Friday, February 20, 2015

The Outdoorsman's Diary: Where Are the Matches?

The predicament of that camping trip wasn’t deliberate--just a symptom of youth. Fire has a way of keeping the attention of all but the most severe cases of ADHD. Needless to say, its hold on a 17-year old male is paramount. 

Along with two other hooligans, I enjoyed the experience of “roughing it” in a large patch of “almost wilderness” near our hometown on many weekends throughout our High School years. One of our favorite “activities” was the construction of “torches.” We would take bark from birch trees, which is highly-flammable, and wrap them around large sticks. Upon ignition, the bark would roar into an inferno. Fortunately, for Smokey the Bear’s sake, there was a lake nearby, so we could extinguish our flames by sailing them through the air, like enflamed javelins, then letting them sizzle into the water.

Easy, clean fun.

The predicament happened on one of our camping adventures. Dusk had fallen and the three of us sat around the campfire. With no torches left, my friend decided it was a good idea to light matches and throw them around at random or simply watch them burn down. It’s just one of those things that a 17-year old hooligan does to stay occupied.

I guess a KISS tribute band happened to be playing in the nearby town that evening, so we had a “relaxing” evening of enjoying the delightful sounds of nature intermixed with the screaming lyrics of: “I want to rock ‘n’ roll all night! And party every day!” Once the sounds of KISS faded, we watched the campfire dwindle before we weaseled into our individual tents. As usual, I fell asleep with the fear that the curious bears of MN would be bold enough to try to eat our food--or us. 

At dawn, obviously glad to survive the bumps in the night, I emerged from my tent and relished the crisp, cold autumn air. The morning sun seeped through the pine needles and gave me some warmth, but I was still shivering. So I gathered firewood to start a warming fire, which would also be used to cook out breakfast (this was before we decided it was a good idea to purchase PocketRockets).

My camping compadres, the hooligans, were still nestled in their sleeping bags dreaming of hot showers and flush toilets. So I silently let them be as I did my morning chore. My stomach growled in anticipation for the yummy meal of “omelet-in-a-bag” that awaited, so I hurriedly finished piling the firewood and began searching for the matches...

Where are the matches?

I scrambled through the campsite paraphernalia, but the little red box was nowhere. Recalling the match-lighting ceremony of my friend the night before, I whipped open his tent with a not-so-cordial, “Where are the matches?! WHERE ARE THE MATCHES?!” I rummaged through his bags, frantic and desperate.

After I effectively woke him up with the thrashing, my friend unveiled the horrid fact: “I burned them all last night,” he said with a grunt.

That was our only box of matches, and my friend used it for simple fun. In that moment, my stomach, compelled by the realization that breakfast was doomed, decided to form a coup. If my skin hadn’t held it in place, my tummy would have certainly ripped out and attacked my friend in an attempt to avenge its own hunger. 

None of us had skills in primitive fire-lighting, so if we wanted a fire (and we did), the only option was to hike back to my car, parked a half-mile away, and use its cigarette lighter to...MAKE A TORCH! My friends laughed at the idea, but I insisted it would work.

Since it was my car and my idea, I was the chosen one. After finding a good piece of birch bark, I constructed my torch and hiked off to my car. 

I sat in the passenger seat of my ‘91 Plymouth Acclaim as I repeatedly used the cigarette lighter in an attempt to ignite my torch. The process proved difficult, since the lighter failed to output enough heat to ignite the birch bark. I tried a dozen times, each time failing. Then, the cigarette lighter decided to break, but I still managed to use it for another dozen attempts.

Despite the failures to ignite, a large volume of smoke was produced from the persistent effort. The fumes seeped into every hole and orifice on my body. As I coughed and swatted at the plumes, I saw a familiar truck slow down on the road nearby. It was my Dad’s work truck. He and my brother in-law were on their way to work and happened to drive by as the pillars of smoke seeped out of my car. Their appearance proved to be a perfect coincidence (minus the fact that I appeared to be smoking a cig or something worse), since it was likely that one of the truck compartments might contain a lighter or box of matches.

