Pip and the Fern Festival - Part 1

Pip was bobbing up and down. He had waited for this day since the moment he had learnt to count till ten. And here it was - his big day. He was being allowed to join the others as they journeyed to the Fern Festival. Pip had dreamt of this day for so long he could hardly believe that he was not dreaming right now. 

"Pip! Pip! hurry up! or we'll miss the fireworks!" Pip snapped out of his thoughts, skipping after his best friend into the depths of the forest. Firework nights were extra special before the Fern Festival. It was most likely because the Ferntress was involved in making them. The lights were better, brighter, more real and more magical than the common place fireworks of other nights. As they approached the Fountain tree, more fairies joined them bubbling with excitement and speculating endlessly on the possibilities of what the festival would bring.

"Pip! Hurry up or well miss getting a good view," Pip had to hurry, taking off after Bennie and creating a hullabaloo as he bumped into the crowds, apologising quietly when he remembered to. Pip came to a majestic stop where a huge sand dune strategically sprouted providing a fantastic view of the Fountain Tree.

What a gorgeous tree it was. It was Ferntress's Castle too. The tree trunk was so wide that it took over 100 fairies to encircle it, and it was said that the roots went underground for miles and miles. There was even the story of naughty Silas who decided to dig into the ground and follow a root and never made his way back. The bark was brown - as brown as mud that has been soaked in fresh rain - and along its height were beautiful paintings of fairies, wands, birds, animals, and all things natural. Each painting was etched out in silver, gold and bronze. If you didn't pay close attention you could miss out on them as the lines glimmered in and out of the trunk as if they were alive, weaving in and around the bark telling a tale. Sometimes it would take days and days to see all the paintings and the younger ones had to wait till they could fly high before they could reach the top parts of the trunk.

The Fountain tree was said to be taller than Fensha the king of giants. But Pip and Bennie could now see its tip if they flew up into the sky. The most beautiful thing about the Fountain tree was its branches. Bunched in hundreds they formed a dense centre and flew out in magnificent angles, curves, and spheres. And then they dropped down like glistening rain, stopping in mid air with leaves that glimmered like emeralds but looked soft and light. Each branch had twigs of silver or bronze. Flowers big and small graced the branches - some white as the shining star, others yellow like the sun , and some pink like the Ferntress's cheeks. Pip thought red flowers were the prettiest. They were the ones hardest to reach. They were roses only more rose like than any other rose Pip had ever seen.

Bennie was more interested in the fruits. All the fruits on the fountain tree were golden. All golden and in any shape size and taste you wanted. You only had to say the name of the fruit you wanted and ask the tree for it. The fruit would gently fly into your hand and drop the most delicious fruit in your palms. Bennie had many a time asked the Ferntress how the tree never ran out of fruits, but Ferntress had merely smiled at him.

The first star had appeared in the darkening sky and the crowd hushed as they saw a little fairy dressed in a glimmering green gown, surrounded by splendour even grander than the tree, emerge from the trunk above the highest branch of the fountain tree. Ferntress seemed larger than the tree and yet how tiny she was! 

"Arise dear nymphs, your fairy brethren call to you. Dance the dance of ferns. that they may awaken and be filled with our magic. " Her lilting voice sounded into the night enthralling people far, far away with the call of the night. And all the fairy kindred took up the melody and sang the chorus like they did every year.

"The love of fairies, the love of nymphs

to bring ferns alive: Ferns awake, ferns protect"

And as they sung, the firework displays started. Pip and Bennie pointed in delight as a train of firefly designed lights enveloped the fountain tree in myriad of colours and spiralled into the night sky before reaching a crescendo and bursting down into the crowd as coloured candy for everyone. Then, there was the carriage firework that looked like a King's carriage, round and round it went and burst into a flames shaped as the Princess Riana with her Faithful Prince Saul next to her. The crowd cheered as they were entertained by more lights.

Pip and Bennie glided to the base of the fountain tree where a number of young fairy- gentlemen had gathered. Old man Brown was at the centre of the crowd dishing out instructions in his low quiet voice. "On the journey we expect complete obedience, no showing off with fancy tricks and no mischief." He looked pointedly at Bennie and said " No running off to steal fruits from orchards". He continued, "you will all listen to me and obey my instructions. Now go off and say your goodbyes. We will meet here in one hours time." 

Old man Brown frowned as he turned to Ferntress. This journey would be unlike any other he had been to. Old man Brown had been on so many journeys he couldn't remember the count. This was the first time the wind smelled dangerous though, and Old man Brown had considered cancelling the journey. He had consulted Ferntress over the possibility, and they had pondered over the matter for days before deciding that the journey must be made. Old man Brown sighed, he had hoped that he had fought his last battle but if what Ferntress said was true there was more work to be done.

Larger Than Life

There it was - my camera. Taller than I was, bigger than I was. I approached it dragging along the bulky twig ladder I had just made.

Last night, and the night before - why many nights now - had been filled with strange noises. Sleep had eluded me as strange, high pitched dialogues, originating from my garden, jolted me into wakefulness. I couldn’t make much sense of what was being said, but now a week since they had started, I was determined to investigate. 

I woke up this morning determined to discover mysteries of my garden. I was slightly concerned that there was something sinister taking place in my backyard. Armed with a vague plan and an indifferent mien I walked into my backyard, my cereal and toast, a notebook, pencil, some string for measurements, and a camera in tow. I simply looked like I was going about my routine - taking photos and documenting them. I was hoping my real purpose would be well masked. 

