by Brian Heiar, 3 April 2004
Declamation
Most of the ideas in this tale were first thought up while Scott and I had lunch one day in February when spring was first peeking out from winter’s shadow. Things were not going well for me at that time, but thankfully there was a brighter than usual glimmer of hope that day. So thank you Scott.
To use a cliché, it’s probably my most personal work to date, so I hope you like it. Upon first reflection, it struck me as an innocent mix of C.S. Lewis and Kafka, or at least as innocent as such a mix can be.
I hope everyone enjoys this tale, and doesn’t think too much about it, for I’m not really sure what it says about me but it was fun writing it!
And finally, thanks to my technical advisor, Kiki, who really knows about hookers.
Waking Up From the Dream of the Fox
Once again, the crimson fox was running through my dreams. Through a fog-enshrouded forest, she ran from me, red tail waving wildly as she became lost in the mist. Beguiling laughter trailed from her tongue, and I thought I heard, “You’re no longer my mane man…leave me be,” as she disappeared.
Pacing nervously in the clearing, I caught the scents of moss, trees, fungus, and not much else. The encircling fog grew thicker and darker, and gradually a familiar decaying stench mixed with the smells of the forest announced the arrival of another member of my dream theater. Baring my teeth, I prepared myself for their assault. The demons were on their way.
Like a thousand out of tune trumpets blaring an annoying symphony, the alarm clock threatened to screech me into consciousness…at least until I pawed at the snooze button. Half-conscious but fully prepared to lazily sleep the day away until hunger made me hungry enough to rise and hunt, I ignored the unsettling dream and the lateness of the hour. More troubled dreams would surely have followed had I not snarled and turned over, head faced toward the door of my humble abode, and the open windows of the living room.
Wafting in from outside, the scent of a rose tickled and danced in my nostrils.
“A rose?” I groggily asked myself. “How can this be?” The aphids had already done their insidious work to my latest attempt at rose gardening. Still, if by chance a bloom had survived, I didn’t want to miss it.
Putting thoughts of the crimson fox and resultant demons from my mind, I pounced out of bed, padding my way softly towards the door. Trotting past the bathroom, I glanced quickly at the mirror, yawned, opening my mouth into a full mock-roar, and shook myself from head to tail after seeing how disheveled my golden mane was. I turned and grabbed a brush, gave my golden locks the once-over, and crept up to the door, stopping only to lap some water from my bowl next to the couch.
Now, you may feel like asking why is a lion living in a house, and how does he expect to open a door, but I promise you as king of beasts I know much more about this than you, though we may permit an audience afterwards to attend to some of your concerns.
So, I opened the door and in my exuberance nearly crushed something wonderful with my front left paw. There was a rose carefully placed on my welcome mat.
Rose with Ribbon Outside the Door
Turning my head quizzically, I sat back on my haunches to consider this thing of beauty. Not just any rose, it had a vibrant perfection to it, from petals to leaves to stem to thorns, the deepest reds and greens all most glorious to look at, and the rosiest rosy smell I ever did encounter.
Topping it all off, a royal blue ribbon had been carefully tied into a bow toward the middle of the stem. Whiskers brushing the ground, I gently picked it up with my mouth and walked cautiously into the front yard.
Looking Around and Beginning to Waondr
Not seeing any Tango partners immediately in evidence, or even any suspect who might have left such a precious gift, I began to wonder why this had happened. Might it not have fallen from some florist’s cart and been blown by the wind to my doorstep? Was it for me? Was it arrogance to think that some well-meaning subjects had decided to share a token of their esteem, or, dare I think it, love?
I’m not the sort of regal cat who regularly demands tribute, and certainly not in flowers, being more of the fresh meat, hearty ale and rousing entertainment type, but still this single small flower had me completely bewildered. If it really was intended for me, who was it from? What message was being conveyed? And why?
Someone around my house had to have the answer or at least a clue. And something like this had to be shared, if only to reassure myself that I was not still dreaming.
Ask the Mouse
Just then, my friend Mouse scurried out from around the corner, rubbing his eyes at the sunlight and twitching his nose at the sight of the rose. A trusted friend of mine ever since that incident with the thorn in my paw, he was usually into some mischief. Lately he had also been of great assistance to me in recovering from the disappointing end of my time with the crimson fox. Due to the non-monogamous and highly frequent nature of mouse relationships, he had shared a wealth of wisdom gained from an excess of experience. More than likely he would know something about this matter.
“Your majesty, what is this?” he squeaked.
“I know not. Have you happened upon anyone who might have left this wonderful flower this morning? I am concerned that it may be a joke at my expense.”
“Sorry, excellency, but I have seen no one. Just getting around now myself, having slept in and all. Sweet night foraging, last night was, yes! Have you asked the Mantis?” Mouse replied, and with a quick bow he dashed back around the corner.
Following his advice, I turned toward the cherry tree, now thick with blossoms. Or at least, it had been thick with blossoms. Some commotion in the branches was shaking the tree entirely, and many of the blossoms had been knocked loose, floating gracefully down to blanket the surrounding ground. The drunken Monkey and the praying Mantis were at it again!
