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themurphyzone · 3 years

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BatB AU: A Provincial Life

Summary: It’s an ordinary day in ACME Village for Pinky. Until it isn’t.

AN: This oneshot adapts the opening number ‘Belle’ and village scenes, up until Pinky sets off for the castle in search of his father, which leads into the entry Imprisoned.

AO3 Link

Pinky scooped a ladleful of oatmeal into a small, earthen bowl, humming dreamily as he added a dash of cinnamon and several apple slices into the mixture.

Today was a very special day for Papa, and Pinky wanted him to eat a healthy and nutritious meal before he went off to the fair with his invention. It would be a few days of travel, and Papa would need his strength for traveling there and back.

“Papa, I’m going out!” Pinky called as he carefully pushed a large woven basket of acorns outside. “Your breakfast is on the table, so make sure you eat it all!”

There was a sputter and cough of machinery and a trail of smoke from the small room that served as a makeshift workshop next to the kitchen, followed by a loud bang.

“Just getting ‘er warmed up for the final test!” Papa shouted. “C’mon, Madeleine! You may’ve fallen apart for the 264th time, but you can do it!”

Oh, Pinky had no doubt people were gonna love the woodcutting, ax-wielding, only occasionally threatening to take fingers off machine known as Madeleine. She was definitely gonna win that gorgeous blue ribbon at the fair! And even if she didn’t, they’d love her all the same anyway.

He opened the door and stepped into the beautiful autumn morning, taking in the cool, fresh air as he carefully maneuvered the basket of acorns into a red wagon. The leaves were varying hues of crimson and gold, dancing along a gentle breeze that ruffled Pinky’s fur. The sun was peeking over the horizon, slowly bathing the world in light as it rose.

Two songbirds flew merrily above him, their sweet morning song filling the air with beautiful music. Pinky reached up, and one of the songbirds briefly landed on his outstretched hand before flying after his partner, leaving a red feather behind.

“Thanks for the feather!” Pinky shouted to the sky as he tucked the feather behind his ear, where it fit perfectly.

He picked up the wagon handle and pulled it along, the wheels squeaking along behind him.

In the meadow beside their quaint little cottage, Pharfignewton chewed placidly on dew-covered grass. She neighed a greeting to Pinky, and Pinky cheerfully waved back. As much as he loved taking the beloved family horse into town for company, she needed her strength to lug Papa, Madeleine, and all their supplies later. So he had to let her rest.

Reeds and wildflowers of all sorts grew along the banks of the pond that separated the little cottage from the rest of ACME Village. A pair of ducks paddled along in the water, trailed by four adorable, fluffy yellow ducklings. Several tiny turtles sunbathed on an old log, while a large green frog sat on its lily pad and caught insects unlucky enough to stray in the path of a long, sticky tongue.

Pinky took his time crossing the cobblestone bridge over the pond, watching the wild animals go about their day without hustling, bustling, or rushing from place to place. Their lives were very different from their neighbors, despite living so close together.

Little animals, little pond, and little humans in their little town.

Or was everything just bigger than him? He was a mouse after all. It wasn’t hard to be bigger than a mouse, unless one happened to be an insect.

As Pinky crossed onto the other side, he spotted a smooth, pretty gray stone poking out of the reeds. He plucked it out of the damp soil, cleaning the dirt off with the inside of his apron.

It would be a perfect stone for his collection. And he didn’t have any that were this smooth. Most of the rocks he picked up were half-crushed or broken from city streets or well-worn paths. He tucked it into a pocket that he’d sewn on himself, because for some odd reason dresses never came with pockets.

Then he faced the little town, with all its timber and stone buildings lining a narrow cobbled street that quickly filled with half-asleep, half-awake people trying to get an early start on their sales and trades.

To think he and Papa had lived here for three years. While not the most exciting town in the world, Pinky was just happy they didn’t have to move again. He’d spent too much of his life being bustled from place to place since Mama died. The cottage was the loveliest place they’d ever owned.

And while the townsfolk had the same ol’ familiar routine every day, Pinky tried to vary his activities. From baking to horseback riding to volunteering for odd jobs around town, or just taking a day off to nap under a tree and roll down the hilly meadows while grass stains formed on his back.

Just a normal provincial life, yet Pinky often wondered what laid in the big blue yonder. Did the stars and sky look different elsewhere? Do the clouds form big, fluffy, and silly shapes in South America?

“Bonjour!” a man called out as he threw open his shutters.

“Good morning, Emile!” Pinky replied as he skipped past his window.

“Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!” The echoing chant swept across rooftops and streets alike as a new day dawned upon ACME Village.

Everyone from chimney sweepers to merchants to coachmen responded with vigor and cheer, all of them satisfied with their occupations in life.

Pinky greeted everyone he passed, though not all returned the gesture. Everyone was staring at the feather tucked behind his ear, the bulge of the stone in his pocket, or the red wagon with the basket he pulled along. He didn’t think he was that strange-looking.

Unless he had a bit of cabbage stuck in his teeth again. But he flossed really well last night, so he didn’t think that was the case.

“Marie, hurry up with the baguettes!” the baker shouted as he carried several loaves of bread outside.

Pinky inhaled deeply. There was nothing quite like the scent and sound of fresh bread.

“Narrrrrrf! Smells just like heaven, Mr. Baker!” Pinky exclaimed.

The baker set his tray of bread on a windowsill, tapping his foot as he impatiently waited for Marie. “Morning, Pinky. You off somewhere this morning?” he asked, though he didn’t turn around.

“Yup! I’m delivering this basket of acorns to Slappy!” Pinky said, pointing to his basket of acorns. “She really likes the acorns near our cottage but doesn’t wanna make the trip herself. She says it’s too far for her aching joints and she can’t take Skippy along because she’s still trying to convince him that we’re not gonna be shot like Bumbie’s mom if we venture into the meadow, and-”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very nice,” the baker said, half-leaning into the open window. “Marie, I said hurry up with the baguettes! The morning rush is coming soon!”

“Well, if you’d bought the ingredients from Francois instead of Vincent like I suggested then maybe we wouldn’t be running behind, Pierre! But no, you always act like you know best!” Marie snapped.

Not wanting to get embroiled in yet another argument between the baker and his wife, Pinky followed the cobblestone path further into town, where the usual market sprung up, full of local farmers, tradesmen, and merchants.

Villagers bartered and argued and traded like always, and as Pinky stopped to admire a small yellow daisy poking out from the cracks of the street, he could feel eyes follow him closely in that looking-at-you-but-pretending-we’re-not sort of way.

“There goes the funny mouse again.”

“Gets distracted by the littlest things, I swear.”

“Does he even have a useful skill?”

“Besides being the village idiot? Doubtful.”

They’d made those comments ever since he and Papa had moved in. Everywhere they went, people asked Pinky for his trade, and Pinky always told them he took care of Papa and worked various odd jobs around the area for money.

But that wasn’t considered a useful role in society.

He didn’t mind helping Papa though.

Oh well though. He couldn’t delay getting these acorns to Slappy, so he hauled his wagon alongside a horse-drawn carriage that steadily cut through the crowded streets, clearing Pinky’s path.

“Bonjour!” the coachman called to a young woman walking down the street. His eyes were trained on the girl rather than the road, and his horse plowed straight into a farmer’s cart, knocking his produce into the road.

“MY CABBAGES!” the farmer screamed, tearing out his hair as several pigs devoured his vegetables.

The coachman let out a nervous laugh and flicked the reins, spurring his horse forward and blithely ignoring the despairing farmer’s demands for compensation.

“I need six eggs!” a woman cried as she tried to hold several fussing babies at once.

“That’s too expensive!” a man complained to someone selling pottery. “Twenty coins for a pile of cheap clay? Bah!”

Pinky and the carriage parted ways as the cobblestone street changed to an unpaved dirt path. The gossip and chatter of ACME Village faded to background noise.

Slappy had made her home in a hollow tree on the outskirts of town, close enough to get supplies but far enough to deter most from knocking on her door.

Pinky passed by many warning and danger signs that kept most people from bothering the old squirrel. There was a new post up today, right next to Slappy’s front door.

LAST WARNING

NO SELLING, NO PREACHING, NO TAX COLLECTING

KNOCK AT YOUR OWN RISK

Well, what was life without a little risk? Pinky knocked on the door anyway.

He was trying to decide if one of the clouds overhead was shaped more like a monkey or a strawberry when a small brown squirrel in a blue nightgown and cap opened the door. Despite the early morning, he was wide awake and hopping in place, his excitement only growing as he spotted the basket of acorns behind Pinky.

“Morning, Skippy! Got the basket of acorns your aunt wanted!” Pinky exclaimed.

Skippy grinned as he took the basket from the wagon. “Thanks, Pinky! Aunt Slappy will love these!”

He popped a few acorns into his mouth and loudly crunched the shells.

“Skippy, what’d I say about answering the door at this godforsaken hour in the morning?” a cranky voice yelled from upstairs.

“It’s just Pinky with the acorns, Aunt Slappy! No door to door salespeople, preachers, or tax collectors in sight!” Skippy shouted. Then he turned back to Pinky and pointed to his ear. “I like your feather, by the way.”

“Thanks! I like your nightcap!” Pinky said, returning the compliment with his own.

A few moments later, Slappy joined Pinky and Skippy downstairs. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, her long gray tail dragging behind her.

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Slappy asked. She tossed several acorns into her mouth and nodded her approval. “Crunchy with a pinch of salt. This is gonna be a good topping for my world-renowned creamed spinach later.”

“SPEEWWWWWWWWW!” Skippy cried, sticking his tongue out in disgust.

Pinky just smiled politely. Slappy took a lot of pride in her creamed spinach recipe, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by saying it tasted like soggy socks.

“Hey, when I was your age, I ate lots of creamed spinach for dinner. And now I have enough muscles to wield a hundred ton mallet,” Slappy retorted.

“Wow! Was that when dinosaurs roamed the earth?” Skippy asked.

Slappy gave him a light smack on the back of his head. “Little brat. Go grab a few coins from the bureau in my room. Gotta pay the mouse for lugging this stuff across town.”

Skippy blew a raspberry at her and ran up the stairs.

“Your tongue is never gonna go back in your mouth if you keep doing that!” Slappy yelled.

Funny how the Squirrels were his best neighbors, even though they lived on the opposite side of town. They’d helped out so much when Pinky and Papa first moved into the countryside cottage, from showing them all the best places to buy from and all the best trees to climb. Everyone else usually stared at them strangely for not knowing how to find a shop and moved on with their day.

Still, Pinky didn’t want to impose on them or anything. Collecting the acorns was no trouble at all. And he knew money could be a little tight in the village at times.

“You don’t have to pay me,” Pinky said. “Poit. I don’t mind the morning exercise.”

“You’re walkin’ outta here with those coins whether you like it or not,” Slappy said in a tone that invited no room for argument. “Don’t be one of ‘em honor before reason types. That sorta mindset is nothing but trouble.”

Slappy’s long tail flicked in irritation, accidentally knocking a framed painting askew on the wall next to her. She sighed and fixed the crooked painting so that it hung straight. “Can never keep this darn thing straight,’ she muttered.

Pinky had been inside the hollow tree many times, but he’d never seen this painting before. It contained a colorful cast of characters, from a carrot-munching gray rabbit to a crazy black duck to a short gunslinger with an enormous bright red mustache.

In the painting, a youthful Slappy with a manic grin on her face and giant firecracker in her hand was chasing a bald hunter. Her smile was brighter, and her eyes didn’t seem so world-weary there.

“Like it? Old pals sent it to me two weeks ago,” Slappy asked, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. “The Looney Tunes Troupe were a rascally bunch, that’s for sure. All the money for a detailed painting, and they can’t afford a better frame. Our shows were legendary back in the day, you know.”

“Never heard of them,” Pinky admitted.

“Course ya haven’t,” Slappy sighed. “Your generation doesn’t know good comedy when it hits them in the bum with a mallet. Troupe’s faded into obscurity now, but they’ve never stopped traveling and being annoying yet lovable nuisances to everyone from Albuquerque to Kalamazoo to Timbuktu.”

Pinky tilted his head. “But you don’t travel anymore.”

If the Squirrels needed something they couldn’t get in ACME Village, they usually asked Pinky to run the errand for them.

“Yeah, well, that’s life,” Slappy said. “Sometimes you’re a nomad with total freedom and other times you gotta flee with your nephew to a different country.”

Before Pinky could ask more questions, Skippy barreled downstairs with as many coins as he could carry. “I didn’t know how much to grab so I just took a handful,” Skippy said, dumping the currency onto a small side table.

Slappy picked up six coins from the pile and dropped them into a small drawstring bag, then tightened the strings and tossed the bag into Pinky’s wagon. “You can have these. I’ve got plenty more lying around,” she said.

“If you're sure then,” Pinky said, picking up his wagon handle and turning it around. “Love to stay, but Papa’s leaving for the fair soon and I gotta see him off!”

“Tell him we said hi!” Skippy shouted, and Pinky saluted back.

Slappy yawned, stretching her arms above her head. “And I’m hitting the hay again. It’s too damn early, and I’m too tired to censor my swearing in front of kids.”

o-o-o-o-o

After his visit to Slappy’s tree, Pinky decided to kill some time at ACME Village’s fountain, where he could enjoy the fine spray of water and run in circles along the stone rim. It was always fun seeing how fast he could go without tipping into the water.

“Sorry!” he shouted as he accidentally trod over freshly washed sheets that a woman had been folding next to the fountain. She made an indignant noise and carried her basket of laundry away, nose high in the air.

And the whispers started up again.

“That mouse may be a beauty, but he is way too peculiar for his own good.”

“You have to wonder if he’s feeling well.”

“Always a dreamy, far-off look on his face.”

On his tenth lap around the fountain, a flock of sheep strolled by, guided by a young shepherd from behind. Two fluffy ewes jumped onto the fountain rim next to Pinky and drank the water. Pinky smiled and stroked their soft wool, and the ewes bleated in contentment.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Pinky whispered into their ears. “Don’t go blabbing this to anyone now...but I believe Papa’s a shoo-in for that blue ribbon!”

One of the ewes turned and nibbled on his ear, and Pinky laughed as her blocky teeth tugged and tickled his fur. He gently pried her jaw open and his ear popped out of her mouth, dripping wet with sheep saliva.

As Pinky prepared to slide off the fountain rim and onto the small bag of money he’d gotten from Slappy, a regal fanfare went off in the distance, thundering hoofbeats growing ever closer.

A messenger in a white powdered wig blew his coronet and cleared his throat.

“HEAR YE! HEAR YE! MAKE WAY FOR HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, PRINCE SNOWBALL AND HIS HUNTING PARTY!”

The messenger’s declaration sent every man, woman, and child running towards the plaza, gathering in front of the entrance of the local tavern, the centerpoint of all social activities in ACME Village.

The hunting party rode in on their enormous horses, spearheaded by the ruler of the province, Prince Snowball. Though only a small hamster, he was famed by all for his keen mind and ability to get results on whatever he set out to accomplish.

Though dressed in only a simple red shirt and breeches for hunting, the only signs of his higher status being the golden crown upon his head and the expensive black horse he rode, his presence commanded respect and awe.

Behind him, a hunting party consisting of the best huntsmen and archers in the land dragged an enormous buck, two wild boars, and several pheasants into view.

