Puddle: A Tale for the Curious

by Elena "Birch" Bozzi

  I thought of all the lawns that grew in the desert because somebody came along and said grass was supposed to look nicer than native plants and rocks. I thought of new golf courses there that provided pleasure, as well as humidity that slowly destroyed the balance of homeostasis.

  I thought of all the times we fought nature. Did we think we were smarter than the cycles that had supported life for far longer than we could truly comprehend? Did we think we were stronger, or our needs came first? Were we so removed from the roots that sustained life? Had we thought our individual choices wouldn't make a difference? Did we hope someone else was dealing with it?

  What happened when the voice of the earth was ignored? Perhaps it was ignored for so long that it was lost forever. Perhaps not. I wondered how many people would have to listen before the land woke up again. I sat back to hear the wind, and hoped it would tell me its secrets.

  *~*

  One Wreet was known for wandering away, alone. It didn’t care about the Purpose. It saw the Purpose as the enemy, as an offensive world of fences that blocked it from realizing its potential. This Wreet wanted to fly. It watched the birds among the branches. It could not hear, but it felt the songs resonate within its dirt-filled body. The words were simple, direct, honest. The Wreet wished for feathers rather than grasses. Feathers could fly. It pleated its grasses together to simulate feathers, but that was a gravitational failure. It kept trying, just in case.

  It picked its way toward the tallest rock it could see. A falcon flew by and noticed a disturbance in the sea of grass. The raptor circled around, and swooped down on our Wreet. The talons would have broken the Wreet’s back, had it had bones. Instead of bones, Wreets had an aggregate inner structure that reformed with adequate water and compost. This was a healthy Wreet, so the talons only slightly squished its body.

  The bird realized it held an inedible clump of dirt, and dropped its fare. The Wreet did indeed fulfill its dream of flying, for a moment before crashing into a butterfly bush.

  “What is this?” asked the whisper voice of the shrub. “Oh, grasses.”

  The shrub shook itself and noticed the mobile nature of the Wreet. The Wreet jumped branch to branch down, and stared at the shrub. It thought it was the only cognizant plant matter around. The shrub stared back.

  *~*

  Puddle and I listened to the wind atop the tor. It didn’t tell us any secrets. We watched a bird swoop then drop something. The something fell into a shrub and scattered a handful of butterflies. The something wiggled itself free. We went to check if it was hurt.

  Some grass was staring at the butterfly bush when we climbed down.

  It turned to stare at us.

  “Did you see that?” rasped the shrub, with a voice like butterfly wings on a chalkboard.

  I bent down as eye level to the clump of grass as I could guess. It raised rooty eyes to me. At least, they seemed to be eyes. The creature was sort of shaped like a fish, scaled in grasses, with a hooked bird-like beak. I couldn’t tell if it had talons or root legs.

  “What are you?” I asked. I held out my hand. It hobbled onto my palm and I looked at it with smiles in my eyes. Its own eyes seemed mostly useless, but it apparently could tell I meant it no harm. It sniffed around my arm, clicked its beak in my direction, and wandered off.

  “That was cute,” I remarked.

  “Do you think it lost its herd, or do you think those things are solitary creatures?” asked Puddle.

  “Duno. Want to follow it?”

  “I really want to make a fort.”

  “Let’s go back to the forest then.”

  *~*

  Lavender aroma swam through the air like fish. Air fish would be appropriate for this setting, but they were absent because their scent would have overpowered the lavender. Nimupara was careful about ambiance.

  The leaves of the impossible tree that grew in Nimupara’s grotto gave off their own light. They reflected like distant galaxies in the rainbow pools that sat among the roots. Each pool opened a window to another world. Rainbows leapt from the liquid windows and danced along the walls.

  Time had no meaning in Nimupara’s grotto. The Undoel’ough Mountains that held the Hruun Dae springs were just a shallow-sea dream when Nimupara first found her space. Plate tectonics happened outside. Nimupara altered what she needed to inside, in order to keep her space balanced. Her grotto would remain timeless after their sun stretched its final stretch, and engulfed their world in its nuclear fusioned death.

  To Nimupara, interruptions were the bane of all existence. She focused her attention the way a magnifying glass focused sunshine. The smashing power of interruptions left shards of thought all over the stone floor. One would need shoes to walk around. Nimupara didn’t like blind feet.

  Thus, her grotto was invitation only.

  Though the gate was closed to any uninvited inquisitors, she had a certain understanding with Beppu, the elder turtle, and Caht. Only those two ancient friends were gifted unimpeded entry to her grotto. They minded their own business well enough.

  Beppu was a hatchling when she first stumbled inside. Nimupara created the mud bath pool that soothed her knobby skin, and energized her to swim through the worlds. The turtle had business to deal with in many places, and Nimupara’s observations helped guide her.

  Caht had his way of walking through walls. He barely bothered with the portals directly, and always came with news, and stories. He would appear like the first stars of evening, winking into existence behind her ankles, prowl fallen leaves, and be gone like the morning mist.

  Nimupara’s grotto was a place of transformations. Her pools were filled with healing waters, mixed with sap from the impossible tree. The pools were windows to other worlds, and the power of her concentrated attention and intentional love sent soothing ripples to the places she watched.