Ask the Praying Mantis
A flurry of fists, mandibles, tail and legs were engaged in faux combat in the midst of my favorite tree. The monkey fought in a seemingly haphazard way, slouching and appearing to almost lose his balance at nearly every turn, while clutching a vile bottle of rotgut and swigging from it between every exchange of blows. The unblinking mantis, in contrast, was the epitome of precision, checking the monkey’s seemingly wild swings, grabbing his furry foe and striking with a front claw while watching for other attacks of opportunity, which the monkey would always somehow evade or wriggle out of. Fighting from branch to branch as they were, the two could continue this barrage of blows until my tree was bare of blooms, and then for a good few hours more.
“ENOUGH!” I roared, shocking both combatants. “Do you not see what you are doing to the best tree in my garden?!”
The monkey, scared and scolded, hunched over, clutched his bottle even more tightly. Turning away, he surreptitiously sipped the noxious brew every few seconds in a half-hearted attempt to soothe himself.
Rearing up into a reflexive defensive posture, the mantis coolly surveyed the scene before relaxing and bowing in my direction. Unblinking, he began to apologize while nervously preening his front legs.
“Pray please forgive us, sir, you know how it is once we challenge each other,” he pleaded, thrusting both front legs together, upraised for emphasis. Then he paused, jerking his head slightly sideways to gauge my reaction.
“Out of the tree, my friends, I have a question for you,” I said with a low growl, and the mantis quickly and daintily climbed down, examining the cherry blossom-covered ground and seeming to blush slightly. The monkey, for his part, laid back in the branches and pretended to snore, drooling into his cup while keeping one half-opened eye fixed on our conversation.
“Did you see how this glorious flower came to be laid at my doorstep this morning, before this latest round of fisticuffs?” I asked.
“No sir, this morning I was practicing my striking techniques on those delicious pill bugs in your garden. If you catch them just right, they flip over and expose that soft, savory underbelly…”
“Enough of that. Let me know if later on you recall anything unusual about this morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Mantis replied, bowing and then scuttling off in search of more prey. It seemed I would never solve the riddle of the rose.
The Monkey Interjects
Just then, sensing his moment to finally outdo his six-legged foe, the Monkey jumped up from the branches as if suddenly startled awake, and screamed “Ooh, ooh, ooh, ah, ah, I know, I know, your majesty!” Unfortunately, in trying to keep from spilling his liquor, he lost hold of the branches and fell, landing in a jumbled heap of fur and blossoms. Without spilling a drop.
Taking off his bright red bandana, he staggered into an unstable bow and slurred in a very over-the-top fashion “Yurrrr mazheshty, it wuzzh the sheeeep! I shaw…four…of ‘em run’by’yer’fron’door…thizh morning. Went that way,” he pointed over his shoulder. Then, reconsidering, he crinkled up his face, scratched himself, smelled his finger and pointed over the other shoulder “No, thattaway!” Then he stumbled and fell down face first, again keeping all of the precious brew in his bottle.
Shaking my head in consternation, I deeply inhaled of the rose and headed off in the direction he had indicated.
The Birds and the Bees
It was a bright day, sun shining brightly in the deep blue sky. Bees were buzzing about on the gentle breeze, searching flower after flower and hurrying back to the hive with their regurgitated findings. Running up to one that was thoroughly inspecting a dandelion, I gently purred “Friend bee, can you indicate which way the sheep went?”
The bee quickly came to attention, flurried its wings in a show of respect, and took to the air, darting eastward several times. “Thank you,” I demurred, treading softly away so as not to disturb any of his fellow drones.
There were no sheep in sight or smell, but through the trees I did spy several doe and spotted fawns. The doe nodded, snorted, and the largest of them led the nervous offspring to some ripe berry patches.
Still not encountering any sheep, I once again began questioning the morning’s events. Was this some sort of trick the Woodland Council was playing on me, like the time during my cub-hood when they used spider’s web to entice me into crashing through the forest chasing after a ball of yarn? Or was the fragile state of my heart making me miss the obvious? If a sheep was involved, maybe it was the cute Sheep with the silver bell and long eyelashes, trying a novel way to entice me into the amorous hunt. I had thought she was only into goats, but maybe she was now bold enough to broaden her horizons.
Maybe there was a new lioness in town, with green eyes, velvety fur, and an adventurous spirit. What a pride we would make. Ah, but maybe, I thought, I just have an overactive imagination.
My heart had not been in the chase since the crimson fox had forsaken the humble and honest life in my kingdom for the chaotic unknowns of the wilderness. Mouse had counseled me against pursuing another again so soon. Taking him too literally, I teased that there would be no more mercurial foxes in my future. He joked about pheromones and how he’d never yet been able to steel himself against them.
But the real truth was that my on-the-mend heart just was not into the thrill of the chase. Even my appetite for fresh meat had dropped off dramatically, as evidenced by the fact that the deer were merely casually avoiding me instead of warily readying themselves for flight whenever I approached. Just as I was considering some fresh venison, a lucky distraction caught my eye.
Hundreds of birds were circling in the sky over our stadium, and I could hear their excited chatter and the clamor of some large conflict. Spotting me, a large jet-black raven dove sped towards me, and ended up circling just beyond a pounce’s reach above me.