“People of ACME Village, tonight we shall dine on these fine specimens of the animal kingdom!” Snowball announced as everyone bowed in fear of a noble’s anger. “Everyone’s presence is required, for I have a further declaration that shall lift this derelict province out of the ashes and into a glorious future!”

His pink eyes were sharp, but beneath that layer of intelligence, there was an undertone of something that didn’t feel right. Pinky couldn’t explain it, but he always just had this odd, icky feeling that crawled up his spine whenever he saw Snowball.

The crowd straightened up, cheering and clapping and praising Prince Snowball’s name for bringing them such good fortune with the promise of more to come.

Pinky’s ear twitched. There was a soft, desperate sound mixed in with the roars of the captivated audience.

And to the left side of the crowd, there was a tiny lamb whose back leg was tangled in a large fishing net. The mother ewe was both nuzzling the lamb in comfort and trying to pull the net off with her teeth, but to no avail.

The shepherd never noticed his sheep were in trouble, too caught up in hailing Prince Snowball to notice one of his charges was stuck.

Pinky hopped off the fountain and slowly walked over to the thrashing lamb and his mother, putting his hands up to show them he wasn’t a threat. The lamb bleated in panic, and the mother eyed Pinky warily.

“May I help? I’m good at untangling stuff,” Pinky asked. He’d gotten a lot of practice when Papa occasionally tangled himself up in threads and wires.

The ewe regarded him for a long moment, then nuzzled the back of her lamb’s head, letting him bury his head into her wool. The lamb’s trembling stopped, his back leg still.

It was a sweet gesture, one that seemed so familiar to him, even though his own mother had long passed. He remembered that feeling of warmth and safety from so long ago, the last time he felt like he was truly home.

Wiping a stray tear from his eye, Pinky untangled the mesh from the lamb’s leg, starting from the top and slowly moving down to the hoof.

“There you go, baby,” Pinky said once the leg was completely free. The lamb pulled his hoof out of the netting, gave it a good shake, then joyfully pranced and bleated around his mother and Pinky.

The mother gave Pinky a tiny nod, bleated to her little one, and together they rejoined their flock. The shepherd was still ignoring his flock in favor of Prince Snowball. Pinky couldn’t see him anymore from the ground.

Pinky picked up his wagon handle, ready to go home and help Papa hitch everything up to Pharfignewton.

Then he felt a pair of fingers pluck the feather he’d lovingly tucked behind his ear. Pinky turned to get his feather back, and jumped when Snowball was just inches from his face.

“Hello, Pinky,” Snowball said. He smiled, but it was more out of smugness than a real smile.

Pinky’s ears lowered, but then he remembered his manners. “Bonjour, Prince Snowball. May I have my feather please? A really nice bird gave that to me.”

Snowball frowned, holding the feather out of Pinky’s reach. The feather crinkled in his tight grip. “How could you possibly need this? It’s hardly good quality for even the cheapest quills.”

“Poit. It doesn’t need to be a quill to make me happy,” Pinky replied.

Snowball rolled his eyes, tossing the feather behind him. Pinky tried to grab it, but it was caught on a gust of wind and drifted to the ground. It landed in a mud puddle, soaking the barbs of the feather and staining it brown.

“Pinky, get your head out of the clouds and pay attention to important matters,” Snowball’s lip curled as he blocked Pinky from retrieving his feather. “Such as showing royals courtesy when they address a peasant like you.”

“Excuse me, Snowball,” Pinky said politely, going around the hamster to pick up his feather. The damage didn’t look too bad. Still, he tried to be careful when he cleaned it with his apron.

Snowball crossed his arms, and the town’s whispers started up again.

How dare he not show proper respect to Snowball, does he fancy himself higher than a prince, why would Snowball pay him any individual attention and not someone more deserving.

“That’s Prince Snowball to you.” Snowball’s fur bristled for a moment, but he took a deep breath and put his arms around Pinky’s shoulders instead. “The whole town's talking about you and your lack of...purpose. And we can’t have that, you realize. After all, a machine requires all of its cogs and gears to run smoothly, otherwise it won’t work.”

“Bet his crackpot father would know something about that!” one of Snowball’s men chortled.

Everyone laughed, even Snowball, who rarely did so. An unfamiliar feeling boiled in Pinky’s stomach.

“Don’t talk about my father that way!” Pinky snapped. His inventions were amazing and he was going to do well at the fair! They didn’t know how hard Papa worked on his inventions!

Snowball glared at his men. “Yes, don’t talk about his father that way, you fools!” he hissed like Pinky hadn’t heard him laughing just seconds ago.

“He’s not a crackpot! His invention’s gonna win the blue ribbon cause it was made with smarts and love, you’ll see!” Pinky declared, just as an explosion went off in the distance.

And he knew exactly where that explosion had come from.

“I have to go. Goodbye!” Pinky dragged his wagon behind him, setting off for the cottage he and Papa called home.

“It’s a pity and a sin,

He doesn’t quite fit in.

He really is a funny mouse,

A beauty but a funny mouse,

He really is a funny mouse,

THAT PIN-”

The sharp, high-pitched crack of a rifle interrupted the village’s song, and everyone ran for cover.

“WILL YA SHUT UP? SOME OF US ARE TRYIN’ TA SLEEP!” Slappy shouted from her tree, her screech blowing tiles and lumber from the roofs of buildings.

Just a provincial life in this little town. Pinky ran across the cobblestone bridge, wondering if he truly had the right to ask for something more than that.

o-o-o-o-o

He hurried over to the cellar, where smoke trailed from the gaps of the heavy wooden doors. Pinky opened the entrance, and a smoky cloud blew right in his face. He coughed and waved it away, hiding his nose in his dress as he hurried over to Papa, who’d been thrown onto his back. A pile of broken wooden planks covered him.

In the corner, Madeleine sputtered, her gears and dials spinning wildly before she finally quieted down, one loose spring sending a gear crashing into a wall.

“Dagnabbit, Madeleine!” Papa cursed, stumbling as he extracted himself from the pile of wooden planks. Pinky grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet, checking him over for any injuries. Luckily, there were no bruises or splinters to be found. “Don’t you stall out on me now!”

Pinky smiled. Papa’s string of random gibberish and mutterings of smart inventor words he couldn’t understand was something he’d been familiar with from a young age. No matter where they lived, it was just one of those things that came with home.

Papa huffed, untying his apron with all his tools and tossing it to the ground. “She’ll never work in time for the fair! What was I thinking?” he lamented. “It’s not too late. Maybe I can cobble something else together quickly! Yes, I’ll just take the doowhatzit out of Madeleine, combine it with the kaleidomajiggy from the old washer, and-”

“You always say that, Papa,” Pinky said, hugging his father around the shoulders. Papa rested his hands over Pinky’s with a sigh. “Don’t worry. I believe Madeleine will work, and she’ll win you that blue ribbon and help you become an inventor for the history books! Narf! Just like Benjamin Franklin, ‘cept without all the kite-flying.”

“You really think so?” Papa asked, his frown turning to a hopeful smile.

“Course I do,” Pinky grinned.

A determined look crossed Papa’s face, and he tied his apron around his waist, nearly tripping over it in the process.

“What are we waiting for then? Let’s fix ‘er up!” Papa said, laying down on a flat, low cart and pushing himself under the broken stove that made up Madeleine’s main body. “So how was your morning in town?”

“A little birdie gave me a feather. I found a pretty stone by the pond. And I delivered the acorns to the Squirrels. Did you know Slappy used to be a part of a traveling troupe? I didn’t.” Pinky recanted his morning to Papa as tools clinked and scratched against metal. “Oh, and I guess you’ll be missing Prince Snowball’s feast tonight. They’ll have venison and wild boar there.”

“A feast? That sounds nice. Much better than inn food,” Papa mused. As usual, only part of what Pinky said ever registered with him. “Are you going?”

“I don’t know yet,” Pinky admitted. “Don’t get me wrong, I love a good party...but Prince Snowball is-um, what’s a good word for him?”

“Rich? Smart? Confident?” Papa suggested. “He’s been talkin’ to you a lot lately.”

So everyone’s noticed, even Papa who spent much of his time in the cellar that doubled as a workshop.

“He has,” Pinky agreed. “And he says he can give me a purpose. But...I don’t know. I don’t think he’s right for me. Maybe I’m just as odd as they say I am.”

It was the same everywhere they settled. No matter what Pinky tried to do, the whispers always followed him. He noticed strange things, he wore strange clothes, he and Papa were always strangers in towns where everyone knew each other from birth.

Papa slid out from under Madeleine, wearing a silly helmet on his head that gave him huge, bug-like eyes.

“My son is odd?” Papa asked in disbelief, and Pinky laughed. The helmet always made Papa look silly. “Don’t know where these folks get their ideas from…anyway, I think Madeleine’s all ready to go. Care to give her a whirl?”

“Zort! Am I!” Pinky clapped his hands together. Papa pointed to a lever, which Pinky pulled with all his might.

Madeleine’s bells and whistles sounded, water steadily pumping through her system while steam filled her stove. Pulleys and gears turned along her sides, reaching the front. Her dials quivered until they reached the red zone, and the ax at her front swung down, scoring a deep cut in a block of firewood. The ax swung faster and faster, until one final split the firewood in half and sent one chunk flying.

Pinky and Papa ducked, and the chunk flew over their heads and landed perfectly on a pile of firewood against the wall.

“She works!” Pinky shouted in joy, kissing one of Madeleine’s wooden wheels. “You did it, Papa!”

“I did?” Papa murmured. “I did! 265th time’s the charm, Pinky! Look out fair, I’m on my way!”

o-o-o-o-o

Within the hour, Madeleine was wheeled out from the workshop, covered and tied up with a tarp, and hitched to Pharfignewton.

“Bye, Fig,” Pinky said, hugging his beloved horse’s muzzle. “Keep Papa on track to the fair, okay? You know how he likes taking shortcuts.”

Pharfignewton whinnied gently, planting a sloppy kiss on top of Pinky’s head.

Then Pinky embraced Papa, who returned the hug with the same enthusiasm. And he was reminded of how the mouse and horse he considered his home would be leaving for some time. He wished he could go with them, but someone had to keep house and he was the best one for the job. It wouldn’t be for long, but he’d miss them all the same.

A stray tear dropped. Just another reason he was considered odd. He cried so easily.

“Chin up, Pinky,” Papa murmured, rubbing a soothing circle into Pinky’s back. “I’ll win that blue ribbon along with the prize money, and we’ll begin our lives anew within the week.”

Through his tears, Pinky gave him a wobbly smile. Then he helped Papa onto Pharfignewton’s back.

“Take care!” Pinky called as Papa flicked the reins, and Pharfignewton trotted off at a steady pace, dragging Madeleine behind her. He watched them from atop the highest hill in the meadow, as they went further down the well-worn trail that merchants used for their travels.

Then they were nothing but specks in the distance, swallowed by the thick, twisted branches of the forest. It was an unusual forest, one where the trees lost their leaves in early autumn, making the trees look scarier than they actually were for half the year.

With nothing else to do outside, Pinky went back into the empty cottage. He’d had three years to become familiar with this house, full of odds and ends from Papa’s inventions alongside their meager belongings.

Mama’s cloak hung from a place of honor on a coat rack by the door, one of the few belongings Pinky could take along no matter where they lived.

Hours passed, and Pinky already missed the banging and exploding and sputtering of Papa’s inventions. It was just too quiet without them.

He cleaned the red feather and pretty stone, then added them to his collection. Feathers and rocks didn’t take up a lot of room, and like Mama’s cloak, they could easily be taken to new places as well. He was just very careful not to lose them.

The wagon was tucked away by the door, and the small bag of money was tucked inside a flower pot. It was how Papa always stored money, and Pinky had picked up the habit.

There wasn’t much to do. He’d cleaned the cottage several days ago, cellar notwithstanding. That was Papa’s territory, and he always had trouble finding tools when Pinky put them away.

Suppertime approached.

He could either cook dinner or go to the feast.

Didn’t matter what he chose. He would be lonely either way.

A sharp rap on the door startled him out of his thoughts. How strange. People only knocked at this time when there was an emergency.

“Sorry for taking so long. I wasn’t expecting-” Pinky opened the door, and he immediately stood face-to-face with Prince Snowball. They were so close that their noses nearly touched. “-to see you here, Snowball. Um, this is a surprise. Poit.”

Snowball’s pink eyes narrowed in annoyance, and Pinky remembered that Snowball preferred to be addressed with his full title. “Yes, it’s not often that someone of my standing chooses to grace a peasant’s home with their presence.”

Behind Snowball, there was an entourage of townsfolk. Many wore their Sunday best, which was still quite cheap compared to the royal finery that Snowball bore. A fine red coat, a decorative golden cape slung over one shoulder, and white dress pants. A shiny crown embedded with rubies and emeralds sat atop his head.

“I thought you were all at the tavern for the feast,” Pinky admitted.

Snowball laughed, but it was a joyless laugh. He stepped across the threshold without being invited in.

“Why, Pinky. Your hovel is positively primeval,” Snowball said, wrinkling his nose in disdain. He tugged Mama’s cloak off its hook, stared at it for a moment, then carelessly tossed it behind him. “If this is how you live, then it’s a truly auspicious time for me to come and offer you an opportunity out of this squalor.”

Before Pinky could ask what auspicious was, though he figured it had something to do with Austria, Snowball harshly dug his fingers into Pinky’s shoulders. Pinky tried to pry them off, but the fingers just burrowed further into the fabric of his dress.

“Not to worry, dear Pinky,” Snowball said. “Today is the day all your dreams come true.”

“You mean my dream to find a home and a porpoise? Because I don’t know if we have enough money to live by the ocean. Beachside properties get very pricey, you know,” Pinky asked.

Snowball waved off that concern. “You forget that finances are of no consequence for me. But I digress. For now, allow me to plant the image of a wonderful future in your vacant mind.”

“Okay, but I don’t know how you’re gonna water it,” Pinky said.

“Picture this,” Snowball demanded, leading Pinky around the cottage. “A magnificent castle. Two golden thrones, mine higher than the queen’s of course. A few summer homes to expand my sphere of influence. A court of other royals, lesser nobles, while the servants do all the menial work around the fires and kitchen. We’ll have...oh, six or seven.”

“Servants?” Pinky grinned nervously as Snowball leaned in with a chuckle.

“Castles, Pinky. How else would I showcase my power?” Snowball corrected. “And the townsfolk shall become our servants. It will save me the trouble of setting up a hiring process anyway. Besides, you’d appreciate having familiar faces around. Less of an adjustment period.”

Pinky freed himself from Snowball’s grip. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Snowball shrugged. “But in simplest terms, I require a queen. One who is good at smiling, waving, and entertainment.”

Wouldn’t that person become a princess rather than a queen though?

Snowball must’ve seen the question coming. He paused in front of the mirror to adjust his crown.

“There is but one title higher than a prince, Pinky,” Snowball said once he was finished. “In order to qualify for the kingship, it’s required of me to marry first. And do you know who that queen will be?”

“Elizabeth? Victoria?” Pinky wilted under Snowball’s intense stare. “Um...Cleopatra, final answer?”

Snowball shook his head. “It will be you, Pinky.”

A queen? He’d always just been the inventor’s son. An outcast no matter where he lived. How could he possibly be a queen?

“That’s a very generous offer, Snowball,” Pinky said, once he finally found his words again.

“Isn’t it, though?” Snowball said smugly. “You and your father will live in an extravagant new home as you perform your queenly duties, and I will be forever hailed as King Snowball. Both of us shall benefit.”