They came to a stop, rolled down the window and watched me exhale a draught of smoke. So, obviously, my first order of business was to convince them that I wasn’t a closet smoker. After this was accomplished, I told them about our predicament. As expected, there was a spare lighter in the truck’s glove box, so they (warily) gave it to me and continued on their way to work.

I now concocted a devious idea; it was within my power to prove my camping compadres wrong.  They doubted my torch-lighting abilities, and now they would get a taste at what I was made of. With a wide smile, I walked back to the outskirts of the campsite, stopping behind a large ridge of bedrock--out of view from the hooligans.

Using my Dad’s lighter, I successfully ignited my torch. Once the flames grew to the proper height, I unleashed my inner Olympic-torch-bearer, climbed the ridge of bedrock and trotted towards them with the flame roaring beside me.

The first thing the hooligans saw was smoke, followed by the flame. Then, with a spectacle of unparalleled grandeur, with the morning sun to my back, my gallant physique emerged with the glorious torch in hand. I strode into the campsite like a triple-crown stallion, showered with laud and praise. In that moment, I was their savior, their flame-bearer, their breakfast-bringer. I welcomed their cheers and their exclamations of disbelief as I laid the flame at their feet. 


Stories like this remind me to see the bright side of predicaments, no matter how trivial or severe. In the more severe sufferings of life, Jesus reminds us to “take heart” because he has overcome the world (John 16:33). As we navigate through the world, we take comfort in the knowledge that we’re not bound by the whims of chance or fate, but by the sovereign hand of God (Rom. 8:28). I consider trivial predicaments, like this story, to be little “schoolteachers” that prepare us for the more difficult tumults. Mild predicaments allow us to soak in the principles that they’re trying to teach us. Then, once those difficult trials come, we can draw on those principles as a way to be reminded that we can, in fact, “take heart” because our Lord has overcome the world. 

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

The Outdoorsman's Diary: God Does Have a Sense of Humor

Hunting for a prolonged period of time has a way of imparting a mild form of psychosis on hunters. Due to the constant attentiveness that’s required in the pursuit of game animals, we begin to see stumps and logs transform into rabbits, grouse and whitetails if we look hard enough. This psychotic condition worsens as more time is spent not seeing game, since the less we see our game, the more we hallucinate to make up for it. 

For many hunters, the hunt continues into the “real world,” as thoughts of the woods, with its smells and sights, linger through the work week. It's rare, though, to actually exhibit signs of “hunting psychosis" by having hallucinations of game animals throughout our ordinary days--we are generally fully recovered from a weekend hunt by the time we make it to work on Monday.

Even so, I thought I had an unfortunate episode of hallucinations last fall, when, on a Monday morning after a weekend hunt, I saw a ruffed grouse dozing on the pavement of a city street in the middle of the night--and no, it wasn’t dead. 

Anyone who knows anything about grouse know these birds will never sleep on the ground, let alone on a city street in a town with a population over 12,000 people. It just doesn’t happen; they normally roost in evergreens at night, due to the protection of their dense foliage.

Is this nighttime sighting of the grouse a sign of psychosis? Well, most would assume so, but I’m telling the truth! I saw it! As with all those “big fish stories,” I feel like I’m fighting an uphill battle as I proclaim the veracity of this story. 

What’s truly remarkable about this grouse story, however, was not where it happened to be roosting. Nor was it the fact that I had just returned home from a three-day hunt. 

No, the most profound part of this ordeal was that only 30 seconds before I saw the bird, I had this thought: “Man, I wish I would’ve seen more grouse on that hunt.”
Immediately after I thought this, I turned the corner and saw a pile of leaves that looked “funny.” I slowed down and stopped close to it, shining it with my headlights. I saw the shape of a ruffed grouse laying in front of the leaf pile, and as I squinted to look harder, its head popped up and eyed me rudely (after all, I did wake it up).
I got out of my car and walked right up to it, and it didn’t fly away. I wasn’t sure if it was injured, so I nudged it with my boot to see if it would fly away--but it didn’t. I saw movement down the sidewalk a few yards from me, and when I looked towards it, I saw a cat creeping towards me (or the grouse, rather). This feline would have surely tackled the grouse and had an early breakfast if I hadn’t shown up. 

