There it was. He found the page where The Winged Man had been slighted by a universal villain. He studied the expression on his face. It was shaded into black, on one side. There was a frown, but not one that showed weakness; rather one that showed patience. For the great need patience enough to keep them company while they await their greatness to be revealed. They must tolerate the mud slung on their faces, because in due course, the brilliance of their true self will be revealed. The boy went back to bed, to a sleep full of powerful dreams, each one a reflection of those books under his bed. His head was like the ceilings in some cheap motels; lined with several mirrors, in different shapes and colours but all mirroring the same image.
The next day, at games, the boy walked up to Billy. Billy’s friends all looked at the boy in surprise but Billy only grinned. The boy put on a frown, one that did not show weakness.
“Das darf nicht wahr sein,” the boy said in as loud a voice as he could call up from his belly. Everyone stopped playing and looked at the boy. “This cannot be true. You cannot win against me. For your victory would be a perpetual assault to the truth in human nature. We are divine when in our true elements. I will not bow to the Bal of vile ignorance. You may have won the battle but I will win the war. You can but only await your impending doom in silence.”
No one spoke a word. The boy walked away quickly, out of the playground, out of sight. Billy felt a tingle in his belly, a strong urge to burst out laughing. The other children decided they now had one person they would all avoid. And the girl of the Valentine’s Day card solemnly stared at her shoes.
Oh and the boy, when he grew up, still wore glasses.
Wednesday 17 June 2009
Monday 15 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 3)
That night, as soon as the lights in the house were turned off, the boy crawled out of bed and reached out for a book under the bed. He knew exactly what he was looking for. He turned it to the right page. It was all there, in black, white and gray. The Winged Man had his grip around the enemy. He flung the enemy around the railing of a high building. The enemy swung freely, his life depended on the grip The Winged Man had on his collar. The boy stared at the grip. He could see the veins on The Winged Man’s arms. He could see his muscles move. He could hear the throbbing of both hearts. He could smell the fear. The enemy would have to pay for what he did. The price would be his life. The Winged Man let go. The muscles in his arm relaxed. His breath grew steadier as he watched Billy fall down the building. Gravity. Death. It was all very natural. The enemy died as he hit the road below with a loud thud. Billy’s blood coloured the black tar road.
The boy wondered if there was a sequence where one of the blondes was slighted. Unfortunately there was not. So he shut the book in frustration.
He moved to the window. It was a moonless sky but the stars were aplenty. They seem so far away, he thought. Did The Winged Man ever gaze at the stars in wonder? Did Billy ever gaze at the stars in wonder? A sudden urge gripped the boy’s heart. He wanted to say something clever to Billy; something that will make Billy re-think his previous rudeness. He wanted Billy to be sorry for what he had done. He wanted the enemy to crave his friendship. Maybe something in German! German sounded so clever. What if Billy didn’t understand German? Anyone who read a lot of comics would know a least a bit of German. What if Billy never read a comic in his life? The thought made the boy’s tongue stick to the upper part of this mouth. What kind of a person never read comics? An unfortunate person, he decided. With this the primary difference between the two of them dawned upon the boy. Billy did not know The Winged Man. He felt a sense of pity for Billy.
He reached his hand under the bed again, this time pulling out an older edition. It explained how The Winged Man found his vocation. The boy took off his shirt and looked at his back in the mirror. He strained his neck to be able to see, in the mirror, the portion below his shoulder blades. He stretched his hand to feel the skin there. He also felt the protruding edge of some bone. No. There was no scar, no lump, not even a stray hair to show the start of a wing. It would never happen to him.
He looked at the book again, turning a couple of pages.
The boy wondered if there was a sequence where one of the blondes was slighted. Unfortunately there was not. So he shut the book in frustration.
He moved to the window. It was a moonless sky but the stars were aplenty. They seem so far away, he thought. Did The Winged Man ever gaze at the stars in wonder? Did Billy ever gaze at the stars in wonder? A sudden urge gripped the boy’s heart. He wanted to say something clever to Billy; something that will make Billy re-think his previous rudeness. He wanted Billy to be sorry for what he had done. He wanted the enemy to crave his friendship. Maybe something in German! German sounded so clever. What if Billy didn’t understand German? Anyone who read a lot of comics would know a least a bit of German. What if Billy never read a comic in his life? The thought made the boy’s tongue stick to the upper part of this mouth. What kind of a person never read comics? An unfortunate person, he decided. With this the primary difference between the two of them dawned upon the boy. Billy did not know The Winged Man. He felt a sense of pity for Billy.