Maybe he and Papa could live in better conditions. Maybe they didn’t have to move around anymore. Maybe they could afford shoes for Pharfignewton. But at the same time…it wouldn’t be right.

It wouldn’t be home.

Smiling, waving, entertaining. Was that all he was good for? Was that all Snowball thought he could do?

“I thought...marriage was for love,” Pinky said softly. “That’s what Papa always said.”

Snowball rolled his eyes. “It’s a political marriage. It doesn’t have to be built on love.”

Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.

It was one of the earliest morals Pinky had learned.

Wish for a home, only for it to be a castle. Wish for a purpose, and it’s to be married without love as a foundation.

“Snowball...I’m speechless,” Pinky said, backing out the front door. He nearly tripped over the welcome mat, but regained his footing. “I...I really don’t know what to say.”

Not even a narf would help him out of this situation.

“Say that you’ll marry me, Pinky,” Snowball replied, and he stalked toward Pinky like a cunning predator, backing him against the edge of the porch. “And after you say yes, I will announce our engagement to the rest of ACME Village at the feast. Attendance is mandatory for a reason.”

“I’m really, really sorry, Snowball,” Pinky said. He’d backed up too far, and the heels of his feet dangled precariously over the edge. Instincts kicking in, Pinky grabbed Snowball’s shoulder to pull himself to safety, though he underestimated his strength. Snowball yelped as he was pulled over the edge, falling into the mud puddle by the staircase.

Oops.

“Sorry, Snowball! But I just don’t deserve you,” Pinky admitted.

The mud-covered crown slipped around Snowball’s head, covering his eyes until he took it off with an annoyed grunt.

Pinky slipped back into the house, grabbed a small towel, and handed it to one of Snowball’s men.

Claude, if he remembered right.

“He can have that one,” Pinky told Claude, who gingerly took the towel like it was a fragile item.

Snowball crawled out of the mud, his royal clothing covered in gunk and sticks. He stomped out of the mud, hands clenching against his sides.

Snowball’s brow lowered, his pink eyes hidden in humiliation and a quiet, seething fury.

Slowly, Pinky retreated into the cottage and hid behind the door. There was something about that look that terrified him. And it wasn’t the fun kind of fear, either.

“You will consider my offer, Pinky. Make no mistake about that,” Snowball spat, his scrutinizing gaze directly on Pinky, despite the door between them. “Claude, quit being daft and hand me that towel already!”

Pinky waited in the cottage until he could no longer hear their voices or footsteps. They must’ve gone back to the tavern for the feast.

He didn’t feel hungry though. Snowball’s proposal left a sour taste in his mouth, like he’d just sucked on a lemon.

“He asked me to marry him,” Pinky said to his mother’s cloak, which was still crumpled on the floor. He gently picked it up, brushed off the wrinkles, and put it on. The fabric was warm against his back, like being wrapped in a ginormous embrace. “But he doesn’t love me. Narf! You can’t have a marriage without love!”

He thought of all the married couples he knew in ACME Village. The baker couple, who were constantly at each other’s throats. Gerard the butcher was always making googly eyes at any woman who bought cuts of meat, much to his wife’s frustration. There was the stressed lady who had to drag her six kids around town while her husband played cards and darts at the tavern.

And Pinky thought of his parents. His mother had fallen in love with his father’s inventive streak when she was the daughter of a town official and Papa was just the crazy mouse whose inventions blew up a lot.

He tied the cloak tighter around himself. Unable to take the silence of the cottage and the stifling influence of the village much longer, he allowed his feet to carry him out of the cottage and to wherever they wanted to go.

He sprinted into the unknown. He wouldn’t be afraid of whatever he found there. The autumn wind blew golden, red, and brown leaves in whichever direction it wished as Pinky climbed the highest hill in the gorgeous flower-filled meadow.

The peak of the hill was his favorite spot, and he was surprised that nobody else came out here to enjoy the view with him. Trees lost their colorful leaves so they could sleep for the winter, the river splashed and babbled along its banks, and proud mountains with mysterious cloud-covered peaks rose high above the landscape.

What laid beyond villages and towns, he didn’t know.

There was something in that great wide somewhere for him. Just a feeling, an inkling, a hunch.

But could he truly go exploring it when his home was here?

Maybe he could convince Papa. Somehow. When Papa came back with the prize money, they could fit Pharfignewton with her shoes and they could all explore together!

Staring into the autumn landscape, Pinky sank to his knees, careful not to squish the daisies and dandelions around him.

Maybe that was home, but…

He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. Would he ever figure that out?

He loved Papa, but he couldn’t really talk to him. And Slappy had her hands full with such an energetic nephew. Pinky didn’t want to impose. Everyone in the village gossiped about him, like he couldn’t understand.

But he did.

And it hurt.

“Would be nice to talk to someone. Anyone, really,” he whispered, and he blew on a cluster of dandelion puffs. His wish scattered along the wind.

Pinky picked up more dandelion puffs. If he blew more around, maybe his wish would come true. And dandelion flowers were very pretty.

Maybe they were considered weeds, but how could anyone call such a sunshine-y yellow flower a pest? He didn’t get it.

Then a distant, familiar neigh caught him off-guard.

Pinky thumped his hand against his ear. Maybe he was missing Pharfignewton so much that he heard her voice?

But he’d recognize her magnificent white coat and spirited blue eyes anywhere.

“Easy, Pharfignewton! It’s okay!” Pinky cried. He scrambled up Pharfignewton’s leg, avoided her flailing hoof, and held onto her muzzle as she bucked and reared in sheer panic. “Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay…”

Pharfignewton quieted down, her frantic neighs melting into soft, worried nickers as Pinky stroked her nose. She stopped kicking, though she was wide-eyed with fear.

Madeleine wasn’t hitched to Pharfignewton. Nor was she wasn’t the only one missing…

And Pinky suddenly understood his horse’s panic.

“Pharfignewton, where’s Papa?” Pinky asked. “Is he okay? How did you get separated? Did he try another shortcut when I told him not to do it?”

Pharfignewton’s hooves shuffled, and Pinky forced himself to take a deep breath. He was scaring her with all these questions, so he nuzzled her between the eyes in apology. Still, his heart raced with panic.

From the top of the hill, he saw thick, gray clouds rolling in from the mountains. The temperature was dropping fast.

An early winter would be upon them. They had to find Papa quickly.

“Please, Pharfignewton. We’ve gotta find him,” Pinky pleaded.

She whinnied in agreement, and galloped into the strange forest with all its dangerous, twisted branches before Pinky had a chance to settle in his usual spot at the base of her neck.

Don’t worry, Papa. I’m on my way.

End AN: Well, this is beast is complete (no pun intended).

Yeah, poor Pinky’s usual charm doesn’t really work here. Poor mouse.

Slappy is fun to write, not gonna lie. Love her cartoony antics. She’s also led quite the interesting life in this AU.

The reason Snowball didn’t show up sooner was because I wasn’t sure how to tweak the proposal scene to fit. Cause for one thing, Snowball is way smarter than Gaston, but just as arrogant to boot. So I changed Snowball’s motivation into marrying Pinky because it will help him gain a higher title than a prince. He doesn’t actually love Pinky in this AU, but he’s very annoyed at him for that stunt with the mud puddle (though it’s accidental on Pinky’s part rather than intentional like Belle’s).

The reason Snowball doesn’t go seeking a princess’s hand to gain the kingship is cause he tried that already. It was Billie of a nearby kingdom. It didn’t go well.

Also yes the village is named ACME Village because I’m lazy and can’t come up with anything better.

#pinky and the brain #patb snowball #beauty and the beast au #patb fanfiction

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largethingslargerthings · 3 years

Text

Meditative Week of Poetry: Daniel Schonning

And when the storm subsides, the catchbasin coos; the sky exhales; the dead rosebush withers; the bright kingfisher paces in the sand.

And all night, the lemon tree remembers sun. And the bathhouse cradles the salt spring, casts its bodies in white steam. And the earth

opens for the spade. And the moon jar sings from its dark womb, holds its breath. And the crow turns and turns in the blue air. And the sickle brings

the meadow back to earth; the meadow mourns its shadow. And the aspen shakes green, red, gold. And all morning, the ghosts

low from the crooks of oaks; the nightjar wakes to listen. And the father brings his children to the shore. And the aging clockmaker

thinks, as she must, about entropy. And the kindling crackles in the marble hearth. And the octopus sleeps like a stone, changes

color while he dreams. And the lone train car splits the fog across its nose. And the belfry shutters its windows, hides its brass heart.

And in the East’s deep ocean, sand lifts—briefly— as if to carry on to somewhere new; there, in pools of shadow, so do the

drowned ones lift—too briefly—as if to bear north, retake the beachhead, wander blindly into some fresh havoc or wonder or

neighbor at the fair. And the xiphoid spines of prickly pears erupt in pods of seven. And the green blackberries dot the green vines.

And the orb weavers have built an open curtain through which the yellow porchlight spills. And the icicle falls from the eave like an

apricot. And the coyotes keep their kills in earthen dens, catch snowflakes in the cold. And the shoots of blue gramma, of purple

aster, of little bluestem, shiver so gently in the West’s bare wind. And the moon’s dull humming makes ripples in the pond.

And the white marble busts of the dead bloom from their pitch-dark hall. And the willow leaves brush against barbed-wire fences. And the loon

dives into the lake. And the deep well sees Lyra, even at midday. And the warbler parts the lemon of its rind. And the marquis

keeps its eyes in a bronze bin. And the North’s soft heather cranes to see the morning sun. And the cube of sugar forgets its form

for the warm black tea. And the mother runs upon the metal bridge. And when the light returns to the valley, the kestrel drums

along the bough; the red cedars blush white; the mu’addhin sings, his voice like a drawn bow. And the cherry blossoms cut through the night.

And the fishing trawler, arms akimbo, teeters to shore like an infant. And the cliff swallows have built their nests of mud below

the chimney’s tin crown. And the South’s cold mist pours down the rain-wet hill. And the water bear purrs. And the child leans into the wind,

makes his body large. And the lighthouse keeper cannot help but imagine. And the skies above the mountain’s peak are brighter

than the snow. And the temple roof curls wide to catch the summer rain. And the glassblower turns the white-hot sphere. And the wet clay shakes alive.

And, yes, the wild zinnia open their eyes.

#alpeh with all all with aleph #mwp #meditative week of poetry #crazyhorse #daniel schonning #poetry

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barberwitch · 5 years

Note

I was wondering about your thoughts on familiars? 🐍🦍🐆🐺🦉🐈🦚🦔🐇😁

*Cracks knuckles…prepares for the shit storm* brace yourselves...loooong fucking post.

95% of people I’ve seen talk about familiars, post pictures of their familiars and talk about how their *insert animal companion* helps them with their spell work…aren’t familiars. They are animal companions, aka pets. They also insist that because they are a witch with and animal who sits on their tarot cards, that it’s automatically a familiar.

Familiars can come in different forms (not talking about cat vs dog vs snake) but it must be reminded that familiar is shortened of “spirit familiar”. It’s not that pets can’t be familiars, it’s that the people who talk about their pets as familiars take inspiration from pop culture of what a familiar is. It’s not just an animal that follows the witch around. A familiar actively assists with the witch’s work.

Familiars that come in the shape of animals have been around for ages, and across cultures, but the things that ties them together is they appear of their own volition or in specific ways. They aren’t purchased from a pet store, they aren’t adopted from the shelter…is it possible? Sure I guess? Pet stores weren’t really around when most of the accounts of familiar came from. Oof. I need to organize my thoughts a bit.

Familiars Spirits are traditionally intangible/supernatural entities that may or may not choose to appear in physical form whether animal, entity’s “True Form”, or even under disguise, whether as something else or even as another person. Spirit familiars may also inhabit inanimate objects such as statues, spirit vessels (fetiche) such as roots, clay or earthen figures, empty boxes etc.

Familiars as Gifts

In some accounts, a familiar is given to a witch or cunning folk by another person.

In these cases it’s usually given by a teacher or mentor, or a family member to assist the practitioner in their path. Traditionally it’s someone with a hand in the recipients magical practice.

The spirit passed down may be the witch (or cunningfolk, but for the remainder of this post, I will refer to them interchangeably) indefinitely. The implication there is that the familiar not only is connected to the witch, but to their specific practice and thus can be viewed as a guardian of the path with the assumption that eventually, the witch will pass the familiar onto the next generation.

It may also be a personal familiar that is passed down. Personal as in this is the first time the familiar is passed on, and could become the type mentioned above (guardian style of either the path or family line) or it may be a temporary contract. The familiar may be with the witch to protect it, and assist in place of the original practitioner and may leave/disappear/die when they are able to conjure their own and enter into a pact with a new familiar (or create a pact with the old familiar).

In the case of being passed on, the relationship between witch and familiar, in lieu of a teacher, may impart certain secrets of the path. IT may also not even give the option to continue the relationship if the previous witch only extended the contract to get the new practitioner to a certain point or through hardship.

It should also be pointed out that specifically in european traditions and some north american lore, that the spirit familiar is given to the witch or magical practitioner by yet another spirit or entity who is more powerful. This could be a spirit mentor, Faery, or as a pact with “The Man in Black” Ol Scratch, or some iteration that has been interpreted as the devil or satan. In these cases, it is both a symbol of the relationship, a representative of the pact, a gift, and a tool.

Familiars as Animals

As mentioned and popularized both in folklore and in pop culture, familiar spirits may appear in the form of animals.

In the overly popular example of the Salem Witch trials, we see through trial records the purported importance of a “Witch’s Mark”. The mark is some bodily anomaly that supposedly was where the witch could suckle their familiar. It could be a mole, a birthmark, skintag, and was instrumental in the conviction of the accused.

Certain animals are more likely to be the form of a familiar, and that also depends on the geography of the witch as well as the culture. Example, in the US, black cats are inherently associated with witches, but in Scottland, Britain and other countries, you’re may be more likely to find a connection through hares, toads, and ravens more commonly than the black cat.

One reason that they appear as more common animals is to maintain the secrecy that envelopes the witch.

In pop culture, it’s always obvious when a familiar is a familiar because the animal is represented in stark contrast between the other animals. You will notice if a black crow flies to the same person’s house day in and day out when there are no other crows around. You would also notice if you were in the dessert, and a toad is always standing guard outside a home. The animal forms match the surroundings so it would be conceivable for the witch to deny the familiar as what it is “I found this toad in the scullery, it’s so pesky living near that damnable pond. Please wait a moment while I put this outside.”

There is also a connection and interpretation of familiars as being body doubles, or as having room for 2 spirits. Many stories about the folkloric witch hold that the animal appears throughout the town, or visits neighbors etc and is in fact the witch. Some versions hold that the familiar takes the form of the specific animal because that’s the form the witch can assume (conversely, the familiar teaches the witch to transform into a copy of it). This again maintains the witch’s anonymity because if you see the same animal around for a long time, it’s less likely to raise suspicion. It has also been alluded to that the witch enters the body of the familiar or projects their conscious into the familiar to see what need be seen and do what need be done remotely.

Animal familiar spirits in other accounts assume that shape to better serve the witch whether as lookout, intelligence gatherer or collector of needed ingredients.

Familiars also can assume the shape of multiple animals at once, but usually will be the same one, and smaller such as a cloud of flies, grouping of spiders, several small frogs, and even flocks of birds such as starlings, magpies and sparrows. Again, this depends on both the area and the witch.

