12-13-2020, 10:25 PM
The morning had come without incident; if only it had gone in much the same manner.
I had started my day in the same way as usual - waking with first light, visiting the stream to relieve my dry mouth, then making my rounds to find something light to keep the hunger pains at bay. The only difference in my routine this morning was that I dared taking a less travelled path, and one that I’d soon regret choosing.
Everything about the path had seemed pleasant enough at first, with its opening wide enough for me to easily maneuver and the way dawn’s light splintered in beautiful columns through the canopy. That was until I had a small misstep and realized (albeit much too late) that I hadn’t been paying near enough attention to where I was going. A large log lay strewn across the path, and had I been looking at it properly instead of the glowing, striped blooms that hung poetically from the vines above me, I would’ve noticed how rotted it was. My weight is too great a load for the hollowed lumber, and I am left to scramble for sustainable footing as the wood crumbles underfoot. Unfortunately for me, the viney limbs that curtained the path on either side are much too eager to lend a hand, and in the span of a short breath I find that my grand, antlered head is equally as eager to get entangled in them.
For how long I stood there awkwardly and alone, I am not sure, but it is not the loneliness that bothers me, because for all I know I am the only one of my kind. It is the ache in my neck from the low headset that I am stuck in, and the way my long white ears are so messily touching the ground. Frustrated, I can’t help but snarl when I give one more futile attempt at escape, but it’s no use. And with a sigh, my eyes raise to find a strange Stripe Child staring at me rather stupidly.
The poor creature looks more than a scant bit timid, but also somewhat calculating, as if he were trying to figure out how to continue along this same path somehow. Of course that would be silly; this path is much too littered with rotting wood and loose stone for such a doppy, gangly looking thing to try and endeavor and surely it would get hurt by trying. So I offer him my best, reassuring smile (unfortunately revealing all of my sharpened teeth in the process) to try to win a small bit of his trust and shake my head “No” in an obvious warning to not go any further. I’m not sure how else to communicate with the Stripe Child, so body language will have to do.
Still, he decided to come closer, in spite of my best efforts and even going so far as to thrash wildly about in an attempt to scare the boy away. <I> Oh, bless him, </i>I thought in between heavy panting episodes, abandoning all hope of chasing the kid away, <I>he must not be the brightest.</I>
But I am surprised, because the Stripe Child hadn’t wanted to move past me and further down the path, no, he wanted to<I> help</I> me. And so I am rendered into quiet obedience as the boy made quick work of the stubborn vines and branches that held me captive. With a mighty pull and heave, I am able to wrestle myself away from the last bits and for the first time in what felt like a small eternity, I am able to stand proudly upright once more. I fight the urge to cry tears of joy and instead I busy myself with offering the child a few small wags of my tail in gratitude.
For awhile we stand there, keen to impignorate ourselves to a moment of tranquility and peace to calm our raucous breathing. Of course, it takes awhile for the time to pass, but as it does, I contemplate the child’s strange dialect. What had he called me? A Fuhflah? Was that what I was to be known as? I had always referred to myself as Basil, but I supposed Basil the Fuhflah would have to do now.
When we had both settled, I moved along the path in the direction from where we had both come, opting to backtrack and take the safer, presumably longer way across the land. A crest on the hill is the perfect place to stop and turn to make sure the Stripe Child is following, now that I had that pesky sense of responsibility nagging at me to make sure I saw the boy home.
Wherever that might be.
I had started my day in the same way as usual - waking with first light, visiting the stream to relieve my dry mouth, then making my rounds to find something light to keep the hunger pains at bay. The only difference in my routine this morning was that I dared taking a less travelled path, and one that I’d soon regret choosing.
Everything about the path had seemed pleasant enough at first, with its opening wide enough for me to easily maneuver and the way dawn’s light splintered in beautiful columns through the canopy. That was until I had a small misstep and realized (albeit much too late) that I hadn’t been paying near enough attention to where I was going. A large log lay strewn across the path, and had I been looking at it properly instead of the glowing, striped blooms that hung poetically from the vines above me, I would’ve noticed how rotted it was. My weight is too great a load for the hollowed lumber, and I am left to scramble for sustainable footing as the wood crumbles underfoot. Unfortunately for me, the viney limbs that curtained the path on either side are much too eager to lend a hand, and in the span of a short breath I find that my grand, antlered head is equally as eager to get entangled in them.
For how long I stood there awkwardly and alone, I am not sure, but it is not the loneliness that bothers me, because for all I know I am the only one of my kind. It is the ache in my neck from the low headset that I am stuck in, and the way my long white ears are so messily touching the ground. Frustrated, I can’t help but snarl when I give one more futile attempt at escape, but it’s no use. And with a sigh, my eyes raise to find a strange Stripe Child staring at me rather stupidly.
The poor creature looks more than a scant bit timid, but also somewhat calculating, as if he were trying to figure out how to continue along this same path somehow. Of course that would be silly; this path is much too littered with rotting wood and loose stone for such a doppy, gangly looking thing to try and endeavor and surely it would get hurt by trying. So I offer him my best, reassuring smile (unfortunately revealing all of my sharpened teeth in the process) to try to win a small bit of his trust and shake my head “No” in an obvious warning to not go any further. I’m not sure how else to communicate with the Stripe Child, so body language will have to do.
Still, he decided to come closer, in spite of my best efforts and even going so far as to thrash wildly about in an attempt to scare the boy away. <I> Oh, bless him, </i>I thought in between heavy panting episodes, abandoning all hope of chasing the kid away, <I>he must not be the brightest.</I>
But I am surprised, because the Stripe Child hadn’t wanted to move past me and further down the path, no, he wanted to<I> help</I> me. And so I am rendered into quiet obedience as the boy made quick work of the stubborn vines and branches that held me captive. With a mighty pull and heave, I am able to wrestle myself away from the last bits and for the first time in what felt like a small eternity, I am able to stand proudly upright once more. I fight the urge to cry tears of joy and instead I busy myself with offering the child a few small wags of my tail in gratitude.
For awhile we stand there, keen to impignorate ourselves to a moment of tranquility and peace to calm our raucous breathing. Of course, it takes awhile for the time to pass, but as it does, I contemplate the child’s strange dialect. What had he called me? A Fuhflah? Was that what I was to be known as? I had always referred to myself as Basil, but I supposed Basil the Fuhflah would have to do now.
When we had both settled, I moved along the path in the direction from where we had both come, opting to backtrack and take the safer, presumably longer way across the land. A crest on the hill is the perfect place to stop and turn to make sure the Stripe Child is following, now that I had that pesky sense of responsibility nagging at me to make sure I saw the boy home.
Wherever that might be.