He reached his hand under the bed again, this time pulling out an older edition. It explained how The Winged Man found his vocation. The boy took off his shirt and looked at his back in the mirror. He strained his neck to be able to see, in the mirror, the portion below his shoulder blades. He stretched his hand to feel the skin there. He also felt the protruding edge of some bone. No. There was no scar, no lump, not even a stray hair to show the start of a wing. It would never happen to him.
He looked at the book again, turning a couple of pages.
Saturday 13 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 2)
The trust only grew with time. The Winged Man did no wrong and the boy grew to depend on this quality in The Winged Man. He made a mask for his own face out of paper. He kept it hidden under his pillow at night. One never knows when one will need it. He wrote the initials (WM) in his note book. He made a scrap-book containing a flow chart of all the things The Winged Man had done so far. It was all in the right sequences. Inside his Physics text book, on the last page, he wrote ‘WM Rulez’. And the nightly rendezvous continued, by the torch light, by the moon light, as the stars gazed in amusement, a hero was born.
On Valentine’s Day, Marie who sat behind him in class gave him a card. He did not give one back to her. She was alright, but she was not blonde.
One unfortunate Thursday, Billy was bored during Games hour. Billy looked at the boy. The boy was short for his age. He had very thick glasses, owing to his cylindrical vision being week. The doctor said it was because he did not eat enough carrots. Now his mother only gave him carrots for dinner. One of the stars in the sky would have said something about too much reading in the dark, but it bit its tongue and remained silent. The boy did not care about his glasses. They would be gone by the time he grew up, he thought. It was not important. Billy kept looking at the boy. Then he spoke to the boy.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘It’s John.’
‘On?’
‘No. John, with a J.’
‘No. It’s John with a P.’
So saying Billy squeezed his water bottle right onto the boy’s trouser. A dark stain formed on the front and along his legs. Everyone was laughing. The boy did not see who was laughing but he heard. He heard Marie too. She was laughing. Women are such a waste of time, he said in his head. That evening, on the bus home, he kept thinking. What would WM have done? I know. He would have bashed Billy’s face in.
The boy did not bash Billy’s face in. He just did not.
On Valentine’s Day, Marie who sat behind him in class gave him a card. He did not give one back to her. She was alright, but she was not blonde.
One unfortunate Thursday, Billy was bored during Games hour. Billy looked at the boy. The boy was short for his age. He had very thick glasses, owing to his cylindrical vision being week. The doctor said it was because he did not eat enough carrots. Now his mother only gave him carrots for dinner. One of the stars in the sky would have said something about too much reading in the dark, but it bit its tongue and remained silent. The boy did not care about his glasses. They would be gone by the time he grew up, he thought. It was not important. Billy kept looking at the boy. Then he spoke to the boy.
‘What’s your name again?’
‘It’s John.’
‘On?’
‘No. John, with a J.’
‘No. It’s John with a P.’
So saying Billy squeezed his water bottle right onto the boy’s trouser. A dark stain formed on the front and along his legs. Everyone was laughing. The boy did not see who was laughing but he heard. He heard Marie too. She was laughing. Women are such a waste of time, he said in his head. That evening, on the bus home, he kept thinking. What would WM have done? I know. He would have bashed Billy’s face in.
The boy did not bash Billy’s face in. He just did not.
Friday 12 June 2009
The Winged Man (Part 1)
It was there, right there, on the page in front of his eyes. He strained to see in the dim light of his night torch. He crawled, book in hand. He crept closer to the window and drew the curtains. The moonlight might help him see better. He was not yet 13 years old, but he lived a hundred lives, all at that time of the night, by the light of the battery- torch. He had climbed walls, pinned down villains with his bare hands, cracked their skull with one blow, made them confess, made them repent… he had saved the day, saved the world… all by the light of that torch, he had romanced pretty blondes, broken their hearts even, all for a superior cause, a cause that was his obsession, a cause that was his all. He had done this, without moving any further than the distance between his bed and the window close by. He had done it again and again, in his head, in his soul and through what he saw on those pages. He had a copy of every single edition ever published. His personal savior ‘The Winged Man’ had won again. He was right now on the terrace of a sky scraper, his cloak flying in the moon-lit breeze, holding his enemy by the neck. His enemy was the enemy of the world. The Winger Man was doing his duty.