Familiar Pets

This is one exception that can easily fall into the category of mundane pets and animals being considered familiars (Please note I said this is the easy exception. There may be others, but those are individual cases.)

Some animals are kept as divinatory familiars. This falls under the branch of Zoomancy - divination done through interpretation of movements actions and reaction of animals.

Ailuromancy, coming from the greek ailouros meaning “cat” is divination through…cats. How this is done varies depending on the culture and time, but it’s done by interpreting the movements, and actions of cats. Noticing how cats jump, where they land, what they do with their tales, whiskers, how they curl up, wash their faces, intonations of their meows.

Alectromancy is the process of using hens and or roosters for divination. Sometimes its observing their movements naturally, other times it’s done by placing the chicken in a circle with different symbols and placing feed on all the symbols, interpreting the actions and choices of the chicken as the answer to the question.

Arachnomancy is the process of divining knowledge past present and future through spiders. It’s been done in multiple cultures from the Inca who kept spiders to answer questions by placing them in bowls and reading how they moved the leaves around. In China, women would collect spiders at fortuitous times in incense boxes and determine events based on if they made webs or didn’t over night. In other cultures, the keeping of spiders was done to read their webs and habits. In other parts of the world, different type of leaves, or cards were moved by kept spiders to interpret omens and fortune.

The reason that these are considered familiars is because they are used directly in the witch’s work. They are kept and fed and cared for, but they have a separate purpose from just existing, and that is as a tool.

I have nothing against pets, I’ve got three myself. I love them, I care for them, they comfort me when I am sick, or tired, or stressed, but they are mundane animals. They were adopted, they were raised, and they do dog things. I joke when I refer to my black dog Arlo as a familiar because he brings me avocados. I don’t use avocados that often in my craft and there’s a tree in my backyard so it’s nothing spiritually enriching, just adorable.

Is it possible that your pet is a familiar? Yes. But most likely it’s just a treasured animal, and familiar in this definition: One who is often seen, and well known; synonym: Companion. Alt.: in close friendship; intimate. Synonyms: Casual, friendly, comfortable, informal.

The term “familiar”, the noun in regards to witches is a different definition: a spirit often embodied in an animal and held to attend and serve or guard a person.

There is precedent to referring to pets as familiars when it comes to having animals that are integral to your craft.

While it may not do anything inherently magical, if used for magic then it is sometimes referred to as a familiar.

Using an animal/pet for a working can also be referred to as using a familiar. Some people use their pets as a conduit or even as a spell holder to deliver the spell to someone else.

Paul Huson refers to these types of animals/familiars/magistelli as a power object

Yes, I mean you can put a hex on someone through your dog. Yes I also mean you can deliver a hex to someone by them petting your dog. or a blessing...that too

Additional note...If you’ve pissed off another witch and go to their home ask if they’ve read my blog before petting their dog. They may be using it to hex you...or bless you.

What does this mean?

If your pet doesn’t attend and serve you in your magical workings, or used in your magical workings on purpose it’s not a traditional witch’s spirit familiar.

If your pet gives you attention and happiness it is familiar to you.

A witch doesn’t need to have a familiar to be a witch. Yes, the 1648 law in Massachusetts defined a witch as one who “hath or consulteth with a familiar spirit.” But even that denotation of what makes a witch was repealed in 1682, ten years before the Salem witch trials. Even the puritans recognized that not all witches have familiars, and sometimes an animal is just an animal.

Familiar Spirits additionally

Some familiar spirits may appear and be subservient or loyal immediately. No pact or contract needs to be done, it’s more just…there.

Familiar spirits may be other spirits who enter into a pact with the witch. Either appearing spontaneously, or through a summons and communication.

This pact may be for a week, a month, several years, or a lifetime…even longer (see above, Familiars as gifts).

Familiars may not always be present. Some may have a resting place the witch must go to, some reside in a different realm, plane, dimension or whatever and need to be called forth to do work. Some may be around the witch at all times, but there is still the function of the familiar.

Familiars do what witches cannot. If that’s going out, gathering items, retrieving lost things, there is an air of purpose that familiars fulfill in assisting the witch in a real way.

This real way is often either physical or spiritual, and with the exception of popculture, most times it is not in an emotional sense like pets fulfill.

Familiars are spirits, and their forms may change, but they are spirits none the less.

Plant familiars are a thing. Most famous is the Alraune/Alrune/Alruna made from a mandrake. Other plant familiars are grouped under the title of Magistellius Flora.

Magistelli is one title for familiars, and some historians denote that the term “familiar” was passed on from the church to further pass judgement on witches for becoming familiar with the devil (through demonic servants).

As mentioned previously, spirit familiars may inhabit objects and go forth from there. The physical tether is usually cared for and attended to by the witch.

Even though the vessel isn’t living, it is fed and tended to usually as part of the pact made with the spirit.

Familiars in Pop Culture That are More Accurate than Others...

The VVitch (Movie)- the hare that appear numerous times throughout the film is a familiar. It’s not made clear if it is there as a watcher for the witch either holding the witch’s conscious, or as the witch herself. Another possibility is that the hare is a harbinger, delivering an enchantment on behalf of the witch to go unnoticed (The musket backfiring while the hare is watching). Another iteration or possibility is that the familiar is taking on the stance of protector or guard. When deep in the woods the hare is seen, and as the location of where the witch(es) live in the woods, it could be implied that it stands guard to repel interlopers, or notify the witch(es) of the presence of the puritans. The hare also, while not as widely associated with witches in the United States currently, must be recognized as still being very intensely connected to witches during the time period. The puritans immigrated to the colonies from England, and it can be inferred that the witch(es) who are at work in the woods also came from England or another European country.

The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV) - Sabrina actively seeks a familiar and goes into the woods asking for a (hob)goblin to attend her as a partner. Though it’s also acknowledged that familiars can be subservient and chosen that way. Numerous times, the cat (Salem) acts as a protector for Sabrina. As mentioned above, familiars are sometimes called forth to guide and protect witches through trying times, or to be near the witch to assist with workings when other witches cannot. You also see the spirit form of the goblin before it chooses what shape to inhabit. It’s usual for the true nature of the familiar to only be visible by the witch it has a contract with, but accounts (and experience) of others being able to see flits of the spirit if not discernable details is exhibited by Salem only showing his true form to Sabrina when they enter into the pact.

Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV) - Being a prime example of the British and Scottish interpretations of Spirit familiars being Fae, Faery, or the Good Neighbors, the story line includes a Faery referred to as “The Gentleman” (Further example of the relationship between fae and witches relating to the importance of names) who wishes to be the assistant, teacher, mentor of Mr. Norrell. A “common” occurence in scottish witch lore is that either the faery that the witch/cunning folk learns from in some cases is a familiar, but in other accounts bestows a familiar (lesser faery, animal spirit etc) unto the practitioner. This also is a fair representation both of the care needed when working with the fae, but also with working with spirits in general as they have autonomy, and a familiar gained through a pact, needs to be respected.

Harry Potter (Movie And Book Series) - While there are plenty of animals, fantastic beasts and witches throughout the story lines, there are only 2 (kinda 3) animals that fulfill the traditional sense of the word “Familiar”. Mrs. Norris the cat and Argus Filch have a relationship that is a parody of who people would assume is a witch (the irony being that he has no magical powers, but lives among those who do). A curmudgeonly man with a bad attitude, snarl and distaste for interacting with the general populous and a craving for torturing children with a cat (reads like a stereotypical witch). Mrs. Norris is described as having an uncanny ability to find rule breakers and an unexplainable connection to her owner. Being able to notify him when there’s rukebreaking afoot with a yowl and also being able to recognize and see through enchantments (Harry’s cloak). Nagini also fits the bill as being an animal with whom only the witch/wizard can communicate who also is able to act independently of them. Also being sent out both as scout, guard and having a connection the owner can use to see through their eyes/inhabit (Voldemort in Nagini/ the department of mysteries. Also the shapeshifting into Bathilda Bagshot and notifying her owner of Harry’s prescience.) **BEFORE YALL TRY AND GO OFF. I realize that as of the newest film, nagini can’t be considered a familiar as she’s a cursed witch blah blah blah. Before it came out, the books representation of Nagini is textbook Familiar.** Speaking of Fantastic Beasts, the Matagat are described as familiar spirits and it’s a little nod to folklore. They appear for like 3 minutes.

Bell, Book, and Candle (movie)- this film is full of tropes. It lays on some pretty thick liberties loosely based on lore surrounding traditional witches mixing it with fairy tale lore about them, namely witches being unable to love etc. But, the cat familiar Pyewacket is an accurate representation of how a familiar can act and be used. Touching on the subject of working magic through the familiar who is more cat with magic, than imp/goblin/demon/fairy/brownie in animal form, the main character uses Pyewacket as both a conduit for her spells as well as sending it forth for her bidding. It also represents the familiars ability to have autonomy and choose whether or not to listen if the pact is broken (this is shown by Pyewacket’s rejection to the main character after she rejects her powers).

Salem(TV) - Another example of familiars, with the additional Witch’s Mark lore incorporated.

Pan’s Labyrinth (Movie) - The mandrake is a textbook magistellus flora root familiar alrune piece of delicious representation.

There are others too but this post is long enough.

So....there are some of my thoughts. Also keep in mind that this is focusing on familiars in North America and European lore. There’s additional context to be had and differences when including South America, Asia, Africa and Australia. Also keep in mind, this is my view and opinions, if you call your parakeet a familiar, I don’t really care. That’s your choice and your practice and as the world adjusts so do practices, but as a traditional witch and folkloric witch myself......I could go on and on and had to stop myself from talking about Greek Genius spirits, Animism, accounts and trial records of witches and familiars, the Allegory of the Cave and more.

TLDR: Familiars are real, I work with them and they are not my pet dogs. If the only reason you call a pet a familiar is because it’s in the room while you light incense and you’re a witch...it’s probably not a traditional familiar. You can call it that sure, but it’s a different definition than is widely accepted and assumed when you say Witch’s familiar. If you do include your pet for workings then that falls in line with some of the iterations of the classical familiar.

🦇Cheers, Barberwitch

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showerfiltersme-blog · 4 years

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Florida has a unique natural water movement system to move water above

How Do Florida’s Aquifer Systems Form?

It takes a significant amount of rainwater to keep Florida’s fresh water above and below ground at normal levels. This means Florida’s rivers, lakes, ponds, springs, and aquifers systems, must be re-charged with fresh water yearly. With this in mind, the average annual rainfall in central Florida varies from 51 inches in drier years to over 70 inches in wetter years, which is almost 6 feet per year. This amount of rainfall comes year after year and can add up quickly. Where does all this water go you may ask?

Floridan and Biscayne Aquifer Systems

Florida has two major aquifer systems called the Floridan, and the Biscayne. “The Floridan Aquifer is the largest and deepest in the state. It stretches for 82,000 square miles beneath Florida and parts of Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina.” (4) These two aquifer systems absorb about 50% (2) of Florida’s yearly rainfall totals and store all the water in earthen structures called aquifer systems.

How Does Water Move Through The Earth’s Surface?

Florida has a unique natural water movement system to move water above and below ground. This “system” consists of rivers, lakes, ponds, springs, aquifer systems, swamps, bogs, and sun-induced evaporation. Each and every one of the water resources mentioned above is essential to Florida’s natural water movement system. Here we see the “system” is greater than the sum of its parts. Another part of the “system” not mentioned so far is the longitudinal center of the Florida peninsula. It can rise some 200 feet (3) above sea level and produces head pressure to propagate water movement to the each coast of the peninsula.

Turn your attention to a particular part of the “system” described above called “aquifer systems.” Florida’s aquifers are a primary source of fresh water for most residents in Central Florida. Aquifer systems are composed of different types of earth containing shell, sand, and limestone, which is the case in Central Florida (1). These unique systems are made of sponge-like porous rock types consisting of, in this instance, limestone rock, sand, and clay. These materials allow water to move through them and form the boundary of the aquifer. Because of aquifers, Florida has natural surface springs that are like windows to underground aquifer systems or water tables.

Contained aquifer water is usually under pressure. This pressure allows water to rise to the surface in some instances and known as a natural surface spring. Natural springs filled with crystal clear aquifer water can reach thousands of feet (3) deep and miles in length, all underground except a relatively small opening at the earth surface.

As described above, an aquifer is a large underground cavern of porous materials like sand, clay, and limestone rock. Rainfall seeps through the different material in layers of the earth. This naturally filters the water that enters the aquifer through a process called “percolation.”

The land surface shape determines how much rainfall seeps in an aquifer. Lowlands hold the water as a reservoir then gravity can take over to feed water back to the aquifers. As much as 50 percent of Florida’s average rainfall each year will perpetually recharge the aquifers (2).

Beautiful Karst Springs In Central Florida

“Karst” (1) springs are “artesian” springs and discharge tremendous amounts of crystal clear aquifer water daily. The hydraulic pressures created underground force aquifer water to the surface through cracks, crevices, and will bubble up through the sand as well. This type of natural spring is what most people think of China Filter Cartridge Manufacturers in Florida because these are the largest, easiest to find, and are great “Old Florida” tourist destinations.

Florida’s natural springs, river, and lakes provide residents and visitors year round access to boating, diving, snorkeling, fishing, swimming, and relaxation. The natural springs in Florida are”re-charged” by the average yearly rainfall and absorbed by sponge-like porous earth materials that also filter and clean vast amounts of water.

Reference

Florida's Aquifers, FloridasWaterdotcomFlorida's Water Then and Now, fcit.usf.edu/florida/lessons/water/Springs, Sinkholes, Florida Aquifer, FloridaSpringsdotcomThe Floridan Aquifer | WaterVenturedotcom

Source: Free Articles from ArticlesFactory

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dulcian · 5 years

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I really kinda want to make an earthen oven. Where I live we have a clay-heavy soil, which is good for that purpose, but I don’t want to dig up the yard too much.

Down at the bottom of the yard, it’s basically a wide ditch that drains into a pond at the end of the block, and it may be better to dig down there. Might be more silt than clay, but maybe that’ll still make a decent oven.

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desertsafaridubaiuae · 3 years

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Discover Hatta's rich history

Hatta, located roughly 130 kilometers south of main Dubai, stands in great contrast to the city's gleaming exterior with its jagged rocky outcrops, dispersed streams, and verdant meadows. Hiking up the Hajar hills will reward you with stunning views of the medieval settlement. Learn about the lives of ancient people whose existence was based on coconut palms and dates. These reduced sand trees provided sufficient resources to feed the everyday living. Trees build shelters and dwellings, while clay bricks are fashioned into carpets, fans, and rugs.

About Dubai's Desert Safari

Another amazing, adventurous, and exhilarating activity is a Dubai Desert Safari. Sunsets are magnificent in their own right. As a result, it's worthwhile to picture and share their people's elegance and beauty on social media. There are also a few little cafes where you may receive an adrenaline rush. As a result, don't forget to bring your recording equipment when visiting this famous area.

Water wonder

With its brilliant, azure water contrasted against the earthen rock for a lovely perspective. Hatta Dam is among the region's primary attractions. Tourists can hike from across the reservoir and over the hilly terrain. They can also ride along with it or pause at views for photos. Paddle from across a calm pond created by the dams for quick peeks, putting you right in the middle of the scene. Hatta, which is surrounded by hills, has a cooler climate than its coast rivals. Magnificent mountain ranges and fissures carved by years of geothermal processes add to their impressive appearance.