I sat down on the bench, set down my camera, and rummaged through my book as I ate. Something bit my leg. Instinct told me to wait before moving into action. A voice quipped up, “Well, talk about a bad bite.” A shrill bout of giggling followed. I moved my foot a little, slightly perturbed that something that was speaking had taken a bite at my leg. I heard some bickering, a rustle. I stealthily moved my hand towards my leg, and just as it was about to take another bad bite, I nabbed it. 

“You leave me alone, you ol’ goon!” Nip. Nip. 

I thought to myself, I should have brought gloves. 

“What do you mean by capturing me, you ol’ ninny. Just you let me go” Nip. Nip. 

Annoyed at being bitten and equally peeved at being called an old ninny, I held onto the little fellow around his rotund waist. Slightly shaken, I set him down on the tabletop, next to my camera, still gripping him around his waist. A delightful, whimsical figure gazed up at me with big, round, hazel eyes. His pointed ears had flattened out on either side of his heart shaped face pointing to the East and West. His nose resembled a swollen toothpick protruding in between chubby, rosy brown cheeks. His tiny, berry stained mouth was turned up at one end as he smirked at me. It was startling to see such a small being, and I was rather flummoxed. 

After a few moments of silence, I decided to take the initiative and tentatively spoke to the little creature, “Hello… erm Mr?”

“Pixie. The name’s Pixie. And that’s no way to greet a fellow - nabbing him like that unawares!” 

No nip. I thought that was a good sign. 

“I’m sorry ...erm Mr Pixie, but I wasn’t sure what was biting me. And you said I didn’t taste good.”

Giggles, followed by more giggles, and a lifted eyebrow accompanied his response, “Well, a fellow likes a little mud with his foot, you know? All that clean skin does no ‘ne any good. Now, let me go!”

“Erm.. Mr. Pixie. Who are you? Why are you in my backyard, and why are you so noisy?” I suppose in hindsight I could have been less direct with my questions. 

“You let me go, I tell you.” A frustrated struggle between my hands ensued as I firmed my grip around him, hoping that my fingers would be spared deeper bites. A minute later he seized his wriggling and was answering me in an offended voice, “That there fellow, Ragtag, came in here and won’t leave. I got to have my space you see? I’ve been telling him to go find some other garden, you see...but he won’t listen, he won’t!” 

“Is Mr. Ragtag a pixie too?” I was beginning to wonder if I had drugged myself, or was in the midst of a strange dream. Was I really holding a pixie in my hand and speaking to him about garden invasions? 

“A pixie like me?! Nooo sirrreeee, I would ne’er have invaded another’s garden.” Surely, so much offense could hardly be communicated in so few words? I wondered if I should remind the little guy that he had in fact invaded my garden. I decided to keep mum. This little fellow was full of drama. His voice changed again,polite and quizzical, “Why, Oh why, Mr, ol’ ninny, will you help me get rid of Mr. Ragtag?” 

I had eased my hold on the little creature by now, and as I relaxed further, he promptly sat down, cross-legged, on my open palm as I pondered his strange request. Before a minute had passed he burst into tears - it was like watching a sprinkler come to life accompanied by a cacophonous group of violinists. 

“Okay, Okay, Mr. Pixie, stop bawling. How can I help?” I spoke in a loud whisper 

The silence and consequent smile was so immediate, I was quietly inclined to believe the whole crying show was exaggerated. But I couldn’t help liking the fellow as he impulsively gave my little finger a tight hug. 

“Oh, thank you, Mr ol’ ninny. I really do love my garden, you see...and Ragtag has no business being here. You need to meet him and tell him so, you see? He can’t go against your wishes, you see?” 

I didn’t see of course, and said so. I was also a bit offended at being called an ol’ ninny. Actually, I was starting to get curious about Ragtag and why Mr. Pixie was disinclined to share his space with him - I had a fairly large garden. It also occurred to me that it was certainly rare, even a bit exciting, to have two seemingly real pixies living in my garden. Maybe I had to go get my head checked, but for now, I was sure the little fellow in my hand was real. 

“Erm.. Mr. Pixie, my name is…”

“Awww, come on sirrreeee we must be quicks about getting Ragtag away. How wills you find him?” 

“Don’t you know where he is?” I asked tauntingly.

“'Course not, Mr Ol’ ninny. I don’t know where he is now. If I’d have known, I would’ve fought him out already, innit?” 

“I think you need to call me by my name, if you want my help.” I made to leave. After all some ground rules were necessary, and everyone knows pixies would wiggle their way out of anything. I felt that I must stamp my authority. 

“Awww now, don’t you go away Mr. Ol’... okay, okay, What is your name Mr. Ol’ Nin..”

“Matt. My name is Matt,” I was beginning to enjoy our dialogue. “Now, tell me, how do we find Ragtag?” 

“Why?! Don’ts you knows? We walk through the grass blades, of course! Come on Mr Ol… Mr. Matt” He zealously jumped onto my lap, and then paused, made his way back to my palm, and navigated my hand to my ear and in a shrill whisper, “We’ve got to shrink you, you knows!” 

I blinked. 

“We gots to Mr. Matt, otherwise you’ll not be able to runs through the grass.” He must have seen my dumbstruck look

“Shrink me?” I wasn’t having any of that, “Oh no we aren’t Mr. Pixie. I can wait here. Once you find Ragtag, I will find a way to meet him.” 

“Now, look yous here, Mr. Matt. By 3 O’clock, my pixie magic will reverse itself and you will be all big again. No needs to be scared.” A snicker that he tried to unsuccessfully cover up accompanied this statement.