John had been in this relationship with The Winged Man for about a year now. Since it started, it took over his life bit by bit. First it was the waiting for every new edition, the impatience, the longing, then it became compulsive, once he got the new edition he would read till it was over, on the bus to school, in the bath, in class, in place of his home work, even while he was playing rugby. He would just be reading. Once he had read it through, he would keep thinking about it, live and re-live it in his mind. It was like a song playing in his head. Then he would dream about it, while he was sleeping and while he was not. He would add to what he had read, fill in the gaps, with his own imagination. He would make explanations for the past and predict the future.
It was that face, always in his eyes, the masked face. No one had seen The Winged Man without the mask but the boy had. For we are not born with a mask on our faces. We make one along the way. To hide the pain, the embarrassment, the insecurities. To unlock the power within, the naked animal power, the power for cruelty.
Right now, by the window, he read again, what he had read a hundred times before, on that same page. He ran his palm along the page. The feel of coarse paper sent a tingle down his back. The put his head down, the smell of print went through his nostrils to the bowels of his being. The Winged Man would never fail. He was born to win.
John had been in this relationship with The Winged Man for about a year now. Since it started, it took over his life bit by bit. First it was the waiting for every new edition, the impatience, the longing, then it became compulsive, once he got the new edition he would read till it was over, on the bus to school, in the bath, in class, in place of his home work, even while he was playing rugby. He would just be reading. Once he had read it through, he would keep thinking about it, live and re-live it in his mind. It was like a song playing in his head. Then he would dream about it, while he was sleeping and while he was not. He would add to what he had read, fill in the gaps, with his own imagination. He would make explanations for the past and predict the future.
It was that face, always in his eyes, the masked face. No one had seen The Winged Man without the mask but the boy had. For we are not born with a mask on our faces. We make one along the way. To hide the pain, the embarrassment, the insecurities. To unlock the power within, the naked animal power, the power for cruelty.
Right now, by the window, he read again, what he had read a hundred times before, on that same page. He ran his palm along the page. The feel of coarse paper sent a tingle down his back. The put his head down, the smell of print went through his nostrils to the bowels of his being. The Winged Man would never fail. He was born to win.
Saturday 6 June 2009
Cool Waters (Part 4)
The girl would wait all day, suffer the mundane routine of life, only so she could at nightfall escape to this other secret world where she would meet the woman she wanted to be. She began to wonder if this woman was a princess of some sort, for she wore such beautiful clothes. She knew there were no princesses; we lived in a democracy, didn’t we? Yet that feeling that all that was taken for fact in the real world did not make sense in the world that the Woman was a part of.
During the day, the girl would busy herself making little baubles she could take to the woman. She would cut up bits of coloured paper and make flowers out of them. She would stitch bits of cloth together to make bunting. She would think of clever things to say to her. None of these really pleased the woman, who remained aloof even while she was polite. The girl tried not to be dismayed. She told herself, it is understandable that this princess would not like my paper flowers for they give no fragrance. My bunting is untidy and the things I say are, after all, childish. I must not worry, for, with time I will speak like this lady does; with politeness and restrain.
Finally one night as the two of them stayed by the cool waters, the woman seemed lost in thoughts. The girl had never seen her pensive and she was amazed. So the princess was capable of worry as well! Who could have guessed! The moon rays fell on the water and the ripples looked like stringed pearls. The queen of pearls herself sat on the swing and stared at her own reflection. ‘What is the matter?’ the girl asked in a low, scared voice, ‘Is something bothering you?’ The woman looked up and looked straight into the little girl’s eyes. ‘I want to ask you something’, she said at length, ‘Why do come here little one? Why do come see me?’ The girl blushed. How was she to put into words the truth? How do you tell someone that you admire them more them anything else in this world? How do you tell someone you want to be them? What if you are too scared to speak? ‘I like you,’ the girl managed to lisp. The woman laughed. I will laugh like that someday, girl said to herself. ‘You like me?’ the woman echoed, ‘How wonderful!’ Why was she behaving like she did not know that. Had it not been obvious from the start? ‘How much do you like me, little one?’ The girl looked up and stopped blushing. How could she answer that? She loved her a lot, but how much was a lot. She remained silent. The woman spoke again, ‘Do you love me enough to do anything for me, little one?’ The girl wanted to nod. She wanted to say something in the affirmative. She wanted to assure the woman that she would even die for her? Would she? She remained silent. ‘Then listen to me,’ said the woman, ‘If you like me, bring me something dear to you. Bring me something you cannot do without. Not these bits of paper or these rags of cloth. Bring me… bring me your father.’ The girl shuddered inside. ‘Go then. Do as I say, if you like me.’
