Nature’s Flight

 

                                                            By Matthew Spence

Jessica Beckingham first heard about the flying plants from one of her neighbors. She'd been tending her flower garden when she noticed that some of her plants were missing. At first she thought an animal might have dug them up, or that they might have even been stolen, but the holes where the roots had been were too neatly scooped out for that. Then she heard about the flying plants on the news, and told Jessica what had happened.

 

"I don't know why mine left," she sobbed. "I took good care of them."

Jessica tried to be sympathetic. "Maybe it was just instinct, or something-they just wanted to follow the others? The rest of your flowers are still there, after all."

"Yes, but why is it happening?" Jessica's neighbor suddenly sounded afraid. "What if something else is next?"

 

Jessica began to wonder about that too, as the news about the flying plants spread. But as she had pointed out, it was only some plants, not entire groups, or colonies, as they were called. Videos were shown of trees, flowers, bushes, even weeds, pulling themselves up out of the ground as if by invisible hands and floating up until they were caught by the jet stream or other air currents and deposited hundreds, sometimes, thousands, of miles away, where they took root again.

 

"It seems to be a migration pattern," one of her other neighbors, a man named Scott, said one afternoon. He was a biology teacher at the local high school, and had been following the flying plants online. "They're staying in their own hemispheres, however. And different plant species seem to be deliberately avoiding each other. It's like they treat each other as invasive species infringing on their territory."

"But what does that mean?" Jessica asked. "Are they intelligent?"

"Plants do communicate with each other in nature," Scott pointed out. "And...yeah, that worried me. What if...what if they start to organize-against us?"

 

Jessica had wondered about that herself, and thought about it as she somewhat nervously looked at the sky. There were a few flying plants up there now-trees, elm and birch, probably from the nearby national forest area. She wondered where they were going, if they were going to take root there permanently, or if they might leave and go somewhere else. And what would they do then?

 

Jessica hoped she wouldn't have to find out, as the herbs on her kitchen windowsill began to stir restlessly.

About the author: 

Matthew Spence was born in leveland, Ohio. His work has most recently appeared in Tall Tale TV. More details of the author can be found here: 

Theme and Variations

 

                                                    By Matias Travieso-Diaz

1782

Rudolf Von Flüstervogel (“Rudi”) played the viola well but lacked stage presence: he caught nobody’s attention with his shy looks and his gray fishhook of a body. People kept meeting and forgetting Rudi time after time.

Rudi barely scratched a living teaching the viola to the children of the aristocracy. He had married Elise, a peasant woman who had given him two average children, a girl named Hanna and a sickly boy, Kurt. Elise complemented Rudi perfectly, for she was lively and resourceful, and her hard work kept the household together.

Rudi’s life centered on a passion for composing, and there lay his worst disappointment. Rudi had penned a few soporific works, all featuring the viola as a solo instrument or in a chamber ensemble. None had ever been performed.

In late 1781, Rudi made an effort to break into the Mannheim Orchestra’s ranks. He started a new composition: a duo for violin and viola. The idea for such a work came from his friendship with Carl Toeschi, the former concertmaster of the Orchestra, who had moved to Munich to join the service of the Duke of Bavaria. Rudi was hoping to convince Toeschi to play the duo with him and parlay the success of the premiere into an invitation to join the Mannheim Orchestra.

 

Early 1783

As months passed, Rudi composed a traditional first movement, an Allegro in which he strove to provide interesting dialogues between the two instruments. A forgettable Andante Cantabile followed.

And then his meager inspiration hit a wall. He did not know how to end the piece. He started losing sleep and became distracted.

“I worry about you” commented Elise.

“I’ll never rest until I get this piece completed,” he bemoaned.

“Let’s hope something can be done about it,” replied Elise with concern.

One afternoon Rudi was on his knees, seeking divine inspiration, when he felt faint. The ground melted away and he fell into a cavity filled with a warm, viscous liquid that enveloped him. He wished he could stay there forever, and never come out.

Then a deep voice resounded, seemingly coming from far away: “You are a coward and deserve your miserable life. If your meager talent fails you, you must comb the world for a source to complete your music!  Get up and find help!!”

Rudi came to and found himself lying on the floor of the room, aching and stiff. His mind had cleared up, and a new idea nested within. He would compose a theme and variations to end his duo; the variations would allow him and the violinist to perform virtuoso passages to entrance the audience. All he needed to do was write it.

 

Late 1783

By October he had a movement comprising a theme and six variations, each with a different character, plus a coda that brought the theme back transformed into a lively dance. He hoped the work would be well received.

He transcribed a copy of the duo and sent it by post to Toeschi in Munich. The response was enthusiastic. Toeschi undertook to send the draft to Christian Cannabich, his successor as concertmaster at the Mannheim Orchestra and now its director; he recommended that Rudi meet with Cannabich and secure a date for the premiere of the work.

It was November before Rudi was able to see Cannabich, who had studied the manuscript of the duo and liked the work. Nevertheless, he was not encouraging:

“Dear Herr Von Flüstervogel, your composition is good, in some parts wonderful, and I would be happy to perform it with you myself.” He paused for a moment, embarrassed. “But the Elector, our patron, has cut back on the orchestra's budget. We have a serious financial crisis in our hands.”

