The World is Flat
User
(This is a little bit that i wrote a long time ago. It illustrates my older style, and the difference of my work once it's undergone my long term editing style.)
Short Prose
Breeze
Through the air went a serene presence - a breeze, wafting desultorily over a yellow wheat field, gathering the heat tucked in the soil. The thin, lengthy stalks swayed like a sea of liquid gold. There was a gentle splash, nearly soundless, as two or three drops of dew slipped from a granule. Lit by early morning rays, each filled with a dozen rainbows, they splattered softly on the greenery below. The little clovers and grasses and wildflowers thirstily sipped and swallowed the cool refreshment. The droplets disappeared amid the crinkled dark crevices. The breeze drifted onwards, and as it went another sound shook through it - to any within hearing, it was like an army of glass ants dancing upon a glass floor. But, all was normal, dear reader. It was the sound of trickling waters, from a nearby river.
This wandering breeze glided down the damp, sloping river bank. There could be found many a plant, entwined with one another like a single entity as they vied for footholds and nourishment. The breeze whispered secretively to a tuft of shrubs, the language one only it knew, speaking of the many things it had encountered during its travels. The shrubbery seemed to nod its plethora of heads in appreciation. The breeze had a fondness for sharing its insights and experiences. There was so much to tell, and a great deal it had seen!
If you asked a transient breeze to tell you a story, it would immediately stop and share a tale of the ages long ago. Very little evaded the senses of breezes, and their memories seemed to always call up times that had never been recounted. Perhaps your breeze would speak of the lumbering redskin Ogres, who would roam from the mountains, down to their river camps in pursuit of the spring fish.
As most folks once knew, such Ogres were simple beasts, with an immense love of food and comfort, and prone to frequent disagreements. In the evenings they would gather about a crackling fire, with a roasting catch on a spit. The Ogre Chieftain had first dibs, and should any dispute this he would be quick to pummel them until they couldn’t even move their jaw to chew, let alone bite down (for their teeth would be missing!). After all, that was how the Chieftain became the Chieftain.
When he had his fill, his underlings would bicker in their deep, fluffy voices.
“HEY! Oi was ‘upposed ter have da tail dis time, Smort!”
“Yew!? Na, yew got der tail ‘ast tym, ‘n ‘asides, oi deserve da tail cause I was da one wot spot’ed dis fish in der first place!”
“Whot!? Grrr, why yew lyin’ litt’l dung ‘eap, oi‘m the un wot did da werk! Oi caught tha’ flippin’ fish, di’jin yew seez? ‘N’ did yew see wha’ ee did tah me ‘and? Ee bloodied et all oop, wi’ dat spiky skin o’ ‘is!”
“Oh, harrr, yor ‘and all ‘urt, is it? Ha, yew idjit! Oh, por yew al roight. Hohoho!”
This was the usual vulgar back and forth - their voices booming like the wardrums of the Dwarven Hordes. The sound signaled every creature to steer well clear, for it was coda to resolve this with an Ogre Brawl. Anything at hand would be hoisted and flung, in every direction - trees, boulders, Ogres. Eventually, the largest would always sit on the rest, taking his fill of food and drink while the others complained and moped.
Occasionally, when the tribal healer was about with his belt full of freshly concocted brews, they would forget about brawling, and have a “drinkin’ test”. Out would come the bottles of potent Head Split Ale, or the sickly smelling Blood Whiskey. The latter was a gruesome concoction, be warned - made from boiled men-folk (or two-legs, as the breeze thought of them) (Ogres were dearly fond of them, for eating) and mixed with a handful of Honeyroot. While they drank and drank, many a song would be sung, in the primeval Ogre tongue. Deep voices, intermingled with the sporadic gurgling belch, carried on for hours. As the night would wear away, eventually only one would remain cognizant to enjoy his spoils. And this was always the tribal healer, who’d perfidiously spike the others’ drinks with a tendril of sleep root.
Most breezes would tell you stories akin to this, and you would still hear their voices trailing off softly as you departed at the end of the day. This was the very tale our breeze spoke to the shrub. And now, as it swirled and swam, its thoughts turned to its own joyfulness. Home! It somersaulted in the air trenchantly, surging with a desire to gust. It had been a year since its return to this oasis, its home. Long ago, this was where it began; only a small flurry, born in a great thunderstorm.