The girl got up and walked away. She walked in even, gradual steps. She did not run like she always did. She walked as if she were old. She did not turn back to look, not once. She went back home to her own bed. After that night, she never went back to see the woman. Every night she slept in her own bed, a dreamless sleep, peaceful and content. She did not think of the woman, not once.
Sometimes the girl would be very bored again. Then, she would play with other children or complain about how she did not like tennis or cricket. Sometimes she would read books, but only books without pictures. She was happy, at least as happy as most of us. Sometimes she was sad, but no matter how sad she was, she never went back to the cool waters, not once.
***
During the day, the girl would busy herself making little baubles she could take to the woman. She would cut up bits of coloured paper and make flowers out of them. She would stitch bits of cloth together to make bunting. She would think of clever things to say to her. None of these really pleased the woman, who remained aloof even while she was polite. The girl tried not to be dismayed. She told herself, it is understandable that this princess would not like my paper flowers for they give no fragrance. My bunting is untidy and the things I say are, after all, childish. I must not worry, for, with time I will speak like this lady does; with politeness and restrain.
Finally one night as the two of them stayed by the cool waters, the woman seemed lost in thoughts. The girl had never seen her pensive and she was amazed. So the princess was capable of worry as well! Who could have guessed! The moon rays fell on the water and the ripples looked like stringed pearls. The queen of pearls herself sat on the swing and stared at her own reflection. ‘What is the matter?’ the girl asked in a low, scared voice, ‘Is something bothering you?’ The woman looked up and looked straight into the little girl’s eyes. ‘I want to ask you something’, she said at length, ‘Why do come here little one? Why do come see me?’ The girl blushed. How was she to put into words the truth? How do you tell someone that you admire them more them anything else in this world? How do you tell someone you want to be them? What if you are too scared to speak? ‘I like you,’ the girl managed to lisp. The woman laughed. I will laugh like that someday, girl said to herself. ‘You like me?’ the woman echoed, ‘How wonderful!’ Why was she behaving like she did not know that. Had it not been obvious from the start? ‘How much do you like me, little one?’ The girl looked up and stopped blushing. How could she answer that? She loved her a lot, but how much was a lot. She remained silent. The woman spoke again, ‘Do you love me enough to do anything for me, little one?’ The girl wanted to nod. She wanted to say something in the affirmative. She wanted to assure the woman that she would even die for her? Would she? She remained silent. ‘Then listen to me,’ said the woman, ‘If you like me, bring me something dear to you. Bring me something you cannot do without. Not these bits of paper or these rags of cloth. Bring me… bring me your father.’ The girl shuddered inside. ‘Go then. Do as I say, if you like me.’
The girl got up and walked away. She walked in even, gradual steps. She did not run like she always did. She walked as if she were old. She did not turn back to look, not once. She went back home to her own bed. After that night, she never went back to see the woman. Every night she slept in her own bed, a dreamless sleep, peaceful and content. She did not think of the woman, not once.
Sometimes the girl would be very bored again. Then, she would play with other children or complain about how she did not like tennis or cricket. Sometimes she would read books, but only books without pictures. She was happy, at least as happy as most of us. Sometimes she was sad, but no matter how sad she was, she never went back to the cool waters, not once.
***
Friday 5 June 2009
Cool Waters (Part 3)
‘The girl stayed by the cool waters all night. At daybreak, she hurried home, for she did not want anyone to panic on not finding her. She did not want them to know her secret. She pretended all was as usual. She pretended she was still bored but every thought in her head throughout the day focused on that beautiful sight. She wanted to be that woman. She was determined about it now. She wanted to call that woman her sister, her elder sister, to pretend they were born of the same womb, to pretend they were related. That would have made it so much easier to grow up to be like her. But she dared not call her that. She might upset her. She could not risk that.
‘The next night, she waited till all the world was in bed. She crept out of her home while the crickets prayed. She ran all the way to the cool waters, her instincts guiding her along the way, to the dream where the breeze was gentle and the sky silver. The woman would be there, with the dazzling eyes and the smile that never reached her eyes.