Rudi did not capture the significance of the news. “What … what does that mean in terms of performing my duo?”

Cannabich explained: “We have been told that we can only perform new works if the concert in which they are presented is fully funded. Someone would have to sponsor the evening through a donation to the orchestra, equivalent to the salaries of the musicians.”

Rudi swallowed hard. “And how much would that be?”

“To fully fund one of our concerts a donation of about 1,000 florins would be necessary.”

One thousand florins!  That was more than he possessed or ever expect to make in years. Cannabich wondered aloud: “Yet, the members of the orchestra are going hungry. Perhaps I could bring the question up to them and see if they would settle for half – maybe 500 florins would suffice.”

Rudi got up, defeated. “Let me get back to you” he said hoarsely, fighting back tears.

Later that day, Rudi wrote Toeschi apprising him of the situation. Toeschi’s response was: “I spoke to Duke Carl Theodore and he is willing to loan you 500 florins. You must repay it with interest and agree to come to Munich and perform the work with me, at his court. I enclose a bank note for that amount.”

 

January 1784

The winter of 1783-84 was severe. Heavy snowfall and frigid temperatures swept through Europe. Both of Rudi’s children got sick; by New Year, Kurt was feverish. The doctor concluded: “This boys’ lungs are weak; he has little strength left. I recommend you take him to some place warm, to wait out the winter. Perhaps in the spring he’ll be better.”

 

Elise’s mother had family in Sicily, and Elise contacted her to find out about those relatives. Within a week, she reported to Rudi: “I have a second cousin in Taormina. I’ll write her asking for her hospitality. In the meantime, we have to make preparations for the journey.”

“Preparations?”

“Our travel to Sicily will be expensive. We’ll need to provide for lodging, meals, transportation, plus other expenses.”

“What are we talking about?” asked Rudi in alarm.

“My sister here has agreed to take Hanna in so she does not need to come. My guess is that for the three of us, traveling to Sicily and returning in May will cost us 600 florins, if we are frugal.”

“And where are we going to find that money?”

“You just got 500 florins from the Duke of Bavaria. That plus about 100 florins I have saved should see us through the trip.”

“That’s not possible!  That money is a loan to finance the debut of my duo. I can’t spend it on travel!”

“You’ll have to find a way!” replied Elise, for once raising her voice to confront her husband. “The life of our son is at stake!”

Rudi blinked: “I’ll see what I can do.”

He went back to Cannabich and begged: “Is there any other way that funding could be secured for that concert?”

Cannabich furrowed his brow. Then his face lit up:

“I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“I have been in correspondence with Father Gregor Hauer. He obtained permission from the great Joseph Haydn to perform Haydn’s new cello concerto and is trying to find an appropriate venue to launch the work. Hauer just wrote inquiring about a potential concert with the Mannheim Orchestra. I have not replied yet.”

“And how does that help me?”

“I could write Hauer and request that he sponsor, at least in part, the concert where he would play Haydn’s new work. I am not sure if he has patrons who could subsidize his appearance. I would need to ask.”

“Would you please?” 

“I will write him today inviting him to perform at Mannheim under financial conditions, but who knows how he will react.”

At first, Hauer rejected efforts to make him pay to play, but Cannabich played up the financial straits his ensemble faced, appealed to the artist’s generosity, and hinted that some other musician might be willing to split the cost of the concert. Hauer finally agreed to obtain 250 florins from his benefactors.

Cannabich showed the letter to Rudi: “I fear this is the best we will be able to do. Can you take your son to Italy on half of the Duke’s loan?”

“It will have to suffice.”

February 1784

Rudi had a difficult time trying to persuade Elise to travel to Italy on 350 florins. “Do you want us to starve?” she protested.

“That’s the best I can do” he replied.

“Fine!” she screamed. “You stay. I’ll take Kurt myself, alone!”

It was already early February and Kurt seemed worse with each passing day. Rudi relented: “Please be very careful.”

They departed by coach on the second week of February. Kurt was wrapped in blankets and was deathly pale. Rudi feared his son might not survive the trip; tears streamed from his eyes as he waved farewell. Elise, her face set in an angry mask, did not wave back.

 

April 19-24, 1784

The concert in which Rudi and Gregor Hauer would perform would occur on Sunday, April 25. Hauer arrived in Mannheim on Monday evening, with time for a couple of rehearsals before the concert. Next day, he played the Haydn piece with the orchestra, and then sat in on the rehearsal of Rudi’s duo.

 

Hauer was half asleep for most of the piece. When the last movement began, however, he perked up. At the end, Hauer approached Cannabich: “Herr Direktor, may I have a private word with you?”  Cannabich escorted Hauer to his office and closed the door.

“How can I help you, maestro?” he asked.

“That duo you were rehearsing, who is the composer?”

“It was written by Rudolf Von Flüstervogel, whom you met today. Rudi is a local artist.”

