings? Have you never hovered worriedly over the unconscious form of your beloved, in hopes that calling out his name tenderly over and over would evoke a response in the deepest recesses of his heart and mind?” I emoted.
I exhorted myself to gather my emotions and comport myself as a lady of proper breeding, dabbing my eyes daintily with a hankie, reflecting pensively upon the events of that day, which had dawned serenely, never promising to yield the perilous ordeal that followed. The sun had streamed liquidly into the room as the birds chirped merrily outside as if in celebration of the wonders of love. But as I stretched and yawned and reached my hand out to rest it languidly upon the beefy physique of my man, whom I expected to be spent and still sleeping after a night of most vigorous activity, I was puzzled to discover that such physique was not present in the bed, nor in the room, nor was it in the bathroom or anywhere else in the house.
“Oh Aloysius, my dear, burly specimen of manhood, where have you gotten yourself to on this most exquisite morning?” I queried throatily, bereft and puzzled by his absence. His virile response thundered from the front yard: “I’m off to do some aardvark hunting, my love.” Far from spent, he appeared to be most invigorated—he then burst through the front door and in three quick, powerful strides arrived at my side and clasped my tiny form to his massive chest in a breath-expelling embrace, his sinews rippling and his lips seeking mine possessively like a writer seeking a bad metaphor. “But I eagerly await your greeting upon my return,” he breathed huskily as he pulled away from the kiss, his dark eyes burning like embers from the flames of last night’s passion, threatening to reignite into fresh blazes at the slightest caress of the summer breeze. As he set me back down upon my feet I felt a tug and a resistance from the pendant around my neck, and he gently requested, “Woman, kindly assist me in untangling your jewellery from my gun holster.” We successfully negotiated this minor disentanglement, ignorant of the coming catastrophe, and all too soon he was on his way, and oh how I wish we had remained entangled, never presenting me with the most awful of dilemmas!
As I tenderly watched his departure, preparing my mind for a lonely day awaiting his return, the succeeding events took a freakish turn away from the blissful and idyllic and into the realm of the horrific. As he stepped into the yard and away from the bungalow, he jauntily reached up and grabbed at a fruit in a cluster on the banana tree, which, although ripe, did not yield itself readily. I later returned and burned that tree—oh, if only it had not resisted! A battle of sorts ensued, resulting ultimately in the banana releasing itself into his hand and the lowered branch snapping back up and smiting him viciously upon the crown. My Aloysius dropped with a seemingly lifeless thud to the ground. I rushed to him, detecting a pulse and shallow, labored breathing. Our cottage was remote, hours from any medical care, and I was forced to drag him to the jeep, fueled and strengthened by adrenaline and my desperate desire to restore my love to virile manhood.
That effort alone took over an hour, and I will not describe the obstacles to my journey once I began the long drive to the nearest hospital. Ominous storm clouds were gathering and night was falling as I finally delivered him to the emergency room, and the storm finally broke, just like my grieving, fearful heart, leading to the previously described outbursts for which perhaps I may be forgiven.
When the doctor came out and broke the news to me: “I’m sorry ma’am, your, ummm, husband? has been like this for too long. We can keep him alive, but we will never be able to help him. He will be no more than a zombie to you, I fear,” I was by then past hysteria, I wept silently, a single attractive tear streaming down my cheek, as I solemnly pledged to remain by Aloysius’s side and care for him for the rest of his days. Dr. Hammond was most solicitous throughout this ordeal, and indeed has remained so in the following weeks. I do believe that he has found my dedication and vulnerability to be quite appealing. And I must confess that his reassuring presence has been most comforting, which has perhaps led me to dwell on the thought that his profile is indeed most handsome, and to ponder the possibilities of his prowess outside the realm of the medical . . .
And so to my dilemma! Naught but a plug stands between me and newfound happiness. Oh Aloysius, you wouldn’t mind, would you?
>
So here it is:
It was a dark and stormy night when my beloved received his encephalogram, which, according to freedictionary.com, is “an X ray of the brain made by replacing spinal fluid with a gas (usually oxygen) to improve contrast.” The winds howled through the alleys around the hospital, nearly drowning out the pounding of my heart, pounding, pounding like the throbbing of our loins just before we locked together in the throes of lusty passion, but this time the pounding was the beat of fear, fear for my still and silent Aloysius who lay pronely upon the hospital bed, incapable for the moment of passion (or even, really, the most basic bodily functions).