‘‘May I plait your hair?’ the girl would ask and the woman would smile politely, ‘Of course.’ The girl would need all the strength in her tender arms to gather that thick long hair. She would use all her ideas to make order in that mass of silk, but she would fail miserably. The hair was too heavy, too thick and too strong for her little arms. The woman would laugh pleasantly. ‘Let me show you how,’ she would say patiently, and with one movement of her long arms she would gather up all of the hair in her hands and twist it into a long snake like plait. ‘Fetch me some flowers’, she whispered to the girl who was more than excited to be of some use. The girl ran around looking for the prettiest, most delicate of flowers and brought them to the woman. The woman would put each flower to her nose before she decided if they were worthy of her hair. Many were rejected and put aside. Some were lucky enough to get wound into her dark hair. They glittered like the stars in a dark night sky. The best pick of them all was a full- blossomed rose, blood red and with a velvety texture. This the girl cradled in the palm of her hand with utmost care while she presented it to the woman. Surely she would receive a glance of admiration from the lady for having picked a flower as rare as that. But the lady picked up the flower with callousness, crumpled its petals and blew them into the cool waters. The little girl gasped in disappointment but the woman only laughed her eyes still on those red petals that floated on the water.
‘The next night, she waited till all the world was in bed. She crept out of her home while the crickets prayed. She ran all the way to the cool waters, her instincts guiding her along the way, to the dream where the breeze was gentle and the sky silver. The woman would be there, with the dazzling eyes and the smile that never reached her eyes.
‘‘May I plait your hair?’ the girl would ask and the woman would smile politely, ‘Of course.’ The girl would need all the strength in her tender arms to gather that thick long hair. She would use all her ideas to make order in that mass of silk, but she would fail miserably. The hair was too heavy, too thick and too strong for her little arms. The woman would laugh pleasantly. ‘Let me show you how,’ she would say patiently, and with one movement of her long arms she would gather up all of the hair in her hands and twist it into a long snake like plait. ‘Fetch me some flowers’, she whispered to the girl who was more than excited to be of some use. The girl ran around looking for the prettiest, most delicate of flowers and brought them to the woman. The woman would put each flower to her nose before she decided if they were worthy of her hair. Many were rejected and put aside. Some were lucky enough to get wound into her dark hair. They glittered like the stars in a dark night sky. The best pick of them all was a full- blossomed rose, blood red and with a velvety texture. This the girl cradled in the palm of her hand with utmost care while she presented it to the woman. Surely she would receive a glance of admiration from the lady for having picked a flower as rare as that. But the lady picked up the flower with callousness, crumpled its petals and blew them into the cool waters. The little girl gasped in disappointment but the woman only laughed her eyes still on those red petals that floated on the water.
Thursday 4 June 2009
Cool Waters (part 2)
‘And on that heavenly swing sat the most beautiful creature the girl had ever seen. She might have called it a fairy or a goddess even… but she did not believe in the existence of these. So she had to settle for calling her a woman, but mere woman are never as beautiful as that!
She was shapely and he skin looks as smooth as butter. She had very long hair that hung along her back like a curtain of silk. The girl was spell- bound. She watched this apparition swing calmly, back and forth; back and forth… the only sound was of her feet gently touching the cool waters each time. The word beautiful fell short of describing the sight. The girl could have stood there, gazing, for the rest of her life, had she not noticed the woman had turned and was now looking at her. Their eyes met and the girl turned her eyes away. She was afraid.
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked. Her voice was like a wind- chime in a far away temple. The girl swallowed. ‘I, er, am, er, I am a girl who lives close by… or far away, where these woods end, or start even. I just wandered in for water, no, I wasn’t looking for water. I am not thirsty. Actually I am.’
The woman laughed, a clear laugh, from her throat and not her belly. She smiled but it never reached her eyes. Her eyes shone like jewels. ‘You are funny’, she said to the girl. The girl blushed. That was a good thing, was it not? To be funny was good. ‘But don’t worry,’ said the woman, ‘You are young now, but you will grow up some day. Then you will be a pretty girl, like me.’