I nudged the grouse again and it flew into a nearby house, flapping like mad against the siding, before falling to the ground. I ran up to it and nudged it again, but this time it flew away to unknown lands, presumably to live at peace--far away from cats, headlights and boots. 

Or...perhaps, he flew into hunting lands, where he would soon meet his demise... 

Regardless of what happened to that grouse thereafter, I found myself laughing after it left. Here I was, delivering papers on my early morning route on the first day after a weekend of grouse hunting, and a grouse was plopped down where it shouldn’t be. I had just been thinking of grouse hunting, and this specimen presented itself in such a way that I couldn’t legally shoot it (on an average hunting day, this grouse would've already been dead and in the bag).

I knew then that God has a sense of humor. This confirmed my long-held suspicion that God loves to surprise us with quiet forms of goodness. What gets me the most is how all the elements worked out in this story, seemingly for the sole purpose of my amusement. 

With all the tumults in the world, sometimes its good to remember the subtle surprises of God. If the God of the universe truly cares enough to poke us with tidbits of goodness from time to time, how much more will he handle the courses of this world? 

Perhaps that was the real lesson of the grouse: we can find peace with God and “roost” in circumstances filled with imminent danger. It reminds me of what David said: “You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows...Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life” (Psa. 23:5a, 6). This grouse seemed to be at peace with the obvious danger of the city street and the roaming felines. 

Of course, the bird was too dumb to actually possess such spiritual maturity, but that doesn’t mean it can’t teach us something about what it means to trust God in the midst of evil environments. Regarding these evil circumstances, the Apostle Paul says, “we rejoice in our sufferings” (Rom. 5:3) because it produces “hope” in us. This hope allows us to trust God as we undergo the tumults of life. As we abide in the “city streets” of evil, with dangers looming around us, we can rest in hope, knowing there’s more to life than meets the eye.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

"The Tragedy of Tippy Cumber" (Part 2)