Scared? Was I scared? What if this was all a trick? Yet, wouldn’t it be fun to have a bit of an adventure - almost exciting? “I still don’t know if it’s a good idea...but tell me, Mr Pixie, do you not like Ragtag?” I decided then and there that I should know more about the person I was going to confront

“Likes him? Oooh, I liked him well enough, I did. Ragtag’s my best friend. How we trampled the grass on Ol’ Mr Cranky’s garden. Ah” Giggles. “Then, when I said it was time to move - seeing that Mr. Cranky heard us, and had began to cut his grass too short, Ragtag said he likes to do what he wants and didn’t want to come here. You see’s Mr Ol’... Mr. Matt, I saw your garden, and knews you was a nice man who wouldn’t cut his grass. But Ragtag was a *&^%& pixie and told me he wasn’t moving, no sirreee! And I begs him, I does.” 

I ignored the expletives as I listened to his tale. A sudden burst of waterworks ensued. I patted him in empathy as gently as I could and waited for the abrupt silence. It took longer than expected.

“Then, I left without Ragtag and moved in here.” Sniffles as he continued, “I’ve been on my own 14 days, and I don’t need Ragtag with me. He came here last week, he did, and he says no sorrys to me, he doesn’t. He came and wanted to carry on as if he never left. Well, Mr. Ol’ ...Mr. Matt. No sirrrreeee. This is my garden and I’m not sharing with him” 

Another sprinkler attack was forming a pool in my hand. I was sure of one thing - this little pixie wanted his best friend with him, but was hurt and angry. I decided to help. Carefully, I placed him on the table top and sat next to him. 

He looked up at me, hope replacing the tears in his spherical eyes, “Will yous help, me?” 

A sudden desire awakened in me - it was time for an adventure. I smiled at Mr. Pixie and struck a deal, not entirely convinced I would shrink. 

“1.2.3”

With no warning, and no hint of any pixie dust, I had shrunk and found myself dangling off the table. I nervously swung myself and latched onto the camera belt.Trying to quickly adjust to my new circumstances, I hauled myself up onto the bench and took in the view. Mechanically, I picked a few twigs that had fallen on the table top, tucked them masterfully with some of the string I had left near my notebook and constructed a little ladder. I wanted to have a look through my lens: I climbed the ladder precariously and took a peek. The world looked big and full of colour. The grass had never looked this green or inviting. I wondered if I could click a photo. That’s when I caught sight of him - a little creature that looked like Mr. Pixie - darker and taller, but with the same rosy cheeks and round eyes.

“Mr. Matt… Mr. Matt, We gots to go.. There’s no time…” Mr Pixie was pulling on my trousers which I was grateful to note had also shrunk with me. 

I turned around and gestured to the little fellow, wending my way towards Ragtag. I was sure that I would soon have two pixie friends living in my backyard. Let the adventures begin.

On Higher Ground - Memories Of A Bike Ride Through Ladakh

Memories

This is no common log. I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care that they say it is just a log. This log has soul!

Over the last twelve months, I had frequently sat on the log, or next to it; near it. My tab, a stylus, a blanket to sit on, and a dream accompanied me there, last November. I remember slipping into slumber with a smile on my face, reminiscing. The smell of the rain-soaked soil and the whiff of wild Cyprus accompanied the gentle breeze, and I lazily opened my eyes to watch my mum stroll towards me, and sit down. Snuggling my head on her lap, we shared a few laughs.

Tears flooded down my face. I vainly attempted to fight back the wrenching sobs that had begun to master me. It was futile. I was lost. I was in pain. I lay down and crouched, clutching my legs close to my heart, the thudding head ache starting to get unbearable. And there she was again; my head was resting on her lap once more, and her soothing words quietened my broken heart.

We decided to have a little picnic. There was a new patch of moss on the elephant skinned centre of the log. It was the perfect seat, soft and comfortable, as we enjoyed herb scones and tea. Mum was reading my latest blog entry, a smile playing on her pearl pink lips. How beautiful she looked in her pastel - green sari with big, red, rose prints. Her brown eyes looked at me as I watched her. Her motherly hands, slightly wrinkled now, beckoned me to her. I sat at her side as she planted a kiss on my cheek and held my hand in hers.

“It’s a fantastic piece. You should send it out to some magazines or newspapers.” I clutched those words to my heart and locked them there, securely.

It became our regular haunt. Today we were sketching and painting. Mum on a chair, with a shawl wrapped around her delicate shoulders, as she painted on her canvas, every line perfect. One would never know that the log was something dead – discarded and left alone, abandoned from its heart and life. The painting said otherwise; you could see the moss thriving on it; the birds that visited it regularly were full of life, you could almost hear their trills, their bright colours perfectly set against the dark grey tree stump. And in front of it, there was me. How beautiful she had made me look. A strand of hair fell across my face; I sat cross-legged, busy sketching in a book that lay open in front of me. That evening, we stayed out until the sun set and then slowly made our way back home, my hand safe in my mum’s.

I saw the tremor in her hand as she wrote down recipes for me, and my whole life shook. With a catch in my throat I approached her.

“Look Amma! I think we have a visitor today.”

She turned to see what I was pointing at. He was a chubby little fellow. And scared, he was quickly retreating into the hollow of the log. But curiosity must have got the better of him. He peeked again, smudged with the mud around him. I called to him quietly, picked him up and placed him on her lap. Her laughter was as beautiful as a child’s. She almost gurgled in glee. How many little secrets we had shared here! I never knew before, how much mum loved dogs. And here he was - her very own little Alsatian pup; my little gift to her. But her gift was more precious – her life, her secrets, her laughter, and her love! How much love she showered on me!