“It is the strangest thing. As you know, I am in residence in Salzburg, working for Prince-Archbishop Colloredo. Another employee of the Archbishop is Michael Haydn, the youngest brother of Franz Joseph Haydn. Well, last year Michael composed six duos for violin and viola at the Archbishop’s request. You see, the Archbishop plays the violin and he wanted some pieces to play with his steward Count Arco, who is an amateur violist. Anyhow, I suffered through Michael Haydn’s duos several times – and the finale of the last of the six is in the form of a theme and variations, identical to the music I heard today performed by you and Flüstervogel.”

Cannabich blanched. “What are you saying?  That Rudi stole the music from Michael Haydn?”

“I do not quite remember the first two movements, but the theme and variations I recall very well.”

“What you are saying, Father Hauer, is very serious. We must get to the bottom of it right away.”

Cannabich had a copy of the duo made and dispatched it post haste to Munich, where Michael Haydn was staying, with a brief, blunt inquiry: “Dear Michael, someone claims to have written this duo. Are you in fact the author?”

 Michael Haydn’s response, sent back by the same courier, stated: “There are many differences throughout the work, but the Theme and Variations in this composition is the same as in the one that bears my name. However, the work was written by Mozart, who allowed me to pass it as my own as a favor. Mozart’s duos are vastly superior to anything I could ever write and I have no right to claim their authorship.”

An exhausted courier returned late Saturday night, just in time to hand Haydn’s response to Cannabich before the concertmaster retired for the evening.

 

 April 25, 1784

At dawn, someone knocked on Rudi’s door summoning him to the orchestra’s offices at the Mannheim Palace. He rushed there, and was greeted by Cannabich, who laid down the accusations levelled against him. “Father Hauer is sure that the work you call yours is someone else’s.” 

Rudi found the courage to respond energetically, though falsely: “Every note in that duo is mine. I spent almost a year writing it and I do not care what anyone says, this is my music, which cost me much sweat and tears. I will defend myself against these accusations until the day I die.” 

 

Cannabich responded coolly:

“Herr Von Flüstervogel, a lot of ill can occur if we pursue this matter in public. I shall just cancel the performance. I do not ever want to see your face again.”

Rudi thought of arguing further, but turned around and slunk out of the palace.

 

Late 1784

Rudi used the remainder of the Duke’s loan to take passage to Taormina to meet his family. He found Kurt in somewhat better health and his wife in a more amenable disposition. He refused to answer questions about what had transpired in Mannheim other than vowing never to return to the city. Elise interpreted his reticence as indication that his duo had been poorly received and did not press the point.

The family moved to Naples in July. Rudi auditioned for a position in the household of King Ferdinand. He was hired and became music tutor to the King’s children. He taught them viola and violin, and threw in German as a bonus. He was well liked by all.

 

1793

Rudi was well settled in Naples when the news reached them of Mozart’s death two years before. He was seized by melancholy, which he tried to disguise but Elise knew him too well and persisted in her questioning until he confessed.

“You may recall that, in 1783, I had been working in the composition of a duo for violin and viola, which I hoped would make me famous. I had written two movements but didn’t know how to end the work. I was desperate.”

“Yes, I remember the incident very well,” replied Elise.

“Then, I had a vision,” continued Rudi. “I heard a strong voice that directed me to look for models from which to draw inspiration to complete the duo. It was a message from Heaven and could not resist its command. I began looking, and in the library at the Mannheim Palace I found a manuscript that contained an unidentified duo for violin and viola. The entire duo was wonderful, but it was the third movement, a Theme and Variations, that drew my attention, for it was just what I needed. I copied the movement and used as the finale of my duo.”

“I never knew who the work’s true author was until last year, when I bought in Florence the score of a duo in B flat by Mozart. In reviewing the score, I realized that Mozart was the composer of the work that I’ve been passing off as mine.”

 “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” rebuked Elise.

“I’m ashamed, but not sorry for what I did. I was following directions from some power greater than I. I had to find a way to complete the work by whatever means possible. So, I stole. But at least, I stole from the very best.”

Elise looked at her husband for a long time. “And you really don’t know the source of the voice you heard?”

“It’s a mystery,” concluded Rudi. “Perhaps it was Mozart himself.”

Elise turned her head away from her husband so he would not see her smile.

About the author: Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man where he became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. Over one hundred of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in paying anthologies, magazines, blogs, audio books and podcasts. A first collection of his stories, “The Satchel and Other Terrors” has recently been released and is available on Amazon and other book outlets. More details about him can be found here: 

Bobby Bunny and the Great Big Garden

 

                                                    By H.L. Dowless

One warm day in mid-May, Bobby Bunny went hippity hop, right down the bunny trail, until he arrived at this great big garden plot. This handsome plot was very nicely tucked away behind some sweet smelling pink azalea hedges, so Bobby Bunny decided that nobody would ever see.

So.., he raced right along, hippity hop, hop, and he stole ONE carrot, TWO carrots, THREE carrots for free! FIVE beets and SIX leeks before it was anywhere near late. Why, fellow that’s more than THREE times THREE!

Now Bobby Bunny made a habit out of all this stealing and eating, and as we all know, habits that form easily are usually harmful ones. But poor Bobby simply could not stop it. Why raiding gardens was SO much fun, and besides, if there was ever any danger, he could just RUN RUN RUN!