--------> For Part 1, click here <--------        

         “Enemy?”
         “And a formidable one, too,” Cru said, eyeing him slowly, “since he obviously taught Mera well.” He pivoted and headed up the glade’s slope.
         Tippy trotted up beside him. “What do you mean?”
         “What do you think of her?”
         “She’s great,” Tippy said, “almost unbelievable.”
         “I agree with you there, man. She’s great at what she does, which is make herself believable.”
         “Huh?”
         “I better fill you in on what’s going on,” Cru said as he examined his bowstring. “Sun Land is what could be called a ‘universal dream world,’ where men like you and me find it by chance in their sleep. As you know, everyone sleeps at different times around the world. Sometimes, though, we may take a nap and then come here at a different time than when we would normally. But once a member of Sun Land, always a member; I can’t remember the last time I had a dream that wasn't here.”
         “Why only men?”   
         “We don’t know, it’s one of the mysteries of this place.”
         They came to the path and followed it as it ascended the slope and wound through the oaks.
         “The important thing you must know is that Kurr, the lord of Sun Land, gives his daughters to torture us.” 
         “Mera?”
         “She’s one of them, yeah. When the first men came to Sun Land, they were greeted by hordes of women that met every one of the men’s desires, and they thought it a paradise, as you can imagine.” He adjusted his quiver and exhaled like one with bad news. “But of course, the men soon found Sun Land to be far from bells and whistles. We got a glimpse of the women’s true intentions when the first man was killed (but most people will say he simply went missing) in Lamoor Forest, where the women live. Most of the men ignored the implications of his disappearance, but some, myself included, believe Kurr’s daughters to be utter evil. We call them ‘companions,’ and they stick to us like glue; when we come here, they’re always waiting for us.”
         “Mera’s my companion?”
         “Indeed. Most companions are unnamed, but we all know hers because she’s ruthless--an excellent deceiver. A month ago, she successfully lured a man, Steve, into Lamoor. We’ve been waiting for his replacement since.”
         “So...I’m his replacement?”
         “Yeah, you’re getting it,” Cru said, looking at him with a smile. “Once a companion succeeds in luring her man into the forest, a new one is brought here to replace him.”
         Tippy looked around the glade. “Where’s Lamoor Forest?”
         “Don’t worry, it’s not here,” Cru said, following his gaze. “It’s just outside of the town I’m taking you to now.”
         They came to the edge of the glade, where the gradual slope turned into a large hill of grass. The path climbed up the center of the hill and narrowed slightly, due to the long grass that overhung the trail, then disappeared over the crest.
         “I mentioned, ‘the guys,’ and ‘some of us,’ earlier; I was referring to the Rebellion. You see, most men who come here love it--they’re the ones who ignore the dangers of Lamoor. They don’t see Sun Land like we at the Rebellion do. We’ve come to despise this place, and as more members of the Rebellion happened to cross paths in the real world, our coup snowballed into what it is today.
         “Due to the nature of Sun Land, being a dream, the Rebellion had to coordinate in the real world and devise a way to make our move against Kurr. We found a date and time where the other men--we call them the Others--wouldn’t be dreaming because they would obviously try and stop us. It was a lot of work, but we managed to find a tiny window of opportunity, which is why we must hurry. Many of us have taken days off of work to make it today, and used pills, like we did, to force ourselves to nap.”
         “You’re attacking now?”
         “Obviously,” Cru said as they stopped at the top of the hill, which overlooked a square-shaped hedge of buildings with a square courtyard in the middle. On the far side of the town laid a wall. In the center of the wall was a closed gate, and beyond the wall was a dark-green mass of trees. “There’s Lamoor Forest,” he said, pointing to it.
         “Wait,” Tippy said as something came to mind, “where’s your companion?”
         “Knocked out, like Mera,” he said, “I did it as soon as I came here.”
         “Where’d you get the bow?”
         Cru chuckled. “Kurr and the companions are smart, but they’re ignorant of our ability to sneak around and plan things, both in the real world and here. The Rebellion’s worked for a month making weapons and hid them.” He descended the hill, followed by Tippy.
         They came to the buildings and Cru led Tippy through the nearest alley, which was narrow and filled with random yard supplied. He stopped before emerging into the courtyard on the other side and turned to Tippy. “Just so you know, our attack hinges on you.”
         Tippy frowned.
         “Our leader, Barth, will explain.” He turned and stepped into the open courtyard.