I promised to come here to learn and grow; to watch and live. Our visits to the log were more spaced now. I remember the last time we were there together. Mum insisted we spend the whole day out. She was beautiful as always, but paler and weaker. I remember clearly the warmth in her brown eyes as she gently spoke to me as if afraid she was running out of time to say everything she wanted to. We were leaning against our log, Bruno bounding along the garden chasing away at anything and nothing, triumphantly prancing back to us at intervals, seeking our attention, and finally sitting next to mum, as she gently ran her hands over his soft fur. I inched close to her and we wrapped ourselves in a single blanket, I rested my head on her shoulders, and kissed her soft cheeks. But mostly I listened to her - straining to imprint every word in my mind; I quenched my thirsty eyes by watching her; I desperately clung on to her wizened hands; I wanted this moment to last forever; I wanted every moment with her to last forever.

And here I am now; sitting next to our log. I close my eyes and I can feel her with me. She is in the wind and in every beautiful sight that meets my eye. I see the moss that has grown graciously over the log - adding such beauty to its stark greyness. I see it like I would see it with her. I will let the log go, when it wants to. I will not leave it abandoned, again.

Beginnings

In the beginning, there was me – and there was her. In the beginning, we were two.

Then, in the new beginning, there was me. Life was simple then. I didn't need to worry about where I would sleep, or what I would eat. A few days without meals, was something I was used to. Cold floors, and nursing wounds were the routine. There were no beds where I stayed.

That was then. Now, there was her. There was him as well. He was unimportant. He was the problem. I looked up and saw him slouch - his slothful belly and mournful mouth sinking incessantly into the mouldy, stained couch. He was sipping on a dark bottle of dark beer – something cheap no doubt, and was gazing spellbound at the TV

“What you looking at?” You would think that he came straight out of the States if you heard him speak with his nasal accent.

I reverted my gaze hastily. This was not the time to test the waters. I had to think about her. I had to sit this out for another hour. One hour and he would be snoring and nothing would wake him up.

It never failed to impress me. How I would blare music, silently sneak out of the door for a breath of fresh air and escape. And there he would be grinning, as he looked out the window, daring me to leave.

I did,once. Leave. A few days back, and now there was me. She had gone, but there was another. There was me – and there was her. Only.

I wish I hadn't picked up the phone that day. But they called to say there had been an accident. I was almost delirious with joy. I couldn't believe my luck.

“Is he dead?” My voice was barely a whisper as I tried to repress the quivering happiness that was gripping me.

Two hours later, there was a rotund, over-bribed, rough-tongued policeman walking me to see her lifeless, bony, beaten up body.

“The baby is fine.” I stared at the lady who was attempting to be nice to me.

“Is he dead too?”

“She must be in shock”, “poor thing”,

“ Is he dead too?” I knew I shouldn't have shouted. Everyone was ogling at me. And then, there was the pat on my shoulder. I was forced to turn. I endured the hug.

“I'm sorry baby!”

I knew better than to respond.

“She was drinking again, and I couldn't stop her from taking the car!”

He had killed her. I knew it. I could smell it on him.

I see it in his eyes, even now. This creature that I had to get away from. There was a cry from the room above. I ran up and put my hand over her mouth, forcefully. She quietened at once. She didn't cry often. She already knew that noise was bad. She looked at me now, and I laughed with her, quietly.

Before, there was only me. Now we are two.

I waited for the comforting sound of that first snore. I picked her up and walked down to the empty kitchen. There was no food. There wouldn't be. I didn't care. I wanted water. I drank and I drank. I gave her some too. She needed milk. I gave her water.

I walked back up. I decided to let the light in and opened all the curtains. The sunshine was glaring. 

When she died, I was almost happy. For her. I think of her now. She must have felt the same way I did. At the beginning there was only her – and then there was me. That's why she left me something.

The snoring had stopped. I walked down again, with her. He lay there, still sleeping. No more noise escaped him. The cheap bottle was replete on his breathless paunch.

I smiled.

In the beginning, there was only the two of us.

This one is for the ellis!

Tumaini – My Hope for Earth

It is a round world after all! And you can't walk to the ends of the earth and fall over – rather difficult to believe, as you look at eternity from the edge of a hill, into an abyss of green and brown; trees and hard rock. You skid, stumble and grip air to halt your fall, watching as the tiny rocks at your feet, disappear down into oblivion.

“Bump!”, you land on your behind. The vacant expression on your face is gradually replaced by a concoction of confusion, realisation, panic and relief, as you turn away from the edge. There is a flash of a camera and you know your comical look will soon be plastered and viewed across the world on too many social media sites. 

Cautiously, you attempt to stand and move further away from what could have been the world's infamous edge (which no longer lives to its treacherous reputation) and meet the concerned but laughing faces of fellow adventurers.

You sit down and slowly, as you sip on some water and make sure your precious camera is not damaged, a certain normalcy returns: your fingers stop trembling, your feet come alive from their dead-log stupor, you believe in science again and manage to put aside questions about the gravity of the situation.

I look at the craggy drop, barely an inch away from me, and nestle closer to the rock I am hiding behind. How different things look now, from back then. In-fact, the drop below is almost comforting. The people after me will kill me and worse still, the death they offer me will be more painful than what awaits me at the bottom – if there is one – of this fall. I make up my mind: if they find me I will jump.