“Oh Aloysius, my inert and suffering love,” I cried, “You must not depart from me now!” as the nurses escorted me once again to the waiting room, this time threatening to physically restrain me there should I attempt to enter the lab again. “Putrefy in hell, you unfeeling harpy!” I shrieked at the last one’s back as she departed. “Have you no feelings? Have you never hovered worriedly over the unconscious form of your beloved, in hopes that calling out his name tenderly over and over would evoke a response in the deepest recesses of his heart and mind?” I emoted.
I exhorted myself to gather my emotions and comport myself as a lady of proper breeding, dabbing my eyes daintily with a hankie, reflecting pensively upon the events of that day, which had dawned serenely, never promising to yield the perilous ordeal that followed. The sun had streamed liquidly into the room as the birds chirped merrily outside as if in celebration of the wonders of love. But as I stretched and yawned and reached my hand out to rest it languidly upon the beefy physique of my man, whom I expected to be spent and still sleeping after a night of most vigorous activity, I was puzzled to discover that such physique was not present in the bed, nor in the room, nor was it in the bathroom or anywhere else in the house.
“Oh Aloysius, my dear, burly specimen of manhood, where have you gotten yourself to on this most exquisite morning?” I queried throatily, bereft and puzzled by his absence. His virile response thundered from the front yard: “I’m off to do some aardvark hunting, my love.” Far from spent, he appeared to be most invigorated—he then burst through the front door and in three quick, powerful strides arrived at my side and clasped my tiny form to his massive chest in a breath-expelling embrace, his sinews rippling and his lips seeking mine possessively like a writer seeking a bad metaphor. “But I eagerly await your greeting upon my return,” he breathed huskily as he pulled away from the kiss, his dark eyes burning like embers from the flames of last night’s passion, threatening to reignite into fresh blazes at the slightest caress of the summer breeze. As he set me back down upon my feet I felt a tug and a resistance from the pendant around my neck, and he gently requested, “Woman, kindly assist me in untangling your jewellery from my gun holster.” We successfully negotiated this minor disentanglement, ignorant of the coming catastrophe, and all too soon he was on his way, and oh how I wish we had remained entangled, never presenting me with the most awful of dilemmas!
As I tenderly watched his departure, preparing my mind for a lonely day awaiting his return, the succeeding events took a freakish turn away from the blissful and idyllic and into the realm of the horrific. As he stepped into the yard and away from the bungalow, he jauntily reached up and grabbed at a fruit in a cluster on the banana tree, which, although ripe, did not yield itself readily. I later returned and burned that tree—oh, if only it had not resisted! A battle of sorts ensued, resulting ultimately in the banana releasing itself into his hand and the lowered branch snapping back up and smiting him viciously upon the crown. My Aloysius dropped with a seemingly lifeless thud to the ground. I rushed to him, detecting a pulse and shallow, labored breathing. Our cottage was remote, hours from any medical care, and I was forced to drag him to the jeep, fueled and strengthened by adrenaline and my desperate desire to restore my love to virile manhood.
That effort alone took over an hour, and I will not describe the obstacles to my journey once I began the long drive to the nearest hospital. Ominous storm clouds were gathering and night was falling as I finally delivered him to the emergency room, and the storm finally broke, just like my grieving, fearful heart, leading to the previously described outbursts for which perhaps I may be forgiven.
When the doctor came out and broke the news to me: “I’m sorry ma’am, your, ummm, husband? has been like this for too long. We can keep him alive, but we will never be able to help him. He will be no more than a zombie to you, I fear,” I was by then past hysteria, I wept silently, a single attractive tear streaming down my cheek, as I solemnly pledged to remain by Aloysius’s side and care for him for the rest of his days. Dr. Hammond was most solicitous throughout this ordeal, and indeed has remained so in the following weeks. I do believe that he has found my dedication and vulnerability to be quite appealing. And I must confess that his reassuring presence has been most comforting, which has perhaps led me to dwell on the thought that his profile is indeed most handsome, and to ponder the possibilities of his prowess outside the realm of the medical . . .
And so to my dilemma! Naught but a plug stands between me and newfound happiness. Oh Aloysius, you wouldn’t mind, would you?