          A few men hollered to him from the other side, and he made his way to them. Tippy, grappling with what Cru just said, slowly stepped out too.
         “Ah, Tippy!” a short man in a ponytail said as he grabbed his arm in a firm, but friendly grip. He wore a hard leather chest piece and matching greaves. “I know you from the Wall of Souls.” He pointed to a black wall to the edge of the courtyard on their right. “Everyone’s name appears on it when they enter Sun Land.”
         So that’s how Cru knew I came here.
         “I’m Ty,” the man said with a smile. He nodded towards the opposite side of the square. “Let’s go.”
         A group of a dozen men huddled in front of the building to the right of the gate. The building’s door opened, and they filed inside without a word. Ty and Tippy were the last to enter, and before Ty closed the door, he held up three fingers and mouthed, “Three bows,” to someone outside.
         “Everyone’s companions knocked out?” A loud voice asked inside the crowded room.
         A wave of affirmations responded. 
         “Aye.” 
         “Yup.” 
         “Roger.”
         Cru came beside Tippy and nudged him. “See that man in the gray tunic?” he whispered, pointing to the man with the loud voice, “He’s Barth.” 
         “Neil and Mark getting the weapons?” Barth asked.
         “Yup!” Ty said.
         “Where’s Tippy?” Barth said, eyeing the men in the room.
         Ty and Cru each grabbed one of Tippy’s shoulder and pushed him to the center of the room.
         “Ah, welcome, Tippy Cumber,” Barth said, “to the Rebellion.”
         The men voiced a wave of deep mumbles and raised hands.
         “Cru, did you fill him in?”
         “Yes sir!”
         Barth stepped up to Tippy. “Well, Tippy, are you ready to lead us into Lamoor Forest?”
         “Uh...”
         “It’s simple,” Barth said, spinning on his foot to face away. “We don’t get new guys here very often, and as it is, you came at the most opportune time.” He turned back to Tippy. “You see, we’ve been planning this coup for a month--ever since poor Steve died. We agreed on having Nate lead us,” he pointed to a young man in mail armor, “since he was the newest member here, but you are now a far better candidate. When your name appeared on the Wall, everyone in the Rebellion was notified and Cru, being your neighbor (a remarkable coincidence, to be sure) immediately connected with you.”  
         “What do you mean by 'better candidate'?” Tippy said.
         “The magic of Sun Land, the same magic our companions use to deceive us, finds its source in Lamoor. Most of us won’t stand a chance attacking the forest on our own because of how long we’ve been exposed to our companions enchantments and their deceptive beauty. You,” he placed his hand on Tippy’s shoulder, “have literally just arrived, which makes you beyond perfect.” He narrowed his eyes and peered at Tippy. “You haven’t let her enchant you, have you?”
         “No, no,” he said, holding an expressionless face.
         “Good.” Barth’s face resembled that of a father approving his innocent child. He then looked to a man near him. “Get Tippy his armor.”
         The man twitched his head to each side and stepped close to Barth. “Uh, he’s too big.”
         Barth glared at him, then eyed Tippy and sighed. “Fine.”
         “Here’s a helmet, at least.” Another man said as he emerged from the crowd. He held a metal helmet with a long nose guard. 
         Barth took it and placed it on Tippy’s head. “Perfect?”
         It’s too small. Tippy smiled and tapped it in response.
         Barth walked past Tippy and stopped at the door. “Everyone be sure to protect Tippy at all costs!” 
         The men whooped in reply.
         Barth smiled and looked at Tippy. “Spear, bow or sword?”
         “I don’t...” Tippy said.
         “What’ll it be?” Barth said, louder.
         “Uh, sword.”
         Barth gave a quick nod, then unlatched the door. “Time to destroy this accursed dream world.” He swung it open and led the mob into the courtyard, where two men were waiting outside with armloads of weapons. “Give Tippy the best sword!”
         Tippy was filed out with the whooping men and was handed a short sword. The momentum of the mob carried him towards the gate. Two men ran up to it, heaved it open, and a draft of cold air seeped into the square, as if to warn the Rebellion of the dangers lurking in the forest.
         “Rally behind Tippy!” Barth hollered. “Keep your eyes fixed on him!”
         The men raised their weapons in unison, chanting. Tippy was shoved to the front, where the cold draft was strongest. Although the sun shined on the courtyard, the Lamoor Forest was unnaturally dark. Instead of oaks, as in the glade, the forest was riddled with evergreens. Past the gate, a narrow pathway led down a slight downgrade into a narrowing trail. 
         Tippy couldn’t move, but it wasn’t from fear. The ache in his bones had only grown bolder since he left Mera in the glade. It made the current task seem wrong. 
         “Let’s go!” Barth roared behind Tippy.