So every morning bright and early, he hopped along. Hippity-hop, Hippity-hop, hippity-hop-hop-hop! He was moving, grooving, singing a tune, like he would never stop; no, not from morning until late afternoon. Hippity-hop, hippity-hop, went-he-down that well worn bunny trail. Hippity-hop, hippity-hop, nobody will ever see or tell. In through those hedges he went, right fast, like lightning, and ZIPPITY-ZAP by the gardener he went, right PAST!

So, he hopped right along until he came to the cabbage, and he stole ONE head, TWO heads, and THREE heads of cabbage he snatched up for free! FOUR turnips, FIVE turnips, SIX turnips, now remember that’s THREE turnips and THREE!

Now the gardener never did like this much, and he vowed aloud to stop Bobby Bunny. So, he swung down his hoe with a great big CHOP! He chopped ONE time, TWO times, even THREE times and THREE! Yes, that gardener chopped so much that day I feared he might chop up even you and me!

But nobody could catch Bobby Bunny that day, like a cool mountain stream he ran very smoothly and FAST! Do all of you hear me now? I do mean that nobody could catch him that day! No not me, not even you, not even the falcon on the breeze, let alone the gardener he ran past. In between the gardener’s feet did Bobby run, dodging the blows of his razor sharp hoe. Out the garden Bobby did go, making the gardener’s head fill with woe!

At the same moment Bobby’s mother eased down that well worn bunny trail, and when she made it to the garden, what did she see? Nothing but that cottontail of Bobby going ZIPPITY ZAP, ZIPPITY ZAP, and she heard Bobby’s voice shouting with glee. She saw Bobby snatch ONE yellow squash, TWO green cucumbers, even THREE times THREE! Yes, and that’s more than enough for anybody. Yes, even some for him. Yes, even some for you. Yes, even some for me!

Around that gardener he raced, ZIPPITY ZAP, through the azalea hedges, laughing so loudly with glee. Well, he raced down that trail with his crop in his hands. So if he was not stealing vegetables, then where would be his profit?, thought he. Right down that trail he went, racing like rushing water, his feet thumping like rolling thunder, just whistling a merry song. Until he arrived at a briar filled thicket, full with lush purple berries and cat-claw thorns which scratched to the pure bone! Inside that thicket soft yellow straw was nice, and warm, and very cozy. You see, this was the place Bobby Bunny called home.

But his mother was very wise and fast herself, and deeply into the thicket zipped she, until she appeared behind Bobby Bunny scolding, causing him to tremble with fear and shake at the knee!

“Don’t you dare go back into that garden,” she screamed. “Do not ever go back again. I fear that you shall be stew before this is all over, and the number of my children shall be reduced from TWENTY to only NINETEEN!

But Bobby Bunny just smiled and said;

“Oh, dear mother, don’t you worry-any about me, for I am just too fast and sly for that old farmer, so let my last word here be said. He shall die of old age himself, before it is me who is dead!”

His dear mother hung her head as she listened to those foolish words that young Bobby sat on the root stump and said. When he finished speaking she glared at him and replied;

“Do not ever say that you have not been warned, and please do whate’er you insist! Just remember Bobby boy, that when you are dead, by all of your family you will be sorely missed. I have tried, and I have tried to raise you right, but you always insist on going wrong. So go on if you must, just please pause and think on my words, think hard before much more time has flown!”

So Bobby paused, and he THOUGHT, and then he THOUGHT some more! Oh soon he thought without some new excitement from somewhere, that his life would be such a bore! He struggled hard to shake those visions of garden vegetables from his head, and those visions of garden mud from his feet, and the thrill of being chased from his yearning heart, as he lay awake in his bed and fought with himself to sleep. So, up and out into the dark of night, he raced. He simply could not stand it any more! More than those visions of the vegetables, it was simply the thrill of the chase.., and the fear of his life becoming such a dreadful bore.

So, he dashed down that bunny trail, ZIPPITY ZAP, right into that garden yaupon hedge. SNIPPITY SNAP went the dry twigs, and against some loose border bricks his feet went BIPPITY BAP! SNAP went ONE carrot, SNIP went TWO radishes, SNIP SNAP went THREE times THREE! SNIP SNAP SNAP SNIP throughout the garden went all of those vegetables, you see. But then suddenly he heard a noise, and his feet suddenly sank with fear. Right beside him he heard the hollow thud of booted feet, and in the air he smelled the breath of soured beer.

“Surely I have you now, bunny boy!,” thundered a voice from the darkness. “Your time on this night has indeed come due! For you should have listened to your dear mother, bunny boy, and all of those who love you true.”

So. Bobby ran, ZIPPITY ZAP, and he dashed to and fro, YIPPITY YAP, but on that night he could simply not run fast enough, nor avoid the gardener’s box trap.

So, thus ends the tale of Bobby Bunny, please learn his lessons very well. Be wise and avoid all traps, and always pay heed to wise advice well. For the dead can never do any good, and fine stories of adventure have they never to tell. These all lie in the realm of the living, who walk where the dead once stood.

About the author: The author is an international ESL instructor. More details about him can be found here: 

The Ferryman

 

1.