Village life

In the center of town, Hatta Heritage Village has been conserved and recreated by the administration to represent country life from generations later. The village debuted in 2001, takes Dubai's history to reality with rebuilt houses and businesses offering advanced technologies. Life-size models, documentation, and artworks are also on display in the hamlet. Before stopping at a covered dining area, take a stroll through the hotel's many bedrooms and garden. Outdoors, the locals continue to practice hereditary customs of employing clay, cowhide, and metal to create jewelry, weapons, ceramics, and cutlery. Here you may learn about social conventions such as marriage rites, storytelling, sports, and ancient melodies.

Citadels and fortifications

Visit the main Hatta Fort, completed in 1896 and becomes one of the UAE's greatest outstanding design landmarks. With a massive domestic courtyard and an 11-meter-high structure, the intricate construction operated as both a house and a military station. Mountains, rocks, and concrete blocks make up the structure. The two circular watchtowers oversee the hilltop settlement. They are 2.5 meters over the floor level, with a narrow opening and a semi-circular stairway to the rooftop.

Security officers would ascend the buildings and access through the gates using slings. The palm farm designated as the Al Sharia site is a short distance from the hamlet. Discover the falaj, which stretches many kilometers below before emerging just on top, on a peaceful walk through the woods. Outings and grilling are common in the almost 64-square-kilometer region, including a watchtower that provides a good standpoint.

Shopping at Hatta Village

You can purchase to your heart's desire during the Dubai shopping festival and elsewhere. In addition to viewing other destinations, tourists love to shop from here. For example, you can purchase a variety of items from the Hatta Wadi Store. Local foods, drinks, handbags, hats, and T-shirts are among them. There are various charming boutiques where you may buy traditional heritage items for family and friends. Hatta Heritage Village offers stores selling excellent campsite goods for bikers and hikers who want to stock up before going out on the trail. Do not skip out on attending this location during significant events such as UAE National Day or Flag Day, as big presentations will occur.

Adventures in Desert Safari

Last but not least comes the top tourist attraction that is Desert Safari. When you are finished with your day visiting these wonderful places, head towards any of the deserts of Dubai. Remember to visit the Petting Zoo, a popular tourist attraction, particularly if you travel with children. Also, visit the Lahbab Desert. It includes the following experiences: horse and camel safari, belling dancing, overnight camping, and evening safari also, experience overnight camping. You must, though, ensure that you are ready. Bring your camping equipment, such as tents, air mattresses, and lights, with you.

Conclusion

Dubai is always among the beautiful and top-list tourist destinations in the world. It has the world" s largest and greatest buildings, deserts, ancient structures, and much more. Hatta Heritage Village is also among the places which tourists never miss exploring when they visit Dubai. Agriculture remains a key industry in Hatta, with more than 550 farmers operating throughout a nearly 140-square-kilometer region. At the Hatta Honey Bee Garden, tourists may even enjoy a day in the safe environment of beekeepers.

Reference Link:

https://desertsafaru.wordpress.com/2021/08/05/discover-hattas-rich-history/

#desert safari #desert safari dubai #dubai desert safari

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karingudino · 3 years

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Mudgirls Manifesto houses the future in sustainable optimism

Folks throughout this battered planet try to think about a future that doesn’t appear to be a guntower-lined outlet mall sinking right into a tailings pond. However the Mudgirls Pure Constructing Collective, primarily based right here within the south coastal area of B.C., has gone an important step additional, from creativeness to motion—intrepid, hammer-swinging motion.

For the reason that founding of the Mudgirls 10 years in the past, the members of the all-women collective have been constructing properties for one another out of recycled supplies and the wooden, stone, and clay within the panorama round them.

They pool assets, suppose like pioneers, and work from rules of consensus, barter, skill- and confidence-building, knowledge-sharing, and enjoyable—an “utilized activism”, as founder Jen Gobby places it within the illustrated new e book Mudgirls Manifesto: Handbuilt Houses, Handcrafted Lives, from New Society Publishers.

They see their work as a hope-filled reply not simply to waste and air pollution, however to the “patriarchy, hierarchy, and capitalism” utilizing up our species and atmosphere. “That is the form of activism,” Gobby writes within the e book’s introduction, “that helps change the tales that we inform ourselves and one another about what we’re able to.”

The pictures beneath, all from Mudgirls Manifesto, provides you with a way of their high-spirited, hand-sculpted, wildly sensible work.

Clare and Alex’s load-bearing, off-the-grid cob home.

Clare Kenny

Ray and Soozie’s cob cabin.

Auguste Mann

Inside, Ray and Soozie’s cob cabin.

Auguste Mann

Adam’s cordwood and cob home, Lasqueti Island.

Publish and beam construction made out of beach-salvaged timber.

Customized kitchen constructed towards curving cob partitions.

Molly Murphy

Inlaid hydroponic pipes beneath an earthen ground.

Setting up a wattle and daub wall with contemporary willow.

Brianna Walker

Molly’s home.

Source link

source https://fikiss.net/mudgirls-manifesto-houses-the-future-in-sustainable-optimism/ Mudgirls Manifesto houses the future in sustainable optimism published first on https://fikiss.net/ from Karin Gudino https://karingudino.blogspot.com/2020/12/mudgirls-manifesto-houses-future-in.html

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guerrillathoughts · 7 years

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Guerrilla Book of the Week - Book 4 - The Raggamuffin Gospel, Brennan Manning

This week, I knew that my reading time would be greatly reduced. Due to work commitments I had to reschedule a lot of my time. So I went to my ever growing box of unread novels and memoirs, facts and fictions, Satires and Horrors, Travels and Histories. All various sizes and even shape. I dug down to the bottom and chose a book I bought many years ago. It was in near perfect condition and had never been read. It still had it’s purchase invoice inside. 2009. Eight years ago I bought this short book for less than four British pounds. Had I really been that busy over the last eight years that I couldn’t make room for 174 pages? And what had I achieved in those 8 years? 2009 I was just about to finish my undergraduate degree. Five years after buying this book I would go back and complete a one year post graduate. But in between, could I really not have found the time to read 174 pages?

Memories came to me that saddened my heart. The reason I bought this book, was because a friend at the time requested that I do so; a friend with whom I had fallen out of touch with. In eight years I had become so far removed from this friend that I wasn’t even in attendance at her wedding. This week I decided to find the time to read 174 pages. At first I was a little uneasy with this book, as it is not at all what I thought it would be. By the title I had assumed that this title would be about a Vagabond, or Ragamuffin, that just travelled or was at least semi nomadic, expecting it to be a travel memoir. This is very far from what this book is. This book is one man trying to help the reader to see the beauty and the grace of God. However I do not think that one needs to be a Christian to find value in the words. On nearly every page I found my self reaching for my pen to write down quotes, or make notes that could help me to write a post this week. Obviously not every quote or note will see the light of the blog, but it is a testament to just how Christian Brennan Manning is - As with Jesus, his words are not just for the righteous. He starts the book by listing who the book is for: “The bedraggled, beat-up, and burnt out. It is for the sorely burdened who are still shifting the heavy suitcase from one hand to the other. It is for the wobbly and weak kneed who know they don’t have it all together and are too proud to accept the handout of amazing grace. It is for the inconsistent, unsteady [disciples] whose cheese is falling off their cracker. It is for poor. weak [and sinful] men and woman with hereditary faults and limited talents. It is for earthen vessels who shuffle along on feet of clay. It is for the bent and bruised that feel their lives are a grave disappointment [to God]. It is for smart people that know they are stupid and honest [disciples] that know they are scallywags. The Ragamuffin Gospel is a book I wrote for myself and anyone who is discouraged along the way”

If you take away the references to God, I am sure that many people would find themselves in this list. And this book has a lot to say. Yes Manning says it through the avenue of belief in the Christian God, but I feel much of what he says is relevant, or should be relevant, even to non-believers of that faith. This post is not an argument for, or against Christianity. It is not about which faith is the one true faith. This post is about the book I read, the thoughts it stirred up in me, and who I become.

Disclaimer: I was born into a Catholic Family, raised in the Faith and still practise to this day, despite countless doubts.

This book is not about judgement. It is not about telling the reader that they are a sinner and that they must repent. This book actually has a whole chapter entitled “Tilted Halos”, that starts with an anecdote of a very uptight conservative Christian talking to the doctor about headaches. After questioning the Christian about his values he concludes the that cause is “Simple, my dear fellow. Your halo is too tight”. It further includes a very forward thinking quote that states simply “We miss Jesus’ point entirely when we use his words as weapons against others. They are to be taken personally by each of us”. Basically, he is passing no judgement in this book. He does not list sins of which one need to repent, nor does he use it as an opportunity to snipe at the Homosexual Community, the Atheist Community or communities of other faiths. Christians take all the flak. The book starts by talking about how incredible our universe and planet are, and how mathematically our Planet seems to have been created.

“The slant of the earth, for example, tilted at an angle of 23 degrees, produces our seasons. Scientists tell us that if the earth had not been tilted exactly as it is, vapours from the oceans would move both north and south, piling up continents of ice. If the moon were only 50,000 miles away from earth, instead of 200,000, the tides might be so enormous that all the continents would be submerged in water. Even the mountains would be eroded. If the Crust of the Earth had been only ten feet thicker, there would be no oxygen, and without it all animal life would die.

Had the oceans been a few feet deeper, carbon dioxide and oxygen would have been absorbed and no vegetable life would exist. The earth’s weight has been estimated at six sextillion tones (that’s a six with 21 zeros). Yet it is perfectly balanced.” This is of course incredible, to consider our planet’s perfection. Our planet is literally just perfect for life to exist. Any slight differences and our planet would not be the home it is today. And yet it is home. How much more incredible this becomes when we take a wider view of our existence and consider the perfection of our Universe. “The nine major planets in our solar system range in distance from the sun from 36 million to about 3 trillion, 6,664 billion miles; yet each moves around the sun in exact precision… The sun is only one minor star in the 100 billion orbs which comprise our Milky Way Galaxy. If you hereto hold a dime, a ten-cent piece, at arm’s length, the coin would block out 15 million stars from your view.”

So sorry to quote such a considerable chunk of this book, but I think it does a great job of putting us in our incredible place. You see the reason I think this is important, is because for me this can’t all be an accident. I am not arguing the existence of a creator God, I am merely suggesting that there must be more to life than the dull drudgery of working nine to five everyday, in jobs most people do not even feel are important. There must be more wonder. This is a point that Manning labours over nearly two full chapters, concluding with a quote from Rabbi Heschel; “As civilisation advances, the sense of wonder declines”. He labours the point because it is very important, that people of today no longer take the time to experience wonder. He describes some of the ways our race used to wonder at the world around us, and he describes how we are losing that ability. Again I am using a large quote from this book, but I really couldn’t cut it down.

“By and large, our world has lost it’s sense of wonder. We have grown up. We no longer catch our breath at the sight of a rainbow or the scent of a rose, as we once did. We have grown bigger and everything else smaller, less impressive. We get blasé and worldly wise and sophisticated. We no longer run our fingers through water, no longer shout at the stars or make faces at the moon. Water is H2O, the stars have been classified, and the moon is not made of green cheese. Thanks to satellite TV and Jet Planes, we can visit places available in the past only to a Columbus, a Balboa, and other daring explorers.”

One of the reasons I practise Landscape, Nature and Wildlife Photography is because I do still wonder at the world. When I see a beautiful painted sky or indeed a rainbow I will often pull over and enjoy them, even sometimes when I am in a rush. For me this is probably the most important time to enjoy such sights; whenever I am simply to busy to do so. I remember my shock just this year when meeting a girl from the country, to find that she had never laid in a field and counted the stars; There I was from the City, talking of my experiences on the west coast of Ireland, or under the unspoilt Bosnian Sky. I have discussed my love of the exciting. The moon may not be green cheese, but why not choose to believe it is anyway? I know this sounds naive, but hopefully if you take the time to read my previous post about this, you will understand and hopefully enjoy.

Manning really labours this point and it is beautiful. He labours the fact that sometimes we are simply just to busy. That in a modern civilised society “We barely notice the clouds passing over the moon or the dew drops clinging to the rose leaves. The Ice pond come and goes. The wild blackberries ripen and wither. The blackbird nests outside out bedroom window. We don’t see her. We grow complacent and lead practical lives. We miss the experience of awe, reverence, and wonder.”

Manning seems to be suggesting, as I alluded to earlier that there must be more to life than the dull drudgery of working nine to five everyday. We live our practical lives. We drive to work, come home and prepare for the next days work. We clear the massive pile of meaningless paper work, merely to make room for tomorrows massive pile of meaningless paper work. Manning makes a statement about religious people, but this statement could apply to all but the simplest of Children. “So often we religious people walk amid the beauty and bounty of nature and we talk nonstop. We miss the panorama of colour and sound and smell. We might as well have remained in our closed, artificially lit living rooms. Nature’s lessons are lost and the opportunity to be wrapped in silent wonder before the God of creation passes.” I have blogged about the importance of the sound of water in my life before. But it is too true that I have in the past missed the excellent glory of the world around me. I recall one trip hiking through the mountains of Spain, that I was so set on my destination that I missed the beautiful vistas, the birdsong in the mountain forests and the smell of the pines. I may as well have stayed at home. This is exactly why it is when I am hurried or rushed that I choose to pull over, stop the car and watch the sky, the cloud formations or the colours streaked creatively. I wish to be wrapped so often in that silent wonder. So often people tell me that go go climbing and hiking alone is dangerous and a bad idea - But sometimes when you do so with another soul, where your souls may be quiet, maybe that day is not a quiet day for them.

Manning has not finished labouring this point. The author is really trying to hammer home the nail; There is beauty and wonder all around us. “Our world is saturated with grace, and the lurking presence of God is revealed not only in spirit but in matter - in a deer leaping across a meadow, in the flight of an eagle, in fire and water, in a rainbow after a summer storm, in a gentle doe string through a forest…” and we need to take the time to take it all in. We need to live full and enjoyable lives. And this is almost as important to the author as the beauty of the world. It is not just about accepting that we have a really incredible world, but it is about getting out there and experiencing it; about wondering.

The author does accept that “It is only the reality of death that is powerful enough to quicken people out of the sluggishness of everyday life and into an active search for what life is really about”. It is so true that for so many people, they need a near death experience before they realise that they can actually live life whatever way they wish. That they can break free from the monotony. But until that near death experience, the majority of us may never make our decision; We have “To choose between generatively and stagnation, between continuing to have an impart, or sitting around waiting to die”.

Manning labours this point quite a bit also, concluding it with Norman Mailer’s quote “We are either living a little more, or dying a little bit”. A really scary concept. We are either living, or we are dying. Its black and white, fifty fifty, “do or do not, there is no try”. I addressed this concept in my post earlier in the week. We must decided to live deliberately. Either way I find some truth in the quote “The child of God knows that the graced life calls him or her to live on a cold and windy mountain, not on the flattened plain of reasonable, middle-of-the-road religion”. Not from a religious point of view, but from a literally point go view. I don’t just think that what has become of our civilisation is a waste, I know it is a waste. The concrete jungles do little for my mind, body and spirt. As John Muir famous said “The Mountains are calling, and I must go”. I know that Manning intends this as a metaphor and not about literally living in the mountains, but we all have that calling deep down in side to do something different. Manning goes on to talk about how wonderful the he thinks “The God who flung from his fingertips this universe filled with Galaxies and stars, penguins and puffins, gulls and gannets, Pomeranians and poodles, elephants and evergreens, parrots and potato bugs, peaches and pears and a world full of Children“ is. Messner talks about how wonderful he thinks the galaxies and stars are. It does not matter where it came from, both are expressing the need to find wonder in the world again.