My one hope is that I have learnt how to cover my tracks – I still have a chance of staying undiscovered. But, even if I stay hidden from them now, would I make it through the night? This isn't exactly a safe haven. I stubbornly contain my anxiety and hopelessly check my phone for connectivity - Murphy's Law is a bitch - my phone battery is dead. I crouch deeper into the earth wishing it would swallow me up, continually grateful for the cloud cover that prevents me from creating enemy shadows.

I stay dead-still as I hear their voices and sense the threat in their foreign words. I have good reason to be terrified. I have seen these men kill. I have seen them slaughter innocent creatures: commit murder more than once. These men are dangerous and they are cowardly. They attack unfairly and kill an unarmed, innocent enemy. I am ashamed to know they are human and therefore kin. I am proud that I have captured their crimes on my camera. I am petrified that I may not be able to expose them - aggrieved that I was helpless to stop them. 

Over the last year, I have spent alternate weekends in this beautiful landscape. My camera (nothing fancy – just a small digital friend), backpack and food are my only companions. There is a consummate sense of peace amidst these lush hills and listening to the river flowing, unmoved by my presence or lack of it, is surprisingly comforting. Who would believe that such muddy waters could look so beautiful? It is beautiful and is made even more breath-taking as I catch a glimpse of big swaying ears, gliding to and fro; smaller, giant feet come into view and graceful trunks playfully dip, pick and spray water everywhere. Every herd I see as precious as the previous one; I can watch these elephants forever. 

How grand! How magical! How tranquil - I remember that feeling now and watch as the killers pass me. I dare not breathe and send silent thank you messages to a God I have never prayed to. I watch as dark clouds turn ominous, and one by one, heavy rain drops cover the earth around me. I tuck in my knees and hug my backpack, protecting it best as I can, as I cower in the downpour. 

Camouflaged behind the shrubs, I see the ripple of grass ahead and it attracts my attention simply because it seems out of place. I doubt a human eye could spot me and I feel proud as I dwell on that. It's the impossible shriek that stirs me out of my self appreciative thoughts. I look ahead to see the herd in chaotic movement and there is another nightmarish cry as one of the bigger elephants falls lifeless to the ground. I am stunned. A pride must have attacked the herd - As horrific and rare as this is, it is the first possibility to strike me. I snatch my camera and rapidly capture photos. I cannot stop as the scene ahead of me unfolds. I am numb and feel the tears roll down my face. I hear a scream coming down from somewhere in the pit of my stomach; I do not understand how I have contained it. 

The rain has finally stopped and I stand up. The rain was a blessing in disguise but I know I must leave here immediately. I turn eastwards; I will make my way to the lodge and from there, to Nairobi. I am not naive and know the chances of escape are low. I do not know where these men or their spies lurk, but this plan is my only hope! I look up and see the first star appear, as I take my first step towards help and away from the destruction I had witnessed.

Time has stopped. I am unable to take more photos. I can see and smell the vomit next to me and make a futile attempt to move away. A more powerful and permanent smell starts to fill my nostrils - blood. I watch the men, their faces imprinted in my mind, carry the ivory they have hacked off my jumbos to the Land Rover. I see their guns, their machetes. They are unfazed by the horrific sights they have created. I yearn to look away, I cannot. None of the herd has escaped. The big tuskers had no chance and the others have been slaughtered, as they bravely tried to protect each other. I have never seen such devastation. I must help – and yet I am unable to move. I do not know what to do: ahead of me are endless beheaded figures, around me bandits who will kill me. I see them picking the last of their stash now and uncaring, they begin their exit. 

I knew it was a mistake to move. It was that slight movement, yonder, that decided me. I wasn’t sure if my eyes had been playing tricks on me. Then it was there again, a plaintive movement: It was a baby, alive and wailing next to its decapitated mother. I crawled out from behind the shrub and as the Land Rover began to drive away, I pressed onward. I must help – it was the only thought I had. I got closer and saw tears run down its normally smiling face. I had watched this herd for days and knew this baby calf. I had seen her come to life. She is patchy with her mother's blood now and distressed. I am almost next to her. I hear the car and turn around; I am not sure why they are back. All I know is that I have to get away. There is a great deal of shouting as they see me. I push the little calf down as hard as I can, crying, hoping she would understand that she should not move. The massacre around me is what saves me. The car cannot pass through and by the time these heartless men are on their feet I have retreated into the thicket. I run hard and pay no heed to the scratches on my body. I frantically try and keep a sense of direction. I know I must try and reach people. These cowards would not harm me in front of others and risk exposure – would they? I keep going. I hear them sometimes, as the tears continue streaming down my face – It is the sickness of it all. Seeing this carnage has left me broken - fast and completely. I stumble on and reach the edge of a hill and see the rock. It is my time to hide. It is my time to do anything I can to show the world that these men deserve punishment – that they deserve death.

It is barely eight hours later. I am being followed. I do not slow down,and maintain my course, close to the main path. The presence behind me doesn't feel harmful – It is in harmony with the sounds of insects and birds surrounding me. There is no moonlight and my progress is slow, but I am hopeful and happy not to have met any lions or leopards (I am unprepared for more adventure). I curse my stupid thoughts of hope as I spy two amber eyes and then four and then too many to count. They are right here - I have walked into a pride. I am tired and scared– what was I to do? I crumple, gracelessly to the ground

There is a movement. I see the silhouette of a lioness stand and walk towards me, pausing and analyzing me – am I a threat? Am I a meal? I catch the swish of her tail. I wish she would understand that I am in trouble and that I must take my photos away from here. I am here to help. I watch her approach and try to maintain eye contact. I can feel her move towards me – the pride behind her are alert. Then, I feel it on my shoulder and I struggle to keep my composure. I am pushed aside, albeit gently, as the lioness steps back and turns away, shrugging off her interest in me with supine haughtiness.