  Not only did the healing properties of pure observation and love assuage strife, it precipitated solutions. Living and nonliving affairs were complex webs full of patterns. Her studies untangled those strings. She connected the scatter plot points of life on the Cartesian coordinate plane of existence, then whispered her findings through the windows.

  The watching of worlds had been her choice. Nimupara had once been a part of a society that valued quickness. If she had a small monetary unit for every time someone told her to hurry, she would have refused them all in order to spend her time watching buds open or ants walking in wiggling lines while they carried leafy bits much larger than themselves.

  So she created her observatory of pools, and kept journals of her observations for reference. Her insight had become so keen that she could usually read inner monologues.

  Nimupara watched the Neptune-blue pool. The two she had asked Caht to invite to her home observed a Wreet. She hoped they would have observed it further, but they went off to do something else.

  She took a jar of mint leaves from a nook she had carved in one of the walls of rock. She went about making a cup of tea, while wishing everyone worked on her timeline. She could only do so much. She could read their minds. It would be nice if they could read hers. She would try to arrange another meeting.

  Nimupara turned back to the pool, and watched the two youths build something out of sticks.

  *~*

  Puddle and I found a corner of the forest. We leaned sticks against other sticks, and played with physics until we built something that could be considered a fort. We sat in our new home, then knocked it over, before wandering to help the Apples with a zucchini pizza feast.

  Later, we found ourselves in the Cedar grove. Their lacy leaves held constellations made by the evening sun.

  We asked them about language, and how all the trees spoke with their own voices. At the same time, their voices together sounded like listening to the forest. We wondered how they kept everything straight, like who was talking with whom. We wondered if it was rude if a tree talked over another tree, or how the quiet ones got their voices heard.

  The Ced
ars shared a story.

  ~

  At the dawn of time we were One. We lived our cycles, shared our space, and loved our thoughts. Before the fire, floods and ice, before our Doom was called upon us, we were One.

  We were peaceful. We were tranquil as a glass pond, yet still passionate about all our endeavors. Each of us shined with divine light and love, clear as crystals. We were balanced.

  Our best and most useful feature was not in our beauty or our actions. It was our minds. Or, it should be referred to as our mind, singular. What one knew, the entire tribe knew. Our tribe included anyone with the ability to think. You would be surprised as to what has the capability to think. We spoke with animals, herbs, rocks, wind. Words were unnecessary, uninvented, and would have been a nuisance. Thoughts were thoughts, and every one of us could access that infinite cloud easily as a warble warbles.

  Harmony reigned, and we were truly One.

  But, of course, nothing lasts forever.

  There was one, born of a wrong moment, who succeeded in breaking that bond. This one found the ability to shield thoughts. We still had to communicate, but many thoughts were now hidden. Our reasons for hiding thoughts began to vary. More thoughts became hidden. Yet, we needed to communicate.

  In time, this conundrum brought about speech.

  That invented monstrosity sucked in followers. Soon, before we knew what was happening, or thought of how to stop it, that evil force grew to the point that even the most unwilling of us put up walls to our minds. We experienced reverse evolution, brought about by the stubbornness of the mind. Greed, jealousy, and hate took over to try to abate the hunger caused by our separation.

  Worst of all, we encountered misunderstanding.

  Instead of our connection through love and full communication, we connected through fear.

  We were closed, and our bond was forever shattered.

  Since then, we have returned to some semblance of what we were. Trees have worked for eons to break down our mind walls and communicate as forests. Our minds connect, though the complete bond is rare.

  When it does happen, we hold a power, a magic, a strength stronger than the most powerful piece of artillery the universe has ever seen. Pure understanding, pure love.

  ~

  “Is that why we hear different tones when you speak?” I asked.

  “Even before, we spoke with different tones because we each had our own voice and our own mind. Our thoughts were shared.”

  “You didn’t have secrets. Spoiler alerts everywhere.”

  Puddle said, “When I work through an idea, usually I have a bunch of less helpful thought strands that get me there. Would those distract from the main thought, if they were all floating around in the same cloud?”

  “Puddle, you and I tried listening to everything right before we waterjumped to get here. You said it gets loud. Would those extra thought strands cause that noise?”

  “That is why we are still working through the logistics of how it was done,” Cedar said. “We lost a lot because of language, and are still recovering.”

  “Language shapes the way we think,” said Puddle. “I use dust from my planet to bridge languages. It makes translations quicker. At the same time, it has allowed me to study words and the way we put them together. If we still spoke with Oneness, would that avenue to shape our ideas be lost?”

  “It’s like my choice to stay on Earth, or waterjump. I would miss experiences either way.”

  “Saplings, you make a powerful point.”

  “So do you,” I said. “Misunderstanding has been the cause of so much pain. Hidden thoughts hurt the hider and the one from whom they’re hidden.”

  “They can cause pain when they are aired as well,” said Puddle. “At the same time, they can place you on a path to understanding.”

  “Understanding protects our lives,” Cedar said. “Compassion allows us to live peacefully. We know a Universal Dance of Peace honoring that if you are interested.”