“Your majesty,” he cawed excitedly, fixing me with the yellow gaze of his right eye. “Today’s game has become a brawl! They’re tearing up the green and the flock can’t wait to see what worms are churned up! Got to chew ‘em up and feed our young, you know…unless the worms are all muddy and squished, that is!”
Lowering his beak in respect, the raven darted back to rejoin the wheeling cluster of birds. Muttering about my luck with peace-keeping duties, I charged toward the stadium.
Every so often another bird would break from the flock and flutter down to relay some tidbit of information about the fight.
“The unicorns were trying to teach the trolls how to play rugby,” a bluejay told me.
“One troll was offended when a unicorn kept piercing the ball and running around with it on his horn, and another became enraged when the ‘corns told him he’d be playing the hooker, and a third troll didn’t want to be the hooker’s prop. He wanted to be the lock instead” a cardinal shrilled.
“The Sheep’s had no luck at all trying to referee,” piped in a lemon-yellow canary. Hearing the mention of a sheep in amongst the calamity, I quickened my pace, leaving the birds to trail behind.
Unicorns vs. the Trolls in Battle Royale
Arriving on the field, it was just as my winged brethren had described. An all-out brawl, unicorns versus trolls, with a strong-willed Sheep trying to restore order. She was blowing on her referee’s whistle, and wagging her woolly tale, rushing in among the combatants in an attempt to separate them. The unicorns, flailing hooves wildly and poking noses with their horns, were trying to intimidate the trolls, who were for the most part too angry to be cowed.
Bemoaning the futility of a progressive fantastocracy, I leaped, roaring, into the fray, and narrowly missed being skewered by a wildly thrashing unicorn. I managed to duck out of the way, just in time to pounce on a large pea-green troll who was attempting to pick up and throw one of the horned equines into the stands.
Another Break-Up
Fearing for the lives of my subjects, I knocked the troll down and growled loudly “BREAK IT UP! BREAK IT UP!” The Sheep continued her efforts, dodging out of the way and losing her baseball cap as a unicorn kicked the ball with all its might, smacking a troll square on the forehead. The troll fell, and I pulled the dappled orange-and-black unicorn to the side, showing the barest hint of claws.
“Help the Sheep and I break up this fight,” I rumbled.
“The trolls instigated this, my liege. Why we deign to play with those dense ruffians I’ve never quite understood…” he began to argue, stamping the ground impatiently.
“What we will do is simple: we will break up the fight, let everyone cool off for a bit, then discuss to everyone’s understanding soon enough,” I chided him.
“Yes, my liege, we will acquiesce to your judgment” he stated in a low voice, apparently thinking better of escalating this particular argument.
The Sheep, meanwhile, had managed to corral one of the brighter-than-average trolls, and was berating him in a most admirable fashion. Nodding his head, he stood up, lumbered over to some of his compatriots and slapped them on the back until they lost interest in the unicorn fight and began pummeling each other. This had the effect of drawing the other trolls’ attention, and they were soon dogpiled on their erstwhile leader, the offended former hooker.
For his part, the orange-and-black unicorn ran amongst his herd-mates, clashing horns with them as a signal to cease their hostilities. Between the four of us, we soon had the erstwhile foes separated and even somewhat calm. By that time, some elephants had arrived. As perfect character witnesses to past events, they admonished the unicorns for their arrogance and the trolls for their quick temper, and offered to coach both teams so that good sportsmanship would prevail. The unicorns and trolls came to an agreement: that the discussions would continue after dinner.
The Lion and the Lamb
It was then that I remembered the rose. Horrified that I’d somehow damaged it during the fight, I sat down and gently laid the glorious ribboned flower onto my front paws. It was defiantly undamaged, as remarkable and sweet-smelling as the moment I’d discovered it that morning. A slight breeze gently ruffled its petals, making them all the more wondrous.
“My, what a gorgeous flower,” the Ewe exclaimed, batting her long eyelashes. Like a thunderbolt, the realization finally struck that she was the Sheep I had been seeking most of the day! Here was the answer to the mystery of the rose! The lion would lie with the lamb!
“Can I have a nibble your majesty?”
Or maybe not.
“Just a little nibble, promise I won’t damage it much,” she cooed.
“Well, it’s the only one I have and I’m going mad trying to find out who gave it to me,” I sighed, recognizing that it was not a gift from this lovely young Sheep. Gently I plucked off a petal and offered it to her with upraised paw.
“Yum…never seen or tasted one like this before. Too bad you don’t know where it’s from or who gave it to you. But I’m sure you’ll find out some day. Best to just keep on living until then, right? Where have you been lately? We’ve missed you at the coffee shop. A nice tall mocha would be the perfect thing to wash that down with…care to join me?” she asked.
“Well, I do have my duties to get to…you know, king and all,” I stammered.
“What, after spending all day chasing a floral delivery, you won’t take a few minutes out to chat over a cup of coffee? A girl might feel slighted!” she teased, giving me a woolly poke in the ribs.
So, off I went, slightly embarrassed but with a lighter heart, an unsolved mystery, and a new friend.