Sandy Valley. A small village at the foothills of a large mountain line in Southeast Asia. It would be a very beautiful place for a romanticized traveler, thanks to its serenity, calmness and the wild lovely flowers all around the windy walkways in the remotest setting off the illusive city life. The festive mood of nature continues from the end of the prolonged winter to the spring with the blooming colors in a jubilant mood. And it is the time when the hardships begin for the poor bread earners still clinging on to the place they were born and brought up in. This is the only place on earth they have ever known of from the stories of their ancestors, from the struggles they take on, from the happy moments they share together, from their hardships and sweats, from the indispensable bond they are tied to nature, from every single breath to taste the life. But the limited living resources could allow only a few hundreds of people to cling on to living with the minimal modern facilities a man would ever expect in the beginning of the 19th century.

 

The ferryman was waiting to kick off his first ride in the dawn. The eastern sky had hardly started lighting the earth with the first rays of the Sun. The river named Sandy was looking a little more rougher today with the incessant sound of flowing waters and breaking waves in a clash with the wind and currents. The passengers grew more worried but the rider looked nonchalant. He knows the turns, depth and the current of the river almost like his own palm. And for the countless number of times he has saved people, mostly kids and women, falling in the water from boats and trapped in the powerful currents. He could swim like a dolphin above the water or under it; amidst the deep current or in the crashing waves. But Madhu was worried too behind his apathetic look for entirely a different reason. The water level of Sandy River this year wasn’t increasing like it normally does during this part of the season. He knows the rhythm and the cycle of the water better than anyone else and anything else around him. He has witnessed the slow changes of its course, forcing people living near the bank to relocate. He has witnessed the river in its devastating mood, flooding the entire village which would eventually help the lands to grow more fertile and the landlords to reserve water for irrigation. But, there must be something wrong with the river this year. The clouds are not staying longer and the monsoon rains are not lasting longer either.

 

2.

The ferryman is known to all as Madhu, a shortened one from Madhushanka, without any middle or surname. He could hardly remember the time since when he started ferrying people to cross the river as the helper to his mentor and guardian who once provided shelter to a drifting kid and eventually started treating him like his own son. With his mentor, who he called papa, having passed away, he shouldered the responsibility of both the boat and the river which becomes nearly non-existent during the dry season with little or no water at all. But the scenario gets changed dramatically at the beginning of the long awaited monsoon. The darkening clouds engulfing the entire village and the chimes of sad gloomy sky bring back hopes and dreams to the villagers. The small river with the minimal flow suddenly becomes wild, windy and wavy and impassable without the expertise of a highly skilled rider like that of Madhu. And it’s the season when the rider becomes busy all through the day and night. And this is the season the villagers become busy with their own livelihoods: the farmers, the day-laborers, the fisherman and a couple of masons and carpenters all come out together off their naturally enforced long vacation. This is the season when the villagers start ploughing their fertile lands whose fertility entirely depends on the rains and the sediments distributed by the overflowing river.

 

Madhu worships the Sandy River as the only goddess he feels deep down his heart. The river was the closest companion in his troubled childhood days. The river is now the only means of his livelihood and he just can’t imagine of any other way to earn. When the river gets dried and the reasons to cross the knee deep water level get even more drier, he still keeps coming to his small boat tied to a tall tree on the bank. He spends hours watching people crossing the river on foot or the fishermen trying hard to catch fishes in the near dead flow of water.

 

In all these years Madhu has garnered the trust of the villagers who depend on each other for their respective livelihoods. People need to cross the river to get to the huge hut on the other side of the river, near the age-old railway station with only one train still keeping the locality alive to the other part of the world. But, the fresh vegetables, milk, butter, honey and other crops are the other things that make traders commute to this hut. And sometimes the vendors themselves cross the river for gaining the better margin, risking a little of their lives on the river; banking a huge trust onto the ferryman.  

 

The entire economic activities of Sandy Valley center around a few landlords of the village. While amassing their wealth with every passing year, they create the maximum job resources for the day laborers and other people in general and they have got their own houseboats, locally known as bojras, to make their precious lives more secured on the wild river. They often cross the river to catch up with the train to meet their relatives in the town. Life gives them the luxury to live a dual life: one in the village with the countrymen and with the hardships attuning to nature and the other is somehow like a vacation home in the town to spend the dry season.  They have got their kids educated in the town though, who, just like the opposite, spend their study breaks in the village. And ironical enough, Madhu’s little luxury depends on those kids and their pleasure trips on the river. When someone among them accidentally fall off their houseboats, and which happens regularly, Madhu instantaneously jumps off his boat and save them from being drowned in the helical flow or rip currents. And in such cases the tips from the landlords are always good.

 

3.

Apart from the river, the only other entity Madhu ever cares for is his wife, Banalota, whom he lovingly calls Buno. The affluent villagers or the traders making good profits would often give him good tips. And on such a day he would always think of two things: buying some jewelry like ear rings, nose pins or whatever fancy items were available in the hut near the station and drinking a whole bottle of a locally brewed cheap ram before getting back home. Other than riding the boat and swimming in the river, his entire life was dependent on his wife, be it the financial affairs, managing fresh vegetables or other everyday essentials like storing crops for the dry season. She never scolds him for being so late or for his occasional drinking habit but for being so bold to brave the wildness of the fuming river and so reckless to dive deep into the current so as to save the drowning people. But he is always ready with his smile and his answer: the river is his mother and a mother can’t kill his own child. She keeps waiting without having dinner for his husband to come home and it also hurts her to serve the food cold. Madhu never minds having a cold meal, though. Furthermore, he loves the way his beloved wife scolds him. He thinks himself a really lucky person to have such a beautiful, lovely and caring wife, who had to give up her gypsy life and her River Gypsy family to settle down with Madhu.