What strikes me most about this book, is how easily one would reject it. Manning is labouring many of the points that Reinhold Messner laboured in his own book. How important is the wilderness to our soul? How beautiful a world we live in! How unnecessary and unsatisfying it is to live the bourgeois lifestyle. Those that would read Messner’s book may be quick to reject Mannings due to his belief in the Christian God. How quick Mannings reader may be to reject the non-Christian writing of Messner. Yet both authors labour the same point. That we live in a really wonderful and incredible planet and that so many of us are missing the joy of it all.

Another point made by both is the importance of other people. Last week I reflected on how Messner found his first solo attempts to be too difficult because he “…was lost at the mercy of my own loneliness” and he talked about the importance of a shared experience, and his book finishes with a reflection on the importance of real honest friendship. Manning makes a similar point in this book. He uses his experiences at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting to bring this point.

“Some talk to each other daily on the telephone, others socialise outside the meetings. The personal investment in one another’s sobriety is sizeable. Nobody fools anybody else… For one small hour the high and the mighty descend and the lowly rise. The result is fellowship”

The personal investment in one anothers sobriety is a wonderful concept. But it should not be unique to Alcoholics Anonymous. Maybe if we all sought investment in one another, there would be a lot less people that struggle with sobriety. Maybe we would see the decommissioning of arms and the take up of peace. Maybe there would be less infighting within religions and a lot less between religions. Maybe. Either way it is the other people in our lives that get us to the end. Even in their absence. It is the knowledge, or the feeling of their presence that makes keep going past the final hurdle. Manning reflects on this with the imagery of war “The soldier in combat who, during the lull in the battle, steals a glance at his wife’s picture tucked in his helmet, is more present to her at that moment in her absence that he is to the rifle that is present in his hands”

Now as a pacifist, I think this is a wonderful image. Where could one be farther removed from their loved one that in seperation due to war.

I’ll end by repeating a harrowing quote.

“We are either living a little more, or dying a little bit” ~ Norman Mailer

#The Ragamuffin Gospel #Brennan Manning

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goatessb · 3 years

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Iksan Trip, Part 2. , Day 2. Goseurak, Mireuksaji, and Wangrungri Sites.

China has thousands of terracotta warriors in neat rows, but do they have thousands of equally neatly arranged clay pots?

On the second day of the trip, it was time to leave the city proper and explore the surrounding area. The best way to do that is to hop on a city tour bus. I had called the Iksan City Hall the day before to make sure that there were, indeed, tour buses running in this age oflimited travel. We walked to Iksan Station to board a bus that was to take us to the prison filming set, Goseurak (clay pots), Mireuksaji temple site and pagoda, the National Museum, Wangrungri Five-storey pagoda, and the Jewelry Museum. The first stop was a fail as the filming set, was closed due to a - big surprise - filming. We were disappointed and made a tentative decision to come back the day after. We also hadn’t expected the attractions on the itinerary to be so far apart, driving long distances from one spot to another. Unless you have a car, the tour bus is the best option, and at 4000 won, the cheapest to see the sights in Iksan.

Goseurak and its Clay Pot Army

The next stop was Goseurak/ 고스락, a facility and yard filled with pots containing fermented and still fermenting soy bean paste. Fret not, no pungent smell here. It’s one of the biggest traditional food facilities in Korea. A manicured area of 6000 square meters houses about 4000 pots. Many dramas and movies use it as a backdrop. We loved walking among the shiny rows of these brown beauties in a varitey of shapes and sizes, some decorated with cute paintings of flowers, cartoon characters, bees, birds…After a pleasant stroll and dozens of photos, we sat down on the terrace of a cafe under a sunbrella to enjoy organic milk ice cream - and enjoy it we did, every last lick of the creamy, luscious, not too sweet, refreshing substance. A young woman who had been on the bus with us when we started back at the station offered us rice cakes made by her mother and they were good, too. While traveling, I indulge in a lot more "carbage" than I should, but my somewhat valid excuse is that one has to taste local cuisine even if it's not very authentic - like the above praised ice cream. Milk came from local cows, though, so that must count for something.

Above: Mireuksaji pagoda and an adjoining 'no name' pagoda.

Back on the bus and off to our second stop, the sweet taste of ice cream still lingering on our taste buds. Oh, I almost forgot. I must tell you about the tour bus driver! What a character, a beardless and hairless, warm weather version of Santa Clause: loud, rotund, and jolly. We'd hop on and off, only to encounter him, over and over again. There are probably not that many tour buses. He really enjoyed talking to us in his loud, Jolla-accented, raspy voice. He kept pointing at the restaurants along the road, listing items on their menus, like a tireless parrot. Upon hearing that we skipped breakfast, he gave us a lesson about our dangerous behavior, and on the following day, when we took the bus again to visit the prison set, he gave me two packets of dry fish loosely wrapped in an A4 peace of paper with his bus timetable printed on it. How funny and sweet, even if I really don’t care much for that type of fish.

After the pots, we arrived at the site of Mireuksaji Temple and Pagoda/미륵사지 석탑, ranking quite high on the extensive national treasures list, no.11. UNESCO also deemed it worthy of the World Heritage sites list. Then, what is it? Mireuksaji used to be an enormous Buddhist temple complex of the Baekje period, established in 602 C.E. by King Mu. A legend says the king and the queen were visiting the temple when they spotted a vision of Maitreya, a future Buddha bound to come to earth some day, achieve enlightenment and teach darma. Who wouldn't build a temple after such a sighting? So they did. The temple had been destroyed and rebuilt many times in its long and turbulent history. The only thing that remains today of once the largest temple complex in Asia is the pagoda. Its reconstruction took 20 years at a cost of $20,000,000. After such a long and costly endeavour, it was open to the public in 2018. I must say, I am a bit puzzled as to why it was so expensive and why it took so long... But I am hardly qualified to elaborate on this, so I won’t.

Below: the adjacent pagoda and a door handle detail with a Haetchi face ( Haetchi: a mythic "unicorn lion" that protects against fire, demons, and other disasters)

From the moment I laid my eyes on a little pond framed in trees, shrubs and reeds with two pale pagodas visible though the shimmering leaves, I was sold. The picture was even more perfect with two gently curved mountains in the background. Admittedly, no other structures remain, but hearing that unmistakable "temple sound" of chimes swaying in the wind and looking at the grounds through the haze of modern-day pollution, I was able to imagine the hushed voices and soft steps of the king and queen in their massive silky robes coming here and spotting maitreya hovering above the pond. How awed they must have been!

Mireuksaji Pagoda, seen from across the pond.

Pungkyeong/풍경, fish-shaped wind chimes.

I got curious why all temples in Korea have them and I got my answer in Dale's Koreantempleguide.com. There are three meanings behind it: first, freedom as the wind passes freely through the chime; second, a reminder to stay awake and diligent on the way to enlightenment just like a fish that never closes its eyes, awake or asleep; third, the sound deters evil spirits. Interestingly, the one shown here doesn't have a fish!

Near the Mireuksaji, there’s Iksan National Museum (국립익산박물관) with about 20,000 artefacts that had been unearthed in the process of reconstruction of this site as well as of Wangrungri. The museum is quite impressive, its exhibits ranging from the expected museum paraphernalia like all manner of earthen pots, basins and water jugs in various degrees of disrepair to wondrous and fascinating objects like royal coffins, gilded jars, tiny intricate sariras a.k.a. buddhist reliquaries. The one found in Wangrungri, our next stop, but exhibited here, was really beautiful. It consisted of a tiny jade bottle and a small golden trove the surface of which was carved in intricate filigree. After we feasted our eyes on the exhibits (also decently annotated in English), we went to the museum cafe to feast on some refreshments. It was lucky that our visit fell on a 'special performance day,' so we got to enjoy a short concert by an amazing young counter tenor. He delighted us with his incredibly high notes and musicality - and his good looks.

Wangrungri Five-story pagoda: the sky, the trees, the grass all make for a nice, atmospheric package.

The third stop on our bus tour itinerary was another UNESCO world heritage site, the grounds of a Buddhist temple, now obliterated, and another pagoda, officially known as the Wangrungri Five-storey Pagoda/ 왕궁리유적 과 왕궁리 오층석탑. The pagoda is not as elegant and shiny as the reconstructed Mireuksaji one, but it looks all the more ancient and authentic. The temple site and the pagoda were once in the centre of the capital city of Mahan, a smaller but very advanced nation from the Baekje period. One can see what an enormous effort has been put into rearranging the grounds to give the visitor at least a vague idea of what it all could have looked like back in the glory days. There’s not a lot to see, frankly, and the adjoining museum was closed. Still, somehow, inexplicably, just by walking around, one is shrouded in a solemn mood and really feels the breath of history. It must be all that haze and all that wind…

More adventures on and off the tour bus await in Part 3.

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vitalmindandbody · 7 years

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Forgotten metropolitans# 7: how Nasa technology unveiled the ‘megacity’ of Angkor

Recent laser inspections have disclosed tracings of a immense metropolitan accommodation, comparable in size to Los Angeles, all over the synagogues of Angkor in the Cambodian jungle. The ancient Khmer capital was never lost it just got a bit overgrown

Clusters of giant stone yearn cones poke above the dense forest canopy in Cambodia, looks a lot like ancient rocket ships positioned for take-off, their peculiar silhouettes reflected in the mirror-calm moat below. Tree root tentacles stray along crumbling cornices, winding their channel around doorway chassis and strangling the serene stone faces of smiling god-kings, oblivious given the fact that their empire has long succumbed to the natural world.

When youre investigating the enigmatic synagogues of Angkor, together with the two million other tourists who come here each year, it can still feel like youre unveiling this lost territory for the first time. Whats more difficult to envisage as you wander between the ruined areas, each set apart in the profundities of the jungle, is that these headstones were once part of the largest, most sprawling municipality on the planet.

Its a impression that archaeologists have had for decades, but which was only recently confirmed in astonishing detail by an aerial laser investigation, which cut through the foliage for the first time a few years ago to expose the grid of a vast city settlement pulling for miles all over the moated compounds. It showed that the ancient Khmer capital, which flourished from the ninth to 15 th centuries, had more in common with Los Angeles than this series of tabernacles stand in splendid isolation in the jungle might suggest.

The laser technology has been a total game-changer, replies Damian Evans, the Australian archaeologist who has been contributing the airborne searching survey at the cole Franaise dExtrme-Orient, working with Cambodian APSARA National Authority and the Ministry of Culture and Fine Arts. Our investigations have disclosed the specific characteristics of a settlement comparable in size to LA or Sydney, with an urban formation that resembles the various kinds of scattered low-density megacity characteristic of the modern world.

Lidar engineering discovered a system of canals and roads that connected the Angkor temple complex. Picture: Damian Evans/ Cambodian Archaeological Lidar Initiative

For centuries, expeditions of Angkor had been preoccupied with the temple compounds themselves, focusing on the religious symbolism of such structures and the cosmological macrocosms depicted in their intricate low relief. And its not hard to see why.

Grander than anything left to us by Greece or Rome, was the judgment of young French explorer Henri Mouhot, when he first stumbled across Angkor Wat in 1858, a composite he described as a rival to[ the temple] of Solomon, erected by some ancient Michelangelo. This central temple alone, built by King Suryavarman II in the early 12 th century, remains the largest religion complex in the world, four times larger than Vatican City, five specific conical towers rising above a 160 -hectare precinct.

As the only subsisting designs in the area, it was assumed that the temples must have controlled like medieval walled towns, each inhabited of staff members of a few thousand people. Perhaps they had been built by consecutive lords, as the royal family and their retinue moved from one complex to the next, leaving a series of separate metropolitans scattered in all the regions of the plain, each bordered by a defensive moat.

The synagogue of Banteay Top Lidar disclosed details of additional tabernacle locates and occupation areas in the vicinity of this synagogue. Photograph: Damian Evans

The reality, it is about to change, was nothing of the sort. The laser inspections, conducted in 2012 and 2015, has showed that these sacred walled districts didnt contain much at all. They were instead surrounded by a sprawling urban network, a grid of freeways, streets and canals that provided far into the bordering scenery, embracing an area larger than modern-day Paris. What archaeologists had been studying for generations was simply the equivalent of a European city with everything mopped away except for the churches and cathedrals.

At its pinnacle in the 12 th century, when London had a population of 18,000, Angkor was home to hundreds of thousands, some approximate up to three-quarters of a million people. So what form did this megacity in the rice fields take?

Im reluctant to use the word city, suggests Evans. Angkor doesnt follow the usual structure of an ancient walled metropoli with a clearly defined margin. Instead, we detected a extremely densely populated downtown city core, covering a zone of 35 -4 0 sq km, which gradually yields acces to a kind of agro-urban hinterland. It slowly dissolves into a world-wide of neighborhood shrines, mixed up with rice fields, sell gardens and ponds. It was the prototype of modern-day suburban sprawl.

Angkor locator map

Thanks to engineering devised by Nasa, all of this could be gleaned from a few hours of helicopter flight, as opposed to generations of hacking through the undergrowth with machetes( while keeping a picket for landmines ). Shooting a million laser beams every four seconds from the bottom of a helicopter, the lidar technology( which stands for light-colored likeness detection and ranging) earmarks a kind of virtual deforestation to take place, depriving away the tree canopy to discover what lies beneath on the forest floor.

The discovers were a discovery. The scanning uncovered a terrain inscribed with a precise system of furrows and embankments, the bones of the town etched into the landscape.

On the floor you just see lumps and bulges, suggests Evans, but this aerial view presents a highly sophisticated system of road networks, schemed communities and intricate waterworks. Angkor was a drive of geoengineering on an unparalleled scale.

Any evidence of these neighbourhoods on the soil has long since decomposed away. In Khmer society, stone was used solely for religion shrines, built of enormous cubes floated here from quarries 30 miles back along specially dug canals( as the wider laser survey discovered last year ). Everything else even the imperial palaces was make use of grove and thatch, with dwellings heightened up on stilts on top of earthen dunes, designed to keep them above the floodwaters in the rainy season.

Digital terrain model of Preah Khan of Kompong Svay, east of Angkor. Photograph: Damian Evans/ Cambodian Archaeological Lidar Initiative

The Khmers mastery over the natural landscape was perhaps their greatest achievement, and the lidar mapping has uncovered complex high levels of terraforming and ocean management systems that were way ahead of any other settlement of the era.

Once again, earlier archaeological studies focused on the symbolic role of water in Angkors cosmological order, reading the immense reservoir as epitomizes of the mythological oceans circumventing Mount Meru, residence of the Hindu divinities. While the watercourses apparently played a part in the hallowed geography of the town, they were fundamentally there to irrigate the rice fields, the source of the empires great money. Success in a tropical climate eventually is conditional upon the ability to mitigate flooding during the summer monsoon and accumulation enough water to irrigate the fields during dry season something the Khmer lords had clearly mastered.