  We danced and sang among the trees. Our muscles warmed to the movements as forethought to the gathering that evening.

  The sunset constellations between the leaves faded, and star constellations showed themselves. I thought of how it was up to us to make meaningful stories with the points of lights in the night sky. Language was like the stars. The universe existed without our meaning. It was up to us to create constellations so we could talk about it.

  *~*

  Though not fully full, the waxing moon shed silver light over the land. Fireflies sparked in and out of golden sight like stars.

  The drumbeat started slow and low. One beat after the other. They left footprints on my heart. They counted seconds not made of time. They counted a primal present where all that mattered was the now that demanded your attention. My bare toes massaged the sandy loam as the drums massaged my soul. I felt my limbs sway like a breeze. The fire cracked. The beat stepped up. My feet swirled in the sand and took their first stomps.

  I sidled along the circumference. The fire blazed with added sticks. My feet flew with the beat, steps wide and fierce. Each stomp released muscles until my limbs became the surf on the ocean’s shore, rolling in the air, solid and light as clouds.

  I orbited the fire, gaining heat and speed. All heaviness in my heart glowed orange and singed as it flaked away, transformed. I leapt and spun. My fingers wove a story of ashes and renewal.

  A predator inside my mind whispered that my steps were silly. It hissed that the trees were watching. And judging. It scoffed and asked who I thought I was to move around the fire, heart full of flames and passion. It asked how I possibly thought I was worth anything. That I was worth happiness. That I could do anything but blunder. Why should I ignite my darkness? Its laughter was a cudgel to my stomach. I broke in half like a dried twig.

  My broken pieces rolled on the ground. The dancing trees kicked them with their roots. Dust filled the cracks that I put in my heart, each from a time I told myself I wasn’t good enough. Each game when everyone else was picked before me cracked my skin. Each blank stare that held the word weirdo tugged my muscles like gravity. Each cruel joke that wasn’t really funny put a tiny hole in my lungs so the air would escape. Each message that I wasn’t good enough scratched an ulcer in my stomach.

  Every smile I gave when someone took advantage of me, confiscating my time or energy or else, because I wasn’t sure how to respond, or they were sly enough to make me think it was my idea, that it was what I wanted, nicked my jugular. Every time I stayed small, scared, and safe rather than show my true heart slashed at my spine.

  My broken pieces covered themselves in dust, and rolled into the fire, one by one. My skin and sinews bubbled and burned away. My organs and tissues evaporated. The fire scorched the predator that stole my strength and told me I was endlessly wrong. Its stench lingered a moment like a rotten cat fart, before a breeze came to waft it away.

  Only my bones were left. My structure. My unbreakable deepest self. I walked through the fire, and picked up each bone. This one was for my creativity. This one for my sense of justice. This for my listening ears, and this for speaking through my heart. There was one for intentional community, one for purposeful isolation. I chose a sturdy one for intuition, and another for observation. I piled up ones for weirdnesses that I loved, and ones for peculiarities.

  Some bones had holes from being ignored so long. I caked them with dust, and wet them with tears. My bones dried stronger than ever.

  I stacked them up, each in its place. Once they were settled, I sat in the moonlight and sang my truth to my bones. It started as a whisper of a hum that tumbled over my teeth and through my ribs. I felt the words, though my song was clumsy as all the times I sang with the radio before being anywhere near sure of the lyrics. But it worked.

  Muscles stretched like ribbons. Fascia oozed from the meaning of my song. New flesh, which looked exactly like my old flesh, covered my body. I was whole. And tired.

  I stumbled through the forest and in
to unconsciousness, like a skipping stone into a pond.

  *~*

  I awoke in a sea of moss. At a distant glance, moss was a most comfortable bed. Up close, it was full of tiny pokey sticks and ants. Nonetheless, my body felt renewed. I crept off the moss as tenderly as a butterfly kiss to avoid crushing it further, and went to find Puddle.

  A trail led to the river. I liked trails. They kept my feet from clodhopping all over anything small trying to grow, or nests built on the ground. The morning was warm, and the water tickled my toes as I walked upstream to find Puddle stretching near the bridge. I joined him. He hadn’t been worried about me wandering off the night before. The trees were watching out enough.

  “Want to try telepathy?” Puddle asked in the middle of a triangle pose.

  “Sure,” I said as I stretched out in a crescent moon. It was a good morning to try things.

  “After the story last night, Cedar was explaining a way we could practice sending and reading thoughts.”

  “We would go beyond the hindrances of language,” I said. “We could create complete understanding. We wouldn’t be able to hide. How frightening.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Yes. Still, what if, for example, I had thoughts you didn’t agree with. What if you shunned me?”

  “You would rather hide your thoughts than risk me getting upset?”

  “Well, no, but..”

  “I will listen from a place of love, with a desire to understand. Is that reassuring?”

  “Maybe. What if I have embarrassing thoughts? What if you have embarrassing thoughts that I have to then deal with?”

  “Put aside the uncomfortable middle moment. Would you feel better or worse after our thoughts became clear?”

  “Yes. No. Both? It probably takes a lot of practice and being open to the idea to get to that point.”