Burning with a desire to share its jubilation, it stopped and stroked the tail of a rabbit, causing it to shimmer like the running waters nearby. Clearly ebullient, the creature dropped the morsel he had been nibbling and arched his stiff back, absorbing the breeze’s warmth.
“Oh, mee surr back,” the rabbit sighed, speaking in a queer rustic brogue. “Gud ‘ol friendly wind’urz, many thankees.” Only the rabbit’s kin, the breeze, and a small handful of others could understand his language.
“Brrr ’oi shou’ be getting’ on soon, oi g’ss.” He stretched his somnolent paws. “’Ome’s a long wayz offen.”
Within the rabbits mind, roguish vituperations bounced about disorderly. Gurffs! Too manyz kloos calls furr one rabbidy ‘n a day! Oooh, oi! Noi beez der ‘nough of on karrots! Usn’s neeez em fer grubblin’ ‘n’ growing big feets!
The poor creature probably has a right to grumble - so thought the breeze, sympathetically. The breeze had seen and heard all, as it always did. This was the time of year when the two-legs would come - not the men-folk, but ones who were much shorter and broader, with spindly roots dangling from their chins. They rode on the backs of their rumbling, grumbling, stinking monstrosities. These things appeared like boulders, wrapped in a wrinkly old leaf. This was why most creatures called them the old-boulder-walkers. Rumor had it they were actually Elephants. Every year they surged into the woodlands, trampling and crushing. What was most invidious was, should any animal rise to flee, there was a twang like the grunt of a giant brute, and a segment of tree-limb tipped by black stone would careen forth and strike it. The breeze tried to dislodge the unpleasant image from its mind. It had seen it many a time, and with ever growing regularity.
The little rabbit nearly suffered a similar fate - being squished underneath one of the thing’s hulking, boorish feet. Desperately, the breeze tried buffeting against it; yet it hardly budged - irrefragable - the floppy grey leaves upon its head merely flapped. Just before one of the colossal tree stump-like pads squashed the rabbit, he managed to nip and dash aside.
But, he had leapt from the frying pan and into the fire. The breeze watched as he was descended upon by a downpour of those angry, sharp-tipped things. Arrows, they are called. They whirred and whistled through the air. FTHYWWW! Collision after collision, black tips sinking into the ground as easily as if it were a mire. Soil, twig and leaf were crumbled and broken ubiquitously beneath. Nearly imperceptible gasps of pain emanated from the earth - decorated in shafts like hedgehog spikes.
The undergrowth was dense, and the two-legs could not see well enough to hit their mark. They spoke in gruff, irate voices:
“Aggh! Where are yah, rabbit?”
“Skrawny runt!”
“Mangy piece of fluff! I’ll burn its fur off nice and slow if I –“
“Grr! You shortbeards, you lost it!?”
Further dialogue was rife with foul expletives. The rabbit had just eluded them, delitescent in the earthy recess where a tree once stood. The intruders marched by, leaving a scar of flattened vegetation in their wake. Such heedless annihilation…
Presently, it seemed that the rabbit was reliving the episode: his tail twitched and his eyes were squeezed tight. His heart raced wildly, his mind timorously buzzing. The breeze scratched the critter’s ears in a comforting manner - he began to calm. Questions emerged in the breeze’s mind.
Who are these two-legs? Why do they want to destroy our forest? What are those things they hurt the animals with? And why do they do it?!! The breeze could not place any ripostes.
Old memories swirled into its train of thought.
A year ago to the day it soared from its oasis as it always had in early spring. It soared over the surface of the river. And after days of gliding and skimming it left behind the soft soil and verdant woodlands. It entered the demesne of short two-legs - riddled with towering mountains, some of nature, others of the two-legs’ construction. Long ago, they had been primitive creatures, concerning themselves with life deep in caves, and meals over fires. Back then, they had not captured those malodorous monstrosities with which to ride upon - nor would they fire their arrows at the slightest hint of movement.
There, in the land of the two-legs, the breeze discovered that the world was so different. They had tapped the energy of the earth, forming mountains of rigid grey shapes (castles and fortresses, these were called). It had taken no more than a few hundred years. The two-legs were as powerful as the ancient spirits! With a sudden rare display of contempt the breeze gusted harshly. It thought, Nature had not been so quick to form the lakes and trees! It shook with both marvel and abhorrence.