 

As Madhu was afraid of, the river was behaving differently this season. Instead of overflowing the banks, the water level started decreasing. The monsoon had somehow got derailed without triggering sufficient rain everyone was waiting for. And a village entirely dependent on one crop season after the monsoon rain finds it really hard to believe. They can’t remember such an instance to have ever happened to a place under the lap of nature with all its blessings for the people who never demanded too much from life.

The prolonged dry season after just a short break resumed. The villagers, most of them belonging to the working class, found it hard to cope up without jobs in the farming lands. The helps from the landlords began to drain out. The bond among the villagers began to fall apart. The common woes appeared to hit the clans in different ways. And the age old stories of famine started to cause panic among the people. With the small savings dried out and without the options left to seek help, the families began to flee in the darkness into an abyss of uncertainty, leaving behind their moments of joy, sorrows, hopes and beliefs and probably their souls deeply attached to the place. The melancholic tune started dominating the entire community with the increasing emptiness in the literal sense with the increasing number of abandoned homes every single morning.

 

4.

Days kept passing by without bringing any change to the fate of the people. The number of people had been reduced to half now.

 

Madhu never thought of leaving the river, and the small home close to its bank. But his wife, Buno, finally somehow managed to persuade him to leave their loving home and try their luck somewhere else like the other villagers. The stock of flattened rice and puffed rice has been reduced to the bottom layer even after extreme rationing. The stock of rice is nearly finished too. They took their minimal belongings and the rest of the dried food in a small bag with the diminishing hope of coming back home again. But the current priority is to manage somehow some job to be able to buy at least a square meal a day anywhere far or farther.

 

They left home in a shattered mind and in silence with tears rolling down their faces. In all these years they have lived so far, they never set themselves apart from their motherly river. Nor could they do it now. Instead of crossing the river to catch up with the trail to the town, they kept walking along the river with the hope of a better locality somewhere down there. 

 

Their village is naturally bordered by the small hills on two sides and a jungle on the West and the other one being covered by the river line. They choose the Western way where the river line meets the long forest. They kept passing through the muddy ways along the river bank like flowing on in an infinite silence without any trace of locality. The hilly tracks full of small bushes on the infertile soils keep acres of land uninhabited by the people solely dependent on agriculture. There are a few families who would go deep into the forest to collect honey in groups, but that was seasonal too. And they too never live anywhere near the forest line, though no species of ferocious animals was heard to be seen in the woods full of sal trees.

Their progress towards the uncertain destination was getting slower with every passing hour in nearly unfed stomachs. There was the source of water all along the way as the river was still flowing like a rivulet. But the dry foods can hardly provide the energy to walk through the untrodden ways full of downward slopes and small hills. Green coconuts or ripen guavas or sometimes bananas from the naturally grown trees helped them a lot on their painstaking journey. But these sorts of natural sources were getting lighter too as they were getting closer to the forest line.

 

After two days of laborious journey on foot with little rest and diminishing hope, Madhu was lying prostrate under a tree, looking at nowhere in a blank pair of eyes, thinking how his beautiful world was shattering into pieces. The logic wanted him to change the course and cross the river to get somewhere near the town like many other migrants. It was just before twilight when his eyes suddenly fell onto a long line of ants desperately moving in a row.  And his eyes got wet with the glow of a suddenly rekindled hope. Living all these years near water, studying nature, the movement of airs, the humidity and the heat of the Sun, the movement of the birds and clouds and the sky all through his life from childhood, he knows it’s the time. He immediately sprang up and asked his wife to get ready for the journey back home. Though a little confused at first, Buno didn’t argue with his husband as she knew very well what his husband was made of. If he thinks that the rain is coming back, it will definitely come in full vigor. Within hours there were chimes all along the sky with shrouding heavy clouds all above them. And then the downpour begins. 

 

5.

It took them less than a day to get back home amidst incessant rain. The river was already swelling up with wild roars while flowing like thousands of wild horses in a race. It was just the afternoon with the shadow of the night all set to sweep over the gloomy sky. Without taking any rest and wasting any time, Madhu left home to do a little repairing job of the boat, promising the worried Buno to return home in just an hour. The entire atmosphere of the village seemed to have changed in just three days. The torrential rain along with the lightning, the frightening and howling sound of the wind like that of a nor’wester, and the dangerous and all-engulfing look of the river were ringing the bell to declare an upcoming disaster. Madhu’s home was the nearest one from the river which was already flowing above the bank with millions of tons of water joining in.