I know we don't have much time before the pride realises that the calf is alone. And in a beautiful moment I realise she isn't alone: she has me and I have her. Perhaps, she does know, in her own sense, that I want to help. I gather myself together and move to the open road with renewed belief. I walk quickly with Tumaini (Hope, as I have named her) by my side. Her sorrow is obvious from the tears still running down her face, her head is drooping and that ever present hint of a smile – so part of an elephant - is missing. But her walk is steady and determined, and we press on.

It has been three months from that day now and I am at the lodge again. I still have trouble sleeping. I will never be the same. There are camera men and journalists around me. My pictures and story have been published on a special edition of National Geographic. I have exposed the murderers: four of them are now in prison. The park has more patrols, and elephant herds here are now protected by rangers, day and night. It is a very small victory considering the massive problem. I am not proud; I am barely moved. But I am humbled, and I am glad I have a small victory to help me do more. Mostly, I am privileged to have a new friend – I look up and see Tumaini, lingering at the edge of the lodge. Her new family begins to walk majestically away but she is looking at me and raises her trunk. I look into her eyes. It is a promise we have made together– a promise to help in any small way!

A Lighter's Willow

“We must go! Oh, how can we not?” Cassa looked desperately at her people as she pleaded, “We cannot miss the Light Willow Ceremony. Don't you see?”

“Cassa, we know that the ceremony is tomorrow but we must not risk leaving here – the enemy will invade our home and destroy it all.” Altur was sure of this and was trying to make Cassa see that their home needed protection.

“If we stay then all of these lands will perish. We will be responsible for that. Our selfishness to protect that which we love will destroy everything. As your leader, I have spoken – We will travel to the heart of Willow Land and be the light for all these lands. If we fail to do this – if we fail to go to the Light Willow Ceremony, and fail in our duty, we will bring about the end of the magic: magic of our own and magic in everyone around us.”

Altur was shaken by the sound of doom and finality in his wife's declaration. He looked into Cassa's blue eyes, hoping to see a sign of hope. In their twenty years of marriage, he had never been opposed, as strongly, to her choices. The weight of this was fast becoming impossible to bear. He approached his wife and held her soft fingers in his. There would be time, later, to convince her that this was madness. For now, he would stand by her and guide their people by her side – he would not forsake her.

Cassa felt Altur's reassuring grip on her hand and felt a sigh escape her. She felt no joy in forsaking her home, but the vision had been clear. Ferntress had also sent a warning. This was the reason Cassa had been born; she knew it with a blinding certainty. “Prepare yourselves! We leave for Willow Land at dawn.” 

Tears brimmed her steel eyes as she watched the other Lighters sombrely moving out of Willow Hall. From the window to her right, she could see her homeland and the dancing, merry lights shining through all the willow trees. Each willow stood proud and tall, houses and centres carved within its hollows. The design of each home was different, intricate details carved by the Lighters themselves. Stain glass paintings decorated the window panes that were made out of pure shimmer – which looked like and behaved like glass, but with magic. Shimmer protected the Lighters and the willows they lived in. It was made of the purest of waters; magic waters only Lighters could find. Shimmer was bright blue and speckled with star-like glitter and yet when you looked through it, it was crystal clear. Shimmer and the lights were what made this land so beautiful. Lights of all colours and shapes (leaves, trees, butterflies, stars – anything with life!) Each light could take on any colour and at times the lights would change colour as if by will to make everything more beautiful. Ferntress used to tell Cassa that the Lighters were as beautiful as their land and as Cassa looked at her people returning to their willows, she knew it was true.

The Lighters were distant relatives of the light fairies and the resemblance was vivid. The men were lean and stood at about two feet high. Altur was the tallest Lighter ever known at two and a half feet. The women were shorter and curvaceous. Lighters had hair the colour of sunshine and eyes the colour of bright blue skies. It was their wings, though, that made the Lighters resplendent. Each Lighter's wings were unique and took on their owner's personality: Altur's were golden and as they moved you could see the shape of a golden, majestic lion – shades of golden yellow and brown came together fascinatingly, evoking visions of a lion protecting its pride. Cassa's wings were heart shaped and rainbow coloured. The edges were tinted by a dizzying number of colours – black, white, gold, silver, amber and more. The heart shape and colour were reflective of the source of life. Other Lighters' wings comprised of flowers, trees, hills, some had written poetry and each depicted the Lighter's own core or skill. 

“Come Cassa, we must prepare to leave.” Altur couldn't help the hint of bitterness in his voice. 

“Altur, please hear me. My vision is clear. If we fail to bring the Grand Willow to life, the ceremony will fail and so will our magic. Our home will never be the same. We may save some of it, but the lights will die. Altur, I need you to help me with your heart. Please do not hate me.”

Altur looked at Cassa and understood that perhaps his sense of loss was blinding him. It hurt him beyond measure that they would lose their home; yet home without the lights was not home. “Cassa, forgive me. My selfishness has cost us time and caused us pain.” Placing his hand on Cassa's heart, he continued, “My life and light are yours to guide and share. We will light the Grand Willow. We will sacrifice our home so magic will live. It will be done as you say.”

Tears poured freely down Cassa's face. Laying her hand over his, she reached up and gave him a lingering kiss, “Together then, let us go onward.”