Suddenly, caught off guard, the breeze found itself in a pillar of black air; the dark substance clung to it - clouded its skin and tangled in its hair, assailing and stinging, the way honey bees behave with thieving bears. The breeze writhed and twisted in agony and fright, shrinking to half its size - nothing ablated the duress of the darkness. It spoke, whispering rancorous things in the breeze’s ears - but the breeze did not listen. It gusted skyward, speeding with the vigor it had as a young one above the churning waters of the Grimgale. It blasted into a white puff of cloud, and the particles of water reached out their hands and grabbed the dark air, asphyxiating it. The breeze heaved with relief, and thanked the cloud, giving it a strong current of air to carry it on.
“Yooz no needin’ thankees for us, friend!” sung the cloud - a chorus of soft, high-pitched voices. The breeze was surprised to recognize its old friend.
“Kumulo-niimbus, is that you, old friend?”
“Yes!” came a cheerful reply. Suddenly he coughed and spluttered, heaving like a tidal wave. His white fluff darkened. Alarmed, the breeze cried, “Are you alright?”
As soon as it began, Kumulo-niimbus settled - when he next spoke, his voices were nadir. “The dark air – the two-leg’s smoke. Vurry bad, yes, yes...” he gave a sputtering cough.
“What do you mean, friend,” asked the breeze, not meaning to be pushy, but unable to resist its curiosity.
Kumulo-niimbus was unable to answer, still coughing and wheezing quietly. The breeze inflated to twice its normal size, and - wrapping it limbs around its friend’s cushiony girth - pulled him high into the sky. There came a squelching, slushy sound - thick tendrils of inky blackness sloughed from the cloud, squirming as the dropped, fading into nothingness without their host. Kumulo-niimbus was purged. Together, the friends flew as if they were tenacious newborns again.
“Ooh, friend, thankees you have from mees!” Kumulo-niimbus sung happily. “Ee blackyness is all gone; gud, gud!”
Overfilled with wonder, the breeze asked, “What was that?”
“Doo ee knows about thee gurst trees that are tak’un from the forests?”
The breeze shook his ethereal head.
“Doo you knows abouts the ‘phanters?” Phanters. The word was mellifluous (and unfamiliar) to the breeze. “No, what are they?”
“They are creatures’urs, ‘n’ are loik vury ol’ two-legs - you sees, they ‘r’ gud ‘n’ ‘rinklyz, ee are. Most beast’urs call ee ol’=‘oulder-walkers’urs. But, theys ‘r’ ‘phanters, ois says. Back’urs some moon-turns agos, ee two-legs’urs went on ee ‘venture, into the ‘unglyz, vury far in ee northern land’urs.”
Kumulo-niimbus loved to conflate knowledge as much as water droplets. He went on, “Ois could not get too close’urs to themz, cause a wizard accompanied them.”
A wizard! The breeze had only heard rumors; it was reputed they could manipulate their surroundings by reading aloud a strange tongue from their sand-colored leaves.
“Themz marched deep in’tur ee ‘unglyz. There’s where ee founds ee ‘phanters, for ee first toim’ees. Trample the trees, ee did - yons ‘ells over loiks you blew as a ‘urricane, friend! Ee ‘phanters tramples ee trees to clear ee ones who have returned to ee earths’urs. Ee two-leg’urs not understands, no, no’ follow’er’d ee ‘phanters, ee did, ‘n’ gathered ups all ee trees that fell. ‘N’ then, ‘hey made fires’z to make ee ‘phanters run faster, ‘n’ more ‘rees falls’urs! Ee ‘izard’urs prevented others from coming to ‘elp!”
“That’s terrible!” the breeze exclaimed.
“Ois agrees!” Kumulo-niimbus cried, his shrill voices tinged with angst. “The two-legs make them destroy! ‘N’ after they pass, they collects all that fell... ee plants ‘n’ ‘nimals.”
The breeze was aghast at the thought. “Where do they take them?”
“Oh, to this land,” said Kumulo-niimbus. His droplets scurried to form a knobby stick, pointing towards the ground below. “The two-legs dumps them in ‘urnaces. It’s sucked dry; ees resin ‘n’ ee water removed.” He made a grimace. “Then’z all burned up!” he continued. “Bad, vurry bad!”