Madhu was nearly running to get back home, sensing the flash flood. But the water level rising above his knee in just minutes forced him to swim back home for half a mile. He was so concerned about his wife alone in the home due to the screams of people from the neighboring homes. Many other people like them seemed to have come back home but may be just to face the far graver danger. They were searching for their dear ones yet to get back home. By the time Madhu reached home, the water level had reached almost waist high and Buno was standing on their bed which had gone under water. Both of them felt really relieved to see each other safe. But just for a moment. Suddenly a scream of a woman asking for help for her drowning child made Madhu take a reflex action like he used to do for drowning people in the river. He swam towards the sound like a sailfish while scanning the water covered area in the dwindling light from the sinking Sun. And the kid was lucky this time. Madhu brought him back to the tearful mother and swam back home at the same speed. Swimming can hardly make him tired.

 

The water level was still rising without giving any hint to go down soon. So Madhu decided to leave home yet again for the second time in three days. He took Buno on his back and asked her to hold him tight. He was planning to cross the drowned area to take shelter on the hilly parts of the village, nearly one kilometer off his home. But it was quite difficult to swim towards the right direction. In the already darkened afternoon the water logged land was hard to differentiate from the actual river. But Madhu is a water guy with full sense of the depth and current and obviously the courage. Swimming for hours has never been a problem for him. Even while carrying someone on his back. He was smoothly moving towards the light from the houses of the landlords. They live on the upper side of the village.

 

But there is one thing like helical flow in the calm looking surface and Madhu somehow fell into one in darkness and suddenly felt an enormous power pulling him deep down the water. He felt like something was fastening him tightly to a rope, draining out all his energy. He was pulled back into the main flow of the river and into a rip current which was still tying him tightly to keep him into the spiraling flow down the surface. And suddenly with the oxygen level going down to zero his lung was striving hard for the open air; his back felt so heavy. Buno was holding her throats more strongly under the water and he immediately started struggling to free himself from the weighing burden falling heavier every single second. Fresh air was all he was looking for. With a last attempt to breathe he put together all his energy and squeezed the throat of the burden real hard. In a few seconds the burden loosened and he set himself free from the current to float above the surface.

 

He was getting back to his senses with a few long breaths in the open air. Amidst darkness, and water and the waves he started feeling life once again after the near-death experience for the first in his life and still it was in the water where he feels the most comfortable. But with more oxygen flowing in his veins and the brain, he started feeling one more thing; a salty taste of tears rolling down his eyes. He started realizing what he had done. Without thinking anything else and with a prolonged sigh of disbelief and a blurred out groan, he finally surrendered himself to his river mother and to the flow of the deep current and started searching desperately for something he always thought more valuable to him than his own life. Under the dark deep water he was losing the last light of his conscience with the last ray of hope getting dimmer. The last thing he could remember was the feel of a cloth in his quivering fingers of the right hand.

 

Hours went by and the all engulfing darkness was getting weakened with a soft light emerging on the eastern sky. The flash flood was gone along with the howling winds and the roaring waves. The river was calm and so was the weather. And so were two bodies on the boat of Madhu: still breathing.

(The story is written in the shadow of Bengali short story entitled “Tarinee Majhi”, by prominent Bengali novelist Tarasankar Bandyopadhyay.)

 

©Atique R.

The Midnight Lane

 

1.

The city clock struck the bell, loudly announcing that the night had crawled past midnight line and begun counting time for another day in its relentless journey. It was the time for the dwellers to be already in their dreams of the earlier hours of deep sleep; quite unusual for the city life, but, it was just like that for the old township called Nature’s Nest. And it was more than unusual for a lone traveler to be at its Metro Station at this hour of the night. 

Nature's Nest is a remote and cornered city bordering a long trail of mountains and an almost impassable forest line that failed to offer any reason to be bisected by an interstate and which is the reason why the small township lying on the lap of nature remained unexpanded in decades with hardly any changes in the number of its population. And more interestingly, the city people are always reluctant to move out of the town to try their luck elsewhere. They just live on with the limited resources without making any complaint. The kids do their schooling, grow up to go to the high schools and colleges established in the town, take up family businesses or other available jobs that neither require higher university degrees nor promise of a bright and upscaling career. Of course, there is a small percentage of youth who move out of the city seeking better education and a rather fast-paced life. A few among them return with the life growing older and the ambition getting lighter. 

     

Robin had a different reason to move out of the city. But he has been maintaining the balance somehow in keeping in touch with the city he loves the most after his loving younger sister.

 

2.

Robin could hardly remember if he had ever wandered about the city anytime closer to midnight. Even at 10pm, the city looks like a fairy land buried deep down the night without any sound caused by human habitations. But it was a different night. He was on his way back home from the Metro station. He was supposed to be here by 8pm, but the train was delayed by 4 long hours. And he was the only one to have got down from the train. It has never been a busy station though. He stepped out of the already deserted station gate.

 

But the scenario seemed to have changed dramatically, with a magical touch by the crafted hand of the most powerful wand. Everything seemed to have flipped over from the real one to a dreamy version of the same street with some shadowed figures aimlessly strolling around on the dwindling traffic under the magical flow of the showering Moon beams. An enchantingly sweet smell started floating over with a gentle breeze flowing in from the forbidden part of the town.