The little girl felt a sharp pain in her stomach. That was it! She knew it right then. The woman had said the very thing she had been thinking. She wanted to be like this woman. In fact, that was all she wanted. This lady had it all. She was beautiful, calm, wise and well- spoken. That was what everyone wanted to be. That was what she wanted to be. To realize this gave the little girl immense courage. She spoke up, ‘May I stay here with you for a while?’ ‘Of course you may’, said the woman politely, ‘You can stay as long as you want.’ Just the right thing to say, the girl observed, just the right way to say it too. This woman was perfect…
She was shapely and he skin looks as smooth as butter. She had very long hair that hung along her back like a curtain of silk. The girl was spell- bound. She watched this apparition swing calmly, back and forth; back and forth… the only sound was of her feet gently touching the cool waters each time. The word beautiful fell short of describing the sight. The girl could have stood there, gazing, for the rest of her life, had she not noticed the woman had turned and was now looking at her. Their eyes met and the girl turned her eyes away. She was afraid.
‘Who are you?’ the woman asked. Her voice was like a wind- chime in a far away temple. The girl swallowed. ‘I, er, am, er, I am a girl who lives close by… or far away, where these woods end, or start even. I just wandered in for water, no, I wasn’t looking for water. I am not thirsty. Actually I am.’
The woman laughed, a clear laugh, from her throat and not her belly. She smiled but it never reached her eyes. Her eyes shone like jewels. ‘You are funny’, she said to the girl. The girl blushed. That was a good thing, was it not? To be funny was good. ‘But don’t worry,’ said the woman, ‘You are young now, but you will grow up some day. Then you will be a pretty girl, like me.’
The little girl felt a sharp pain in her stomach. That was it! She knew it right then. The woman had said the very thing she had been thinking. She wanted to be like this woman. In fact, that was all she wanted. This lady had it all. She was beautiful, calm, wise and well- spoken. That was what everyone wanted to be. That was what she wanted to be. To realize this gave the little girl immense courage. She spoke up, ‘May I stay here with you for a while?’ ‘Of course you may’, said the woman politely, ‘You can stay as long as you want.’ Just the right thing to say, the girl observed, just the right way to say it too. This woman was perfect…
Tuesday 2 June 2009
Cool Waters (part 1)
Then one night, it was too warm to go to bed, so Amuma and I sat in the veranda. I was fanning her as she began to tell me this story.
‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl just like you. She was your age and your height as well. She was prone to getting bored all the time. Her parents would buy her books but she only wanted ones with pictures in them. They would buy her clothes but she only wanted ones with frills in them. They would buy her tennis rackets and cricket bats but she disliked them. They found her hard to please and unhappy. No one could entertain her for very long. So they all gave up.
‘So there she sat, bored and neglected. She knew she would have to entertain herself as all else had failed. So one evening, about this time of the night, she began to walk around her garden. Before she knew it she had walked a distance and into unknown woods. Now she was unafraid. So she walked on till she came to a clearing where there was a cool pool of water. The night was warm, like this night is. The air was light and a slight breeze flowed. The sight of water made her thirsty and she stooped for a drink.
‘The woods are a dangerous place, little one. Even as unafraid as you are, some fears are defenses. But the little one knew no fears. Blessed are the fearless, yet I would not want to be them. So she stooped for a drink and she felt a ripple in the water even before she had touched it. She saw feet, one pair touching the surface of the water, and another, it’s reflection in the water. She saw a swing, made of rope and wood, tied to the branch of a tree that passed over the waters. The rope on both sides of the swing was covered in flowers, elaborately and artistically…
‘Once upon a time, there was a little girl just like you. She was your age and your height as well. She was prone to getting bored all the time. Her parents would buy her books but she only wanted ones with pictures in them. They would buy her clothes but she only wanted ones with frills in them. They would buy her tennis rackets and cricket bats but she disliked them. They found her hard to please and unhappy. No one could entertain her for very long. So they all gave up.
‘So there she sat, bored and neglected. She knew she would have to entertain herself as all else had failed. So one evening, about this time of the night, she began to walk around her garden. Before she knew it she had walked a distance and into unknown woods. Now she was unafraid. So she walked on till she came to a clearing where there was a cool pool of water. The night was warm, like this night is. The air was light and a slight breeze flowed. The sight of water made her thirsty and she stooped for a drink.
‘The woods are a dangerous place, little one. Even as unafraid as you are, some fears are defenses. But the little one knew no fears. Blessed are the fearless, yet I would not want to be them. So she stooped for a drink and she felt a ripple in the water even before she had touched it. She saw feet, one pair touching the surface of the water, and another, it’s reflection in the water. She saw a swing, made of rope and wood, tied to the branch of a tree that passed over the waters. The rope on both sides of the swing was covered in flowers, elaborately and artistically…
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