The cloud scrunched together in his truculence, his pure white color darkening to that of a thunderstorm. A distant memory came unbidden. Rivulets of energy seeped from cloud to breeze; blinding lightning flashed; horizontal torrents of rain streaked past; a frosty gale howled above white-cap waves; the sea heaved like a thousand roaring Ogres, concomitant with clapping thunder and cracking timbers; shrapnel and debris launched from the sinking skeletal frames of two-leg vessels and flew like carrion birds avariciously circling a carcass-strewn battlefield. The breeze and the cloud had raged over the Grimgale, hoping to show the other air spirits they were not to be meddled with.
The old brawn vibrated voraciously through the breeze. To howl again! The thought made it shiver. With a start, the breeze’s senses returned. All was a blur, sounds and sights nearly imperceptible. A nagging sensation overwhelmed it - not unlike a starved beasts desire to feast. Gathering up all the will it could muster, the breeze thought, I do not want to transform!
Gradually, like efflorescence greeting morning sunlight, the sensation faded. The breeze felt the familiar freshness of its breath, vision and hearing returning. It remembered Kumulo-niimbus - Friend! The cloud was still held tightly in its grasp - sparks skipping threateningly upon his water droplets, daring to rumble - but his energy slackened and staid. His luster returned.
All about, other clouds and their breezes sailed by pacifically. Spirits of the air congregated when they sensed a storm was forming, being perpetually friendly beings. Sadly, the breeze thought, They are not spirits. So few remain.
Far below lay the territory claimed by the two-legs; standing silently were distinct cold grey mounds, comprised of subterraneous rock. The breeze squeezed its friend lightly. The two thought in silence for awhile, each thinking a different thought. Kumulo-niimbus reflected upon his near transformation to a thunderstorm with giddy happiness, glad to have avoided the treacherous mishap. His past experiences had been unfavorable.
After a long time, the breeze decided to give voice to its curiosity. “Where are we going, friend?”
“You will see!” Kumulo-niimbus suddenly reshaped into a falcon.
The breeze was surprised - but then understanding dawned: his friend wanted to dive. The breeze obliged him, becoming a downdraft. They plummeted towards the distant earth, warm air ballooning in the breeze’s lungs - a menagerie of hues loomed: brown, green, and blue. The horizon was a jagged line of mountains, encircling them like a massive crown.
Drawing nearer, groves of trees were visible. The land was like a bear’s scruffy fur - green patches suggesting he’d recently scampered down a mossy bank. His veins were blue, twinkling as though thick with precious stones. Something caught the breeze’s eyes: at the base of a hillock, in a clearing surrounded by a grove of pine trees, were two figures - foxes, their fur glowing white as brightly as Kumulo-niimbus. The foxes returned the breeze’s gaze, their eyes a mysterious blue like palimpsests of sky and sea. The breeze was unsure whether to be amazed or frightened. They were only a small gust away from them now. The breeze became aware of their fangs’ a dark redness besprinting them.
Kumulo-niimbus smoothly spread his vapor wings, plopping upon a flat boulder. The foxes lowered their heads respectively, black noses touching the grassy earth. “Kumulo-niimbus,” one growled, “you are the first to arrive.” As they raised their heads a single ruby-red drop fell from one’s jaw. Red glistened fresh around their mouths, matting down their fur. Blood, the breeze wondered. Kumulo-niimbus did not seem to notice. His singsong voices chimed in the air, his words in an unusual tongue, “Ay-eeem tars’urs!” He bent into a bow, cloudy wingtips sweeping the ground, leaving thin vapor trails. The breeze knew this customary greeting from long ago.
Kumulo-niimbus morphed into the likeness of a small grey fox. Clouds - especially Kumulo-niimbus, the breeze knew - immensely enjoy taking on forms matching their companions.
--The rest was unfinished.
Now I'm aware that some of you might notice that i call dwarves/humans 'two-legs' and that this same usage is found in the young adult novels about cats that go by the name 'Warriors' or some such. I did not find inspiration for that title from that series, but instead decided that the people of this story were referred to by that title long before ever being made aware by multiple readers of this similarities.