 

The Moon was shining bright but the street lights were shrouded by light white clouds and a mysterious mist amidst a gripping silence. However the streets were not what they were supposed to be. This was the time of the night when the city dwellers stay indoors, having already spent the first couple of hours of their sleeping schedule.  But the streets were not deserted in any sense. People were seen walking along the streets in silence either in couples or in a line. Everyone seems to be in a group and again seems like all alone but in a balanced rhythm; neither looking chaotic nor in queues. A few couples seemed to be holding each other’s hands, sharing thousands of untold things to one another, but there was silence all around; a painstaking silence. No one was seen to ever miss a beat or stumble down on the way. They were spreading all around the place like a blooming night queen, but never in a hurry.

 

It was a few minutes past midnight but Robin was not a bit worried. He was not even concerned about the time anymore. Nor was he aware of the fact that he was the only one to have got down from the train and walked out of the station exit. He was just excited about the surprise he was going to give to his little sister on her birthday. The street lights were on and the road was straight from the right turn off the Metro Avenue; just about 30 minutes of walk was all he needed to get to his home at the end of the Rose Valley. But he never looked puzzled even after crossing past dozens of people on the road at this time of the night. Nor was he aware of the fact that he was walking along the opposite direction to the one he was supposed to take. And the road leads to the Howards End, the end of the unmarked border for the city dwellers.

 

3.

Nature’s Nest is definitely not a night town; there are no night pubs or bars or the night clubs which remain open all through the night like in any other dazzling avenues or squares of the mega cities. The entire city closes at 8pm maximum and people leave the city to the care of Nature and probably which was how the name Nature’s Nest came into being. Peace, calmness and daylight activities in full vigor and jubilance and the social gatherings at the early evening and family time at the dinner table at home are the common things practiced by the residents.

The town was in deep sleep at half an hour past midnight. But Christie couldn’t sleep even after switching off the bedside lamp at about 10:30pm. She was of course excited for her party the next evening. They don’t celebrate the day in a lavishing grandeur. But lots of happy moments with the neighboring friends and her favorite dishes cooked by her mother and aunts are the things she used to enjoy the most since her childhood. And unlike many other girls her age, she kept counting the days, months before her birthday. The excitement was still there; not the reason. For the last couple of years she eagerly waits for her birthday for the presence of her only brother, Robin who she really misses a lot. And he was the reason she was not feeling comfortable for. She knew Robin was coming home next noon. But she just didn’t know why she was feeling so anxious for his loving brother, like she didn’t know why her eyes were full of tears.    

 

4.

It’s been thirty long minutes since Robin started walking along the Metro Avenue. He was supposed to be at the gate of his home by now, but he was nowhere near and he was not a bit concerned about it. In the dimming street light and the shadowed moonlight, the dark forest line was coming into view. But he was not aware of it either. But he had to stop all of a sudden with a sweet scent of body spray, and a clear voice, both so familiar to him.

-Robin, what are you doing here?

He seemed to have got back to his senses and his look went straight to his very familiar and dear face standing just a couple of yards from him. It was his brave, adventure-loving and favorite most, Rayan uncle, in his favorite white tee-shirt. He now knew he was not supposed to be here at this hour of the night; he was not supposed to be anywhere close to the Howards End in a moonlit night. People didn’t even dare to come this far even in the broad daylight. But he wasn’t feeling afraid; his favorite Ryan uncle was there.

-Oh, uncle, how are you? I think, I took the wrong turn after the Metro Avenue. I wanted to give Christie a surprise, so I took the afternoon train. But, there was a problem in the rail line and our train got stuck in the South Dale station for 4 long hours.

-Hum, I know about the line derailment. Now follow me, we get to hurry.    

Robin’s eyes got wet in extreme joy just at the sight of his uncle after so many days. He used to accompany his uncle on many adventurous trips along the hilly treks with their bicycles. The memory lane of his teenage days is crowded with all those sweet and thrilling moments they spent together over the dangerous mountainous treks or on the boating trips to the far east corner of the swamp forest after crossing the Crescent Lake, which were of course unbeknownst to other family members. In fact, apart from the school hours, all his outdoor activities revolved around Ryan Shaw. Instead of playing football with classmates he would prefer going out on a biking trip to the wilderness with his bohemian uncle. 

And now he started following his uncle like those old days. His uncle used to tell him lots of stories but now he remained silent most of the time. But, it was Robin’s turn now. He had so many things to share with his uncle. He kept telling him about the beach close to his university campus, about his new friends in the new town.

It was a long walk home, but to Robin it seemed like just a few minutes. He could see the gate, the high-powered bulb to light the entire lawn. He sped up and stepped inside the gate and suddenly felt a change in the entire atmosphere. He was walking side by side with his uncle and now his eyes caught sight of an old bicycle leaning against a wall of the garage. It belonged to his Ryan uncle. He was on a solo trip to trek the mountain at the Howards End, where he met with a fatal road accident a decade ago. An untimely death at just 30. And it was the reason why Robin had to go through a mental trauma which took months to recover from. And his family had to relocate him to the nearest city, 200 miles away off the Nature’s Nest. 

With all his energy suddenly got drained out, Robin kneeled down the dewy ground, heard the main door creaked open and saw his sister running towards him.

© Atique R.