As dawn approached, Altur and Cassa watched as all the Lighters gathered together. Proud of their courage, Cassa began their journey song as they stepped out of Willow Heart and towards their destiny. Willow Light lay west and about half a day's journey away allowing a few brief stops for rest. 

The Lighters carried on with their journey, forsaking their sorrow and following their leader. A sort of merriment filled their hearts – for they loved to travel. Altur and Cassa alone were aware of the sense of darkness in their surroundings. Where there had been light there was an eerie greyness. Cassa urged her people onward, hastening their progress away from the gloom and wanting to ensure that they would be on time.

It was high noon when they reached Willow Light. Unnatural rain, snow and an evil wind had slowed them down and Ferntress sighed in relief as she saw them approach the Grand Willow, where she was waiting for them. “Come dear ones. There is no time to lose. We must begin the ceremony.”

Cassa looked at Ferntress and beyond, “Where is everyone? We will wait for them so they may watch.”

Ferntress shook her head in sorrow, “They will not come. It is only us who are here. Many are scared, others have perished and more still cannot make it past the evil.”

“But...”

“Come Cassa, let us not lose heart now. We will triumph yet.” Altur grasped her hand and gave it a gentle but firm squeeze. 

“Cassa, Altur, we must begin. If you do this you must know that you sacrifice your home – will you still light the Grand Willow?”

Cassa took a deep breath and turned to her people, “Lighters, we have been called. Light up your souls, forget your sorrows. Bring forth the magic – bring forth the light. Let our light be the light of magic. Let our loss be the gain of others. Let our tears bring laughter. Go forth, Lighters!” 

Even as she spoke the words, Cassa felt the light dying in Willow Heart and tears drowned her face as she saw her vision come to life. This would be the end of her people, but at least the rest of Willow Land would be safe. She looked towards Ferntress felt her sorrow and saw her resolve. She sought Altur's eyes and knew instinctively that he felt the light dying as well. 

“The ceremony will go on,” she vowed quietly and together Altur and Cassa flew around the Grand Willow, in spirals. Sparkled dust ran down the bark as they moved. The leaves turned golden, the Willow's bark was alight in a bronze glitter. The Lighters moved into a formation of a tree with a flower inside and a heart within the flower. In a single motion they flew higher, maintaining the formation, over the tree, protecting it and conferring it with their light. Cassa and Altur flew into the centre of the heart. The few spectators below were solemn and in awe of the beautiful sight. The lights were dazzling, and the Grand Willow itself seemed to be alive – a golden light was spreading through its roots and diffusing a sense of joy. Eerie lights that had take residence in the area around them, were disappearing. It was life beginning anew. Ferntress laughed her golden laugh again and the river beyond gurgled in unison. 

Cassa watched as all of Willow Land was encompassed in their light. She could see the evil move away. She saw laughter and fearlessness return to the land. She felt the joy of life as she spun her light with Altur's. She needed to hold on for just a while longer. She looked at her people and through their song, sent them love and gratitude. She looked at Altur and silently told him she loved him more than life itself. She saw again, her vision. 

It was time. She couldn't save their home but she would save her people. Quickly she gathered her essence and sough the presence of the evil. She wove her light and trapped the soul of the enemy in Willow Heart, her home. It pained her to have that evil in her home land, but it was inevitable. Only there, with the magic of their lights, their ancestry and the shimmer could the evil be contained. With quickening pace, Cassa summoned all her light and sent it forth from Willow Land to Willow Heart and barred the evil in a light prison it could not escape. She felt the light escape her soul and sank towards the earth. The Lighters' song had ended, but the Lighters themselves were alight and alive! She had saved them. She felt Altur's hand hold her before she hit the earth – he was safe too. She looked at him smiling, as her eyes closed. 

Altur watched her smile. She had saved them. He didn’t know how, but knew it had cost her her life. The sorrow he felt was beyond him. He felt dead, alive. He heard her last message in her smile and heard his voice speak words that were his, but not his, “ Lighters arise! Lighters awaken! Lighters alight! The evil has been contained. The shimmers and a prison of light hold it in Willow Heart. Our home is lost to us, but our magic and light are with us still. Cassa, sends us this gift. Homeless we are but gifted we remain.” He could say no more. He knew he must lead his people but did not know how. Around him, Lighters were mourning as he held on tightly to Cassa. 

“There is hope yet, brave one.” It was Ferntress. “Cassa, will live again.”

Altur looked up, hope threatening to surface. He said nothing, just waited to hear more from their friend.

“Altur, we have much to do. For now, Willow Land is safe and my people and the Lighters will take care of all the tasks at hand. We must journey.” 

Altur couldn't move. He wouldn't leave his wife. 

“Look carefully Altur, there is yet a spark in her soul. Let her rest. We will bring her the Heart of Willow from yonder. Make haste, lest we cannot help her.”

Altur looked at Cassa and the smile on her tranquil face. He laid her gently at the base of the Grand Willow. He magicked a shrine of light around her to protect her. He would journey, forever if that was what it took, to light that one spark that remained in her. To light her life – and his. 

Promise...

And I stood amidst the vast hills and against the never ending backdrop of more hills. I looked up into the sacred, seemingly endless sea of blue, "This is the sky" I was told a lifetime ago. Eons ago, when I was a child, I remember people looking up and praying to god as though he lived in that unflinching, moody sky, and today, years later I stand below that promise of hope, looking up through glistening eyes; angry eyes; searching for hope - this thought of a god, this mere fiction of imagination?