Residential regions were arranged around millions of communal rainfall ponds, while the fields were irrigated by a pair of great pools, or barays, the whole system connected by an extensive network of canals and paths. The West Baray, which pulls five miles by one mile to the west of downtown Angkor, remains the largest hand-cut body of water on clay. Contained by towering earthen dikes, it stands as the steeple of the Khmer ability to harness the landscape for its own ends.

Two laser inspections uncovered suburban sprawl in Angkor. Photograph: Damian Evans/ Journal of Archaeological Science

But this hydrological virtuosity, Evans and his squad now speculate, might also have been at the root of Angkors undoing, shedding brand-new light on the eventual conclude for this magnificent metropoli decline.

Archaeologists have long theorized on why the Khmer capital descended into wrecking. One hypothesi is that the city was sacked by a Siamese invasion in 1431, prompting the princes and their people to flee en masse to an province near present-day Phnom Penh. But there is little evidence of the various kinds of agreements indicative of a mass migration.

Others argue that the transition from Hinduism to more serene Buddhism, in accordance with the predominate of Jayavarman VII, sapped the Angkorian civilisation of its war mongering, monument-building vigor. Yet that conveniently discounts the brutal swellings of other Buddhist lords elsewhere in the world at the time. Another tenuous show is that the Khmer depleted themselves with all the building campaigns and finally collapsed from statue fatigue.

Evans, nonetheless , now believes that environmental influences played an important area. Searching at the sedimentary registers, there is evidence of cataclysmic flooding, he remarks. In the expansion of Angkor, they had destroyed all of the woodlands in the watershed, and we have spotcheck downfalls in the water system, exposing that various parts of the network simply are broken down. With the entire feudal hierarchy reliant on the successful management of ocean, a break in the chain could have been enough to spurs a gradual decline.

While it might be inviting to dwell on the colourful vision of a mass exodus, Evans is keen to emphasise that there was no spectacular collapse at all. There was much of attest for continued vigour in Angkor, he replies. When Portuguese merchants inspected in the 16 th century, and French adventurers came here in the 19 th century, they encountered communities of several thousand people living in and all over the tabernacles. It might have disappeared from the consciousness of Europeans for a occasion, he contributes, but Angkor was never a lost metropoli. It just got a bit overgrown.

Please share your legends of other failed cities throughout biography in the comments below. F ollow Guardian City on Twitter and Facebook invited to join such discussions

Read more: www.theguardian.com

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readbookywooks · 7 years

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“Tiger! Tiger!”

What of the hunting, hunter bold? Brother, the watch was long and cold. What of the quarry ye went to kill? Brother, he crops in the jungle still. Where is the power that made your pride? Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side. Where is the haste that ye hurry by? Brother, I go to my lair–to die. Now we must go back to the first tale. When Mowgli left the wolf’s cave after the fight with the Pack at the Council Rock, he went down to the plowed lands where the villagers lived, but he would not stop there because it was too near to the jungle, and he knew that he had made at least one bad enemy at the Council. So he hurried on, keeping to the rough road that ran down the valley, and followed it at a steady jog-trot for nearly twenty miles, till he came to a country that he did not know. The valley opened out into a great plain dotted over with rocks and cut up by ravines. At one end stood a little village, and at the other the thick jungle came down in a sweep to the grazing-grounds, and stopped there as though it had been cut off with a hoe. All over the plain, cattle and buffaloes were grazing, and when the little boys in charge of the herds saw Mowgli they shouted and ran away, and the yellow pariah dogs that hang about every Indian village barked. Mowgli walked on, for he was feeling hungry, and when he came to the village gate he saw the big thorn-bush that was drawn up before the gate at twilight, pushed to one side.

“Umph!” he said, for he had come across more than one such barricade in his night rambles after things to eat. “So men are afraid of the People of the Jungle here also.” He sat down by the gate, and when a man came out he stood up, opened his mouth, and pointed down it to show that he wanted food. The man stared, and ran back up the one street of the village shouting for the priest, who was a big, fat man dressed in white, with a red and yellow mark on his forehead. The priest came to the gate, and with him at least a hundred people, who stared and talked and shouted and pointed at Mowgli.

“They have no manners, these Men Folk,” said Mowgli to himself. “Only the gray ape would behave as they do.” So he threw back his long hair and frowned at the crowd.

“What is there to be afraid of?” said the priest. “Look at the marks on his arms and legs. They are the bites of wolves. He is but a wolf-child run away from the jungle.”

Of course, in playing together, the cubs had often nipped Mowgli harder than they intended, and there were white scars all over his arms and legs. But he would have been the last person in the world to call these bites, for he knew what real biting meant.

“Arre! Arre!” said two or three women together. “To be bitten by wolves, poor child! He is a handsome boy. He has eyes like red fire. By my honor, Messua, he is not unlike thy boy that was taken by the tiger.”

“Let me look,” said a woman with heavy copper rings on her wrists and ankles, and she peered at Mowgli under the palm of her hand. “Indeed he is not. He is thinner, but he has the very look of my boy.”

The priest was a clever man, and he knew that Messua was wife to the richest villager in the place. So he looked up at the sky for a minute and said solemnly: “What the jungle has taken the jungle has restored. Take the boy into thy house, my sister, and forget not to honor the priest who sees so far into the lives of men.”

“By the Bull that bought me,” said Mowgli to himself, “but all this talking is like another looking-over by the Pack! Well, if I am a man, a man I must become.”

The crowd parted as the woman beckoned Mowgli to her hut, where there was a red lacquered bedstead, a great earthen grain chest with funny raised patterns on it, half a dozen copper cooking pots, an image of a Hindu god in a little alcove, and on the wall a real looking glass, such as they sell at the country fairs.

She gave him a long drink of milk and some bread, and then she laid her hand on his head and looked into his eyes; for she thought perhaps that he might be her real son come back from the jungle where the tiger had taken him. So she said, “Nathoo, O Nathoo!” Mowgli did not show that he knew the name. “Dost thou not remember the day when I gave thee thy new shoes?” She touched his foot, and it was almost as hard as horn. “No,” she said sorrowfully, “those feet have never worn shoes, but thou art very like my Nathoo, and thou shalt be my son.”

Mowgli was uneasy, because he had never been under a roof before. But as he looked at the thatch, he saw that he could tear it out any time if he wanted to get away, and that the window had no fastenings. “What is the good of a man,” he said to himself at last, “if he does not understand man’s talk? Now I am as silly and dumb as a man would be with us in the jungle. I must speak their talk.”

It was not for fun that he had learned while he was with the wolves to imitate the challenge of bucks in the jungle and the grunt of the little wild pig. So, as soon as Messua pronounced a word Mowgli would imitate it almost perfectly, and before dark he had learned the names of many things in the hut.

There was a difficulty at bedtime, because Mowgli would not sleep under anything that looked so like a panther trap as that hut, and when they shut the door he went through the window. “Give him his will,” said Messua’s husband. “Remember he can never till now have slept on a bed. If he is indeed sent in the place of our son he will not run away.”

So Mowgli stretched himself in some long, clean grass at the edge of the field, but before he had closed his eyes a soft gray nose poked him under the chin.

“Phew!” said Gray Brother (he was the eldest of Mother Wolf’s cubs). “This is a poor reward for following thee twenty miles. Thou smellest of wood smoke and cattle–altogether like a man already. Wake, Little Brother; I bring news.”

“Are all well in the jungle?” said Mowgli, hugging him.

“All except the wolves that were burned with the Red Flower. Now, listen. Shere Khan has gone away to hunt far off till his coat grows again, for he is badly singed. When he returns he swears that he will lay thy bones in the Waingunga.”

“There are two words to that. I also have made a little promise. But news is always good. I am tired to-night,–very tired with new things, Gray Brother,–but bring me the news always.”

“Thou wilt not forget that thou art a wolf? Men will not make thee forget?” said Gray Brother anxiously.

“Never. I will always remember that I love thee and all in our cave. But also I will always remember that I have been cast out of the Pack.”

“And that thou mayest be cast out of another pack. Men are only men, Little Brother, and their talk is like the talk of frogs in a pond. When I come down here again, I will wait for thee in the bamboos at the edge of the grazing-ground.”

For three months after that night Mowgli hardly ever left the village gate, he was so busy learning the ways and customs of men. First he had to wear a cloth round him, which annoyed him horribly; and then he had to learn about money, which he did not in the least understand, and about plowing, of which he did not see the use. Then the little children in the village made him very angry. Luckily, the Law of the Jungle had taught him to keep his temper, for in the jungle life and food depend on keeping your temper; but when they made fun of him because he would not play games or fly kites, or because he mispronounced some word, only the knowledge that it was unsportsmanlike to kill little naked cubs kept him from picking them up and breaking them in two.

He did not know his own strength in the least. In the jungle he knew he was weak compared with the beasts, but in the village people said that he was as strong as a bull.

And Mowgli had not the faintest idea of the difference that caste makes between man and man. When the potter’s donkey slipped in the clay pit, Mowgli hauled it out by the tail, and helped to stack the pots for their journey to the market at Khanhiwara. That was very shocking, too, for the potter is a low-caste man, and his donkey is worse. When the priest scolded him, Mowgli threatened to put him on the donkey too, and the priest told Messua’s husband that Mowgli had better be set to work as soon as possible; and the village head-man told Mowgli that he would have to go out with the buffaloes next day, and herd them while they grazed. No one was more pleased than Mowgli; and that night, because he had been appointed a servant of the village, as it were, he went off to a circle that met every evening on a masonry platform under a great fig-tree. It was the village club, and the head-man and the watchman and the barber, who knew all the gossip of the village, and old Buldeo, the village hunter, who had a Tower musket, met and smoked. The monkeys sat and talked in the upper branches, and there was a hole under the platform where a cobra lived, and he had his little platter of milk every night because he was sacred; and the old men sat around the tree and talked, and pulled at the big huqas (the water-pipes) till far into the night. They told wonderful tales of gods and men and ghosts; and Buldeo told even more wonderful ones of the ways of beasts in the jungle, till the eyes of the children sitting outside the circle bulged out of their heads. Most of the tales were about animals, for the jungle was always at their door. The deer and the wild pig grubbed up their crops, and now and again the tiger carried off a man at twilight, within sight of the village gates.

Mowgli, who naturally knew something about what they were talking of, had to cover his face not to show that he was laughing, while Buldeo, the Tower musket across his knees, climbed on from one wonderful story to another, and Mowgli’s shoulders shook.

Buldeo was explaining how the tiger that had carried away Messua’s son was a ghost-tiger, and his body was inhabited by the ghost of a wicked, old money-lender, who had died some years ago. “And I know that this is true,” he said, “because Purun Dass always limped from the blow that he got in a riot when his account books were burned, and the tiger that I speak of he limps, too, for the tracks of his pads are unequal.”

“True, true, that must be the truth,” said the gray-beards, nodding together.

“Are all these tales such cobwebs and moon talk?” said Mowgli. “That tiger limps because he was born lame, as everyone knows. To talk of the soul of a money-lender in a beast that never had the courage of a jackal is child’s talk.”

Buldeo was speechless with surprise for a moment, and the head-man stared.

“Oho! It is the jungle brat, is it?” said Buldeo. “If thou art so wise, better bring his hide to Khanhiwara, for the Government has set a hundred rupees on his life. Better still, talk not when thy elders speak.”

Mowgli rose to go. “All the evening I have lain here listening,” he called back over his shoulder, “and, except once or twice, Buldeo has not said one word of truth concerning the jungle, which is at his very doors. How, then, shall I believe the tales of ghosts and gods and goblins which he says he has seen?”

“It is full time that boy went to herding,” said the head-man, while Buldeo puffed and snorted at Mowgli’s impertinence.

The custom of most Indian villages is for a few boys to take the cattle and buffaloes out to graze in the early morning, and bring them back at night. The very cattle that would trample a white man to death allow themselves to be banged and bullied and shouted at by children that hardly come up to their noses. So long as the boys keep with the herds they are safe, for not even the tiger will charge a mob of cattle. But if they straggle to pick flowers or hunt lizards, they are sometimes carried off. Mowgli went through the village street in the dawn, sitting on the back of Rama, the great herd bull. The slaty-blue buffaloes, with their long, backward-sweeping horns and savage eyes, rose out their byres, one by one, and followed him, and Mowgli made it very clear to the children with him that he was the master. He beat the buffaloes with a long, polished bamboo, and told Kamya, one of the boys, to graze the cattle by themselves, while he went on with the buffaloes, and to be very careful not to stray away from the herd.

An Indian grazing ground is all rocks and scrub and tussocks and little ravines, among which the herds scatter and disappear. The buffaloes generally keep to the pools and muddy places, where they lie wallowing or basking in the warm mud for hours. Mowgli drove them on to the edge of the plain where the Waingunga came out of the jungle; then he dropped from Rama’s neck, trotted off to a bamboo clump, and found Gray Brother. “Ah,” said Gray Brother, “I have waited here very many days. What is the meaning of this cattle-herding work?”

“It is an order,” said Mowgli. “I am a village herd for a while. What news of Shere Khan?”

“He has come back to this country, and has waited here a long time for thee. Now he has gone off again, for the game is scarce. But he means to kill thee.”

“Very good,” said Mowgli. “So long as he is away do thou or one of the four brothers sit on that rock, so that I can see thee as I come out of the village. When he comes back wait for me in the ravine by the dhak tree in the center of the plain. We need not walk into Shere Khan’s mouth.”

Then Mowgli picked out a shady place, and lay down and slept while the buffaloes grazed round him. Herding in India is one of the laziest things in the world. The cattle move and crunch, and lie down, and move on again, and they do not even low. They only grunt, and the buffaloes very seldom say anything, but get down into the muddy pools one after another, and work their way into the mud till only their noses and staring china-blue eyes show above the surface, and then they lie like logs. The sun makes the rocks dance in the heat, and the herd children hear one kite (never any more) whistling almost out of sight overhead, and they know that if they died, or a cow died, that kite would sweep down, and the next kite miles away would see him drop and follow, and the next, and the next, and almost before they were dead there would be a score of hungry kites come out of nowhere. Then they sleep and wake and sleep again, and weave little baskets of dried grass and put grasshoppers in them; or catch two praying mantises and make them fight; or string a necklace of red and black jungle nuts; or watch a lizard basking on a rock, or a snake hunting a frog near the wallows. Then they sing long, long songs with odd native quavers at the end of them, and the day seems longer than most people’s whole lives, and perhaps they make a mud castle with mud figures of men and horses and buffaloes, and put reeds into the men’s hands, and pretend that they are kings and the figures are their armies, or that they are gods to be worshiped. Then evening comes and the children call, and the buffaloes lumber up out of the sticky mud with noises like gunshots going off one after the other, and they all string across the gray plain back to the twinkling village lights.

Day after day Mowgli would lead the buffaloes out to their wallows, and day after day he would see Gray Brother’s back a mile and a half away across the plain (so he knew that Shere Khan had not come back), and day after day he would lie on the grass listening to the noises round him, and dreaming of old days in the jungle. If Shere Khan had made a false step with his lame paw up in the jungles by the Waingunga, Mowgli would have heard him in those long, still mornings.

At last a day came when he did not see Gray Brother at the signal place, and he laughed and headed the buffaloes for the ravine by the dhk tree, which was all covered with golden-red flowers. There sat Gray Brother, every bristle on his back lifted.

“He has hidden for a month to throw thee off thy guard. He crossed the ranges last night with Tabaqui, hot-foot on thy trail,” said the Wolf, panting.

Mowgli frowned. “I am not afraid of Shere Khan, but Tabaqui is very cunning.”