>
Thursday, September 07, 2006
FFF #2: Hunters
“Flying Eagle!” cried Fanged Wolf. “Eagle, where are you? The ceremony is about to begin!”
Flying Eagle sighed silently from his hiding place in the woods. Why wouldn’t his brother just leave him alone? But he knew that Wolf would soon track him down. He decided to let him do that rather than replying. His brother was the great hunter, after all—let him work to find his prey.
“Eagle, why didn’t you answer me?” asked Fanged Wolf as he ducked under some brush to reach his older brother’s refuge. “Hey, this is a nice spot,” he said, looking around at the mossy clearing.
Flying Eagle sighed again, this time aloud, and said, “Well, it’s not my secret spot any longer, is it? Guess I’ll have to find a new one.” “Sorry,” said Wolf, hanging his head. But then he spied some whittlings on the ground and asked, “What are you making now?”
“None of your business,” his brother told him, hiding the carving. Wolf was easily deterred this time, because he had another mission. “Please, you have to come be there with me—they’re going to start any minute now! We’ve got to hurry or we’ll be late!”
Eagle couldn’t help but smile at his younger brother. He loved him, and didn’t want to hurt him. He started to get up but grimaced at a cramp in his leg. “All right then, help me up,” he said, reaching out his hand. Fanged Wolf grinned and yanked him up, then headed back to their tribe’s gathering place at a pace his brother could not match. Eagle picked up the carving and put it in a pouch he carried on his belt. He winced as he limped along, envious of Wolf’s effortless trot. He was lame, and would never be able to participate in his first hunt as his brother was about to do. He did not understand his name, Flying Eagle—he was not even a walking man. He felt that the elders were cruel to give him a name that he could never live up to.
Tonight was the ceremony to invoke the aid of the gods on the morrow’s hunt, and he had hoped to miss it, or at least to observe unseen from the outskirts after night had fallen. He’d hoped that Wolf would be caught up in the excitement of the moment and forget about him, but he should have known better. His little brother idolized him, and he couldn’t understand why. Flying Eagle’s greatest dream was to be a mighty hunter, something that he could never be, and it seemed that all the skills of hunting came to Wolf as easily as breathing. He showed great promise, and Eagle was proud of him—but it still stung.
Later that night, after the songs and dancing were over and all had gone to sleep, Flying Eagle suddenly opened his eyes. He rolled over, caressing the carving he’d been working on earlier that afternoon. The dream had come again, but it was only a dream.
He was soaring above the trees and plains, beating strong wings, floating on updrafts, diving downwards at will, floating and circling. He could see everything for miles around, his vision sharper and clearer than it had ever been, but always he kept the running wolf in sight, his circles centered on the predator trotting through the vegetation. The wolf was not alone—others were hunting with him—but it was only with the wolf that he was bonded and connected.
He spotted something in the dense brush, upwind of the wolf and his companions. They did not see or smell it. It was an elk, alone, a great prize. He cried out and dove, down, down, but not at any prey. He dove at the wolf, who veered off from his companions, startled. As the wolf’s gaze followed him, he then rose up and began flying towards the prize. When the wolf returned to follow his companions, he again flew back and cut off the wolf’s path, then flew back towards the elk. This time, the wolf followed. When he dove at the elk with a scream and flushed him out of his hiding place, the wolf was ready, and between them they were able to chase the elk towards the wolf’s companions. Together, the group took the animal down, and claimed their prize.
He blinked rapidly to dissipate the tears that burned at the corners of his eyes, threatening to roll down his cheeks. Only a dream. He was a lame boy who could never fly. But he could carve. His fingers felt the edges of the screaming eagle on the shoulders of the fanged wolf.
********
Two days later, the hunters returned in great excitement. Fanged Wolf was given a place of honor among them—his first hunt, and he had proven himself worthy. He had flushed out the prey the others had not seen, and helped the tribe to capture a great elk that would feed many of them. He looked about him in wonderment, his eyes seeking his brother. When he found them and their eyes locked, he shouted, “My brother . . . there was an eagle . . .” Flying Eagle again blinked back tears, and when they were alone he pressed the carving into his brother’s hands.
Many years later, when the story of Flying Eagle the powerful shaman and his brother the mighty hunter had been told and retold, the carving was recreated as a giant totem to keep the Eagle and the Wolf alive in the memory of the people.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