And i shouted at the sky. Raging, questioning this injustice, demanding a return of faith, seeking healing from the very entity that abandoned me. The anguish in my voice deafening, enticing the silence around me. And then moments of consummate stillness -tears falling rapidly down my face, hair tangled wildly across my face, unattended, unaware of anything but pain. On my knees now, crumpled against the unyielding, hard, stolid earth, face bent over dishevelled heart and mind, weighed down by cares - relentless, faced by the sempiternal truth that this was desperation, and finally awakening to the cold magnanimous wind sweeping around me. Cold eyes stare back at the sky, warmth returning to them as the blue, now dark-grey, heavens pounded the earth incessantly, heavily thunderously with tears of hope - soaking my body, drowning, forgetting, peace, safe...

Taken by Storm

It was one of those days when you wake up knowing nothing can go wrong. The weather was perfect: grey and whispering of merry rain, promising to shower the sedate parched hills with a long awaited cleansing. No hint of sunlight appeared to mar the delightful play of the rain drops, flowing in gentle angles and a growing rapidity that would have been regarded forceful, except for the grace with which it embraced the surroundings.

I turned from the window and looked to the other side. He was sprawled comfortably on the bed, stirring slightly, as the first drops hit the pane of glass and rumbled against the brick tiles of this cottage. Ever so slowly his eyes opened and looked straight into mine; a glimmer of a smile played on his lips as he watched me hugging a mug of hot coffee to my lips and dressed in a grey sweatshirt that was unmistakably his. With a slow movement he beckoned me to him. I walked to him. Such comfort should be scary but it wasn't. I was bound to this entity: he was my friend, he was my lover, he was my passion, he was my flaw and he was my joy.

Plague

Plague

He walked into my office. Immediately, he stuttered “ I’m ssso..orryy. I didn’t mean to be rude back in the days…”

Cutting his apologies short I spoke in a monotone voice “Please have a seat and tell me how I can help you.” Undeterred he continued “Look, I know what I did was wrong, but you really did not have to keep me waiting so long…” 

I was certain I heard a hint of anger? And again I spoke in that neutral voice so alien to me, “I’m sorry but I did not do that out of spite. I really had some business to take care of. Now, if we could get down to business, maybe I can help.”

Barely half an hour later he left my office, his job secure. In addition he succeeded in stirring up old memories; memories filled with pain, loneliness, rejection.

“Earth to Sarah!” startled I looked up to see Michael grinning at me, his blue eyes brimming with mischief. Tantalizing silky hair cropped over a perfect forehead, up in the air nose, and a stoic determined chin. A frame of suave and polish clung to him at all times. I smiled back, lamely, willing myself to disguise my renewed afflictions. It was pointless, he wouldn't be fooled “Want to talk?”

The smile that spread on my lips then was genuine. He had that effect on me “No, I’m okay. Let’s go. I need to have some serious fun.” Picking up my purse I followed a silent Michael to his car and we were both glad when we reached the restaurant, haunted by our own thoughts, glad to be surrounded, at last, by other colleagues and friends.

I had just started enjoying myself when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning around I faced him again. Restraining the throbbing in my head and smiling politely, I shook the hand he proffered, “Hope everything is okay?’

“Yes. And it’s all because of you. Thank you so much.”

“How are Jack and Steve?” I gulped. The tears were threatening. I had to get out! My head bowed, I muttered a harried “excuse me” and fled to the car park. I couldn't stop crying. The tears fell unchecked, unstoppable, stubborn to the core. I was helpless; then as if I saw light, a new sense, buried within me surfaced. Courageously and confidently I walked back into the restaurant and went straight to him, looked him in the eye, took a deep breath and burst forth, “Well, I've finally seen you face to face! you know you hurt me so bad, I've never been able to get over it!” Was it my normally husky voice that sounded shrill and on the verge of panic?I barely heard his muttered apology, when my eyes fell on Jack and Steve. My courage pelted to an all time low…courage? But I continued portraying a confidence I did not have “You should have just told me you didn't want to talk to me…god knows I would have got over that. Instead you…” the tears were streaming down my face again. I felt the warmth of Michael right next to me, “you buried my self-confidence, my self-esteem, self-pride. Everything. I've spent my whole life trying to regain all that and you know what? There’s still a part of me that feels unwanted, a part of me that feels I'm not good enough. You hardly knew me and yet you decided not to talk to me and spurned me. Was I so bad?” my legs felt like jelly. My voice had been reduced to a whisper, pleading and searching. Only Michael’s steadying grip stopped me from falling.

I glanced at him. He had nothing to say. I had not found the answers. I knew I never would. The pain didn't disappear; bitterly I realised it was more prominent than ever. I realised why I had wanted to be friends with them: they were fun nice people and now I had hurt them all - I could see it in their eyes. Their discomfort was no solace to me. I felt rotten “I'm sorry if I made you feel culpable. It’s not your fault.” And I walked away with Michael, preserving the little dignity I had left. I looked up at Michael, my friend. He glanced back not meeting my eyes. I stopped short, “Is something wrong?” my voice was trembling. I was trembling.

“Mmmh…well…I think….you shouldn't have made a fool of yourself. What’s wrong with you? People were watching you. You made a scene. You embarrassed me…it was all so ridiculous!!!” 

I stood rooted to the ground. “You didn’t have to stay with me if I embarrassed you.” It was a fiery statement, said with anger but I felt the evaporation of all my emotions. I’d lost another friend. Friend?

The room dimmed, the crowd seemed out of focus. I picked my handbag and walked out of the restaurant. I walked out and walked home, alone and despondent, as if dead.