“Have no fear,” said Gray Brother, licking his lips a little. “I met Tabaqui in the dawn. Now he is telling all his wisdom to the kites, but he told me everything before I broke his back. Shere Khan’s plan is to wait for thee at the village gate this evening–for thee and for no one else. He is lying up now, in the big dry ravine of the Waingunga.”

“Has he eaten today, or does he hunt empty?” said Mowgli, for the answer meant life and death to him.

“He killed at dawn,–a pig,–and he has drunk too. Remember, Shere Khan could never fast, even for the sake of revenge.”

“Oh! Fool, fool! What a cub’s cub it is! Eaten and drunk too, and he thinks that I shall wait till he has slept! Now, where does he lie up? If there were but ten of us we might pull him down as he lies. These buffaloes will not charge unless they wind him, and I cannot speak their language. Can we get behind his track so that they may smell it?”

“He swam far down the Waingunga to cut that off,” said Gray Brother.

“Tabaqui told him that, I know. He would never have thought of it alone.” Mowgli stood with his finger in his mouth, thinking. “The big ravine of the Waingunga. That opens out on the plain not half a mile from here. I can take the herd round through the jungle to the head of the ravine and then sweep down –but he would slink out at the foot. We must block that end. Gray Brother, canst thou cut the herd in two for me?”

“Not I, perhaps–but I have brought a wise helper.” Gray Brother trotted off and dropped into a hole. Then there lifted up a huge gray head that Mowgli knew well, and the hot air was filled with the most desolate cry of all the jungle–the hunting howl of a wolf at midday.

“Akela! Akela!” said Mowgli, clapping his hands. “I might have known that thou wouldst not forget me. We have a big work in hand. Cut the herd in two, Akela. Keep the cows and calves together, and the bulls and the plow buffaloes by themselves.”

The two wolves ran, ladies’-chain fashion, in and out of the herd, which snorted and threw up its head, and separated into two clumps. In one, the cow-buffaloes stood with their calves in the center, and glared and pawed, ready, if a wolf would only stay still, to charge down and trample the life out of him. In the other, the bulls and the young bulls snorted and stamped, but though they looked more imposing they were much less dangerous, for they had no calves to protect. No six men could have divided the herd so neatly.

“What orders!” panted Akela. “They are trying to join again.”

Mowgli slipped on to Rama’s back. “Drive the bulls away to the left, Akela. Gray Brother, when we are gone, hold the cows together, and drive them into the foot of the ravine.”

“How far?” said Gray Brother, panting and snapping.

“Till the sides are higher than Shere Khan can jump,” shouted Mowgli. “Keep them there till we come down.” The bulls swept off as Akela bayed, and Gray Brother stopped in front of the cows. They charged down on him, and he ran just before them to the foot of the ravine, as Akela drove the bulls far to the left.

“Well done! Another charge and they are fairly started. Careful, now–careful, Akela. A snap too much and the bulls will charge. Hujah! This is wilder work than driving black-buck. Didst thou think these creatures could move so swiftly?” Mowgli called.

“I have–have hunted these too in my time,” gasped Akela in the dust. “Shall I turn them into the jungle?”

“Ay! Turn. Swiftly turn them! Rama is mad with rage. Oh, if I could only tell him what I need of him to-day.”

The bulls were turned, to the right this time, and crashed into the standing thicket. The other herd children, watching with the cattle half a mile away, hurried to the village as fast as their legs could carry them, crying that the buffaloes had gone mad and run away.

But Mowgli’s plan was simple enough. All he wanted to do was to make a big circle uphill and get at the head of the ravine, and then take the bulls down it and catch Shere Khan between the bulls and the cows; for he knew that after a meal and a full drink Shere Khan would not be in any condition to fight or to clamber up the sides of the ravine. He was soothing the buffaloes now by voice, and Akela had dropped far to the rear, only whimpering once or twice to hurry the rear-guard. It was a long, long circle, for they did not wish to get too near the ravine and give Shere Khan warning. At last Mowgli rounded up the bewildered herd at the head of the ravine on a grassy patch that sloped steeply down to the ravine itself. From that height you could see across the tops of the trees down to the plain below; but what Mowgli looked at was the sides of the ravine, and he saw with a great deal of satisfaction that they ran nearly straight up and down, while the vines and creepers that hung over them would give no foothold to a tiger who wanted to get out.

“Let them breathe, Akela,” he said, holding up his hand. “They have not winded him yet. Let them breathe. I must tell Shere Khan who comes. We have him in the trap.”

He put his hands to his mouth and shouted down the ravine– it was almost like shouting down a tunnel–and the echoes jumped from rock to rock.

After a long time there came back the drawling, sleepy snarl of a full-fed tiger just wakened.

“Who calls?” said Shere Khan, and a splendid peacock fluttered up out of the ravine screeching.

“I, Mowgli. Cattle thief, it is time to come to the Council Rock! Down–hurry them down, Akela! Down, Rama, down!”

The herd paused for an instant at the edge of the slope, but Akela gave tongue in the full hunting-yell, and they pitched over one after the other, just as steamers shoot rapids, the sand and stones spurting up round them. Once started, there was no chance of stopping, and before they were fairly in the bed of the ravine Rama winded Shere Khan and bellowed.

“Ha! Ha!” said Mowgli, on his back. “Now thou knowest!” and the torrent of black horns, foaming muzzles, and staring eyes whirled down the ravine just as boulders go down in floodtime; the weaker buffaloes being shouldered out to the sides of the ravine where they tore through the creepers. They knew what the business was before them–the terrible charge of the buffalo herd against which no tiger can hope to stand. Shere Khan heard the thunder of their hoofs, picked himself up, and lumbered down the ravine, looking from side to side for some way of escape, but the walls of the ravine were straight and he had to hold on, heavy with his dinner and his drink, willing to do anything rather than fight. The herd splashed through the pool he had just left, bellowing till the narrow cut rang. Mowgli heard an answering bellow from the foot of the ravine, saw Shere Khan turn (the tiger knew if the worst came to the worst it was better to meet the bulls than the cows with their calves), and then Rama tripped, stumbled, and went on again over something soft, and, with the bulls at his heels, crashed full into the other herd, while the weaker buffaloes were lifted clean off their feet by the shock of the meeting. That charge carried both herds out into the plain, goring and stamping and snorting. Mowgli watched his time, and slipped off Rama’s neck, laying about him right and left with his stick.

“Quick, Akela! Break them up. Scatter them, or they will be fighting one another. Drive them away, Akela. Hai, Rama! Hai, hai, hai! my children. Softly now, softly! It is all over.”

Akela and Gray Brother ran to and fro nipping the buffaloes’ legs, and though the herd wheeled once to charge up the ravine again, Mowgli managed to turn Rama, and the others followed him to the wallows.

Shere Khan needed no more trampling. He was dead, and the kites were coming for him already.

“Brothers, that was a dog’s death,” said Mowgli, feeling for the knife he always carried in a sheath round his neck now that he lived with men. “But he would never have shown fight. His hide will look well on the Council Rock. We must get to work swiftly.”

A boy trained among men would never have dreamed of skinning a ten-foot tiger alone, but Mowgli knew better than anyone else how an animal’s skin is fitted on, and how it can be taken off. But it was hard work, and Mowgli slashed and tore and grunted for an hour, while the wolves lolled out their tongues, or came forward and tugged as he ordered them. Presently a hand fell on his shoulder, and looking up he saw Buldeo with the Tower musket. The children had told the village about the buffalo stampede, and Buldeo went out angrily, only too anxious to correct Mowgli for not taking better care of the herd. The wolves dropped out of sight as soon as they saw the man coming.

“What is this folly?” said Buldeo angrily. “To think that thou canst skin a tiger! Where did the buffaloes kill him? It is the Lame Tiger too, and there is a hundred rupees on his head. Well, well, we will overlook thy letting the herd run off, and perhaps I will give thee one of the rupees of the reward when I have taken the skin to Khanhiwara.” He fumbled in his waist cloth for flint and steel, and stooped down to singe Shere Khan’s whiskers. Most native hunters always singe a tiger’s whiskers to prevent his ghost from haunting them.

“Hum!” said Mowgli, half to himself as he ripped back the skin of a forepaw. “So thou wilt take the hide to Khanhiwara for the reward, and perhaps give me one rupee? Now it is in my mind that I need the skin for my own use. Heh! Old man, take away that fire!”

“What talk is this to the chief hunter of the village? Thy luck and the stupidity of thy buffaloes have helped thee to this kill. The tiger has just fed, or he would have gone twenty miles by this time. Thou canst not even skin him properly, little beggar brat, and forsooth I, Buldeo, must be told not to singe his whiskers. Mowgli, I will not give thee one anna of the reward, but only a very big beating. Leave the carcass!”

“By the Bull that bought me,” said Mowgli, who was trying to get at the shoulder, “must I stay babbling to an old ape all noon? Here, Akela, this man plagues me.”

Buldeo, who was still stooping over Shere Khan’s head, found himself sprawling on the grass, with a gray wolf standing over him, while Mowgli went on skinning as though he were alone in all India.

“Ye-es,” he said, between his teeth. “Thou art altogether right, Buldeo. Thou wilt never give me one anna of the reward. There is an old war between this lame tiger and myself–a very old war, and–I have won.”

To do Buldeo justice, if he had been ten years younger he would have taken his chance with Akela had he met the wolf in the woods, but a wolf who obeyed the orders of this boy who had private wars with man-eating tigers was not a common animal. It was sorcery, magic of the worst kind, thought Buldeo, and he wondered whether the amulet round his neck would protect him. He lay as still as still, expecting every minute to see Mowgli turn into a tiger too.

“Maharaj! Great King,” he said at last in a husky whisper.

“Yes,” said Mowgli, without turning his head, chuckling a little.

“I am an old man. I did not know that thou wast anything more than a herdsboy. May I rise up and go away, or will thy servant tear me to pieces?”

“Go, and peace go with thee. Only, another time do not meddle with my game. Let him go, Akela.”

Buldeo hobbled away to the village as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder in case Mowgli should change into something terrible. When he got to the village he told a tale of magic and enchantment and sorcery that made the priest look very grave.

Mowgli went on with his work, but it was nearly twilight before he and the wolves had drawn the great gay skin clear of the body.

“Now we must hide this and take the buffaloes home! Help me to herd them, Akela.”

The herd rounded up in the misty twilight, and when they got near the village Mowgli saw lights, and heard the conches and bells in the temple blowing and banging. Half the village seemed to be waiting for him by the gate. “That is because I have killed Shere Khan,” he said to himself. But a shower of stones whistled about his ears, and the villagers shouted: “Sorcerer! Wolf’s brat! Jungle demon! Go away! Get hence quickly or the priest will turn thee into a wolf again. Shoot, Buldeo, shoot!”

The old Tower musket went off with a bang, and a young buffalo bellowed in pain.

“More sorcery!” shouted the villagers. “He can turn bullets. Buldeo, that was thy buffalo.”

“Now what is this?” said Mowgli, bewildered, as the stones flew thicker.

“They are not unlike the Pack, these brothers of thine,” said Akela, sitting down composedly. “It is in my head that, if bullets mean anything, they would cast thee out.”

“Wolf! Wolf’s cub! Go away!” shouted the priest, waving a sprig of the sacred tulsi plant.

“Again? Last time it was because I was a man. This time it is because I am a wolf. Let us go, Akela.”

A woman–it was Messua–ran across to the herd, and cried: “Oh, my son, my son! They say thou art a sorcerer who can turn himself into a beast at will. I do not believe, but go away or they will kill thee. Buldeo says thou art a wizard, but I know thou hast avenged Nathoo’s death.”

“Come back, Messua!” shouted the crowd. “Come back, or we will stone thee.”

Mowgli laughed a little short ugly laugh, for a stone had hit him in the mouth. “Run back, Messua. This is one of the foolish tales they tell under the big tree at dusk. I have at least paid for thy son’s life. Farewell; and run quickly, for I shall send the herd in more swiftly than their brickbats. I am no wizard, Messua. Farewell!”

“Now, once more, Akela,” he cried. “Bring the herd in.”

The buffaloes were anxious enough to get to the village. They hardly needed Akela’s yell, but charged through the gate like a whirlwind, scattering the crowd right and left.

“Keep count!” shouted Mowgli scornfully. “It may be that I have stolen one of them. Keep count, for I will do your herding no more. Fare you well, children of men, and thank Messua that I do not come in with my wolves and hunt you up and down your street.”

He turned on his heel and walked away with the Lone Wolf, and as he looked up at the stars he felt happy. “No more sleeping in traps for me, Akela. Let us get Shere Khan’s skin and go away. No, we will not hurt the village, for Messua was kind to me.”

When the moon rose over the plain, making it look all milky, the horrified villagers saw Mowgli, with two wolves at his heels and a bundle on his head, trotting across at the steady wolf’s trot that eats up the long miles like fire. Then they banged the temple bells and blew the conches louder than ever. And Messua cried, and Buldeo embroidered the story of his adventures in the jungle, till he ended by saying that Akela stood up on his hind legs and talked like a man.

The moon was just going down when Mowgli and the two wolves came to the hill of the Council Rock, and they stopped at Mother Wolf’s cave.

“They have cast me out from the Man-Pack, Mother,” shouted Mowgli, “but I come with the hide of Shere Khan to keep my word.”

Mother Wolf walked stiffly from the cave with the cubs behind her, and her eyes glowed as she saw the skin.

“I told him on that day, when he crammed his head and shoulders into this cave, hunting for thy life, Little Frog–I told him that the hunter would be the hunted. It is well done.”

“Little Brother, it is well done,” said a deep voice in the thicket. “We were lonely in the jungle without thee, and Bagheera came running to Mowgli’s bare feet. They clambered up the Council Rock together, and Mowgli spread the skin out on the flat stone where Akela used to sit, and pegged it down with four slivers of bamboo, and Akela lay down upon it, and called the old call to the Council, “Look–look well, O Wolves,” exactly as he had called when Mowgli was first brought there.

Ever since Akela had been deposed, the Pack had been without a leader, hunting and fighting at their own pleasure. But they answered the call from habit; and some of them were lame from the traps they had fallen into, and some limped from shot wounds, and some were mangy from eating bad food, and many were missing. But they came to the Council Rock, all that were left of them, and saw Shere Khan’s striped hide on the rock, and the huge claws dangling at the end of the empty dangling feet. It was then that Mowgli made up a song that came up into his throat all by itself, and he shouted it aloud, leaping up and down on the rattling skin, and beating time with his heels till he had no more breath left, while Gray Brother and Akela howled between the verses.

“Look well, O Wolves. Have I kept my word?” said Mowgli. And the wolves bayed “Yes,” and one tattered wolf howled:

“Lead us again, O Akela. Lead us again, O Man-cub, for we be sick of this lawlessness, and we would be the Free People once more.”

“Nay,” purred Bagheera, “that may not be. When ye are full-fed, the madness may come upon you again. Not for nothing are ye called the Free People. Ye fought for freedom, and it is yours. Eat it, O Wolves.”

“Man-Pack and Wolf-Pack have cast me out,” said Mowgli. “Now I will hunt alone in the jungle.”

“And we will hunt with thee,” said the four cubs.

So Mowgli went away and hunted with the four cubs in the jungle from that day on. But he was not always alone, because, years afterward, he became a man and married.

But that is a story for grown-ups.

#JungleBook

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