         The horde of men chanted again, but Tippy remained motionless. He clenched his sword, bent his knees, and with a single motion, spun on his right foot and shouldered Barth to the ground. Behind Barth was Ty, who had a dumbfounded expression. Tippy shoved him to the side and charged through the mob. He nearly made it through before some of the men grabbed at him, but with wild desperation, Tippy swung his sword and hacked at their arms. He ripped his helmet off and blindly threw it behind him, where it apparently struck someone and ushered a moan.
         He broke free of the mob, leaving the injured men howling with rage and pain. Tippy brought his large body to a speed he never knew possible as he dashed across the courtyard. He could hear the thunder of voices and angry shouts behind him, but it only spurred his leg muscles to work harder.
         He wedged through the narrow alley and ascended the grassy hill. He glanced behind for the first time and saw most of the men still pursuing him. When he reached the top of the hill, panting and sweating, he scanned the glade for any sign of Mera.
         She should be awake! It’s been a half hour? Yeah.
         He craved her touch, the coursing tremors and the voice of vanilla. He needed her strength and her presence. “Mera!” he shouted, eyes searching for her green dress and oak-bark hair. 
         “Mer--” An arrow struck him in the back. He crashed to the ground in a mass of sweat and pain.
         Three men dove at him, clubbing, kicking and cursing him. One of them had a rope and began tying him up, but a loud, sustained gust of wind interrupted them. They held their hands up against the elemental onslaught, squinting their eyes to see the source of the gust. Tippy glanced up, and was relieved to see Mera. 
         She was holding her hands out in front of her, as if controlling the wind. Her face was contorted, her eyes glowed green and her skin was darkened and shiny like a cloven obsidian stone. With a loud pop, the three men attacking Tippy flew backwards through the air; two were thrust against nearby oak trees, thereby falling unconscious, while the third rolled a few times on the ground before scrambling away.
         Mera lowered her arms, which made the wind stop. She exhaled with a loud sigh, loosened her shoulders and closed her eyes with her head canted slightly upwards. 
         “Mera!” Tippy exclaimed.
         She remained silent; her only movement came from her heavy breathing. 
         More of the men filtered into the glade, shouting and whooping. Tippy panicked and rolled to his knees and tried to stand up, but Mera grabbed the back of his neck and heaved him to his feet. She pushed him towards the men.
         “Ah! Mera!” he cried, “Wha--?”
         “There he is!” the men shouted. 
         They ran at Mera and Tippy, but she swatted the air and another gust of air threw them all backwards. 
         She pinched Tippy’s neck harder, making it burn.
         “What are you doing?” he said with a squirm.
         She pushed him harder. “Move.”
         They climbed the grass hill, where more men were waiting. Like their comrades, they were thrown aside by Mera’s elemental magic. Once at the top, she threw Tippy down the backside, which sent him rolling until he crashed into the siding on the nearest building. Before he could react, she grabbed him by the neck again and ushered him through the alley and into the courtyard.
         The rest of the men, with Cru, Ty and Barth included, congregated in the center of the courtyard. They watched motionless as Mera controlled Tippy, a man far larger than her, with ease as she marched him across the square. As if they knew her power, they all remained in place without making any advances on them; nobody talked, either. The only sound came from Tippy’s grunts as he continued to squirm in his companion’s grasp.
         They approached the gate to Lamoor Forest, which was still open. When Tippy realized Mera’s intentions, his heart sank. “No!”
         “Yes,” she said.
         “Why?” he squealed.
         She pinched his neck harder, oozing blood. “You’re the one who’ll pay for this uprising.” 
         He tried digging his heels into the ground, but it was in vain, for she merely kicked the back of his knees to keep him walking. 
         They passed through the gate, which closed behind them with what seemed to be a magic of its own. The cold forest air crept over him like the first winter storm: cold and unwanted. Tippy was undone; his eyes watered and head slumped. 
         Mera led him down the path, which narrowed as it came to a swamp. The farther they went, the colder the air became. The shadows in the swamp, formed from towering evergreens, were far more than eclipsed sunlight; it seemed like true, materialized darkness.
         Mera released Tippy and threw him to his knees, then she walked around to his frontside. She stood there in silence, as if taunting him with her betrayal. A deep groaning came from somewhere behind her. It rattled Tippy’s head with its deep reverberations.
         He glanced up at her with wide eyes, but then his heart shrunk. She was no longer the Mera he remembered, but a twisted form of flesh. More loathsome than a witch, her gnarled face and sunken eyes personified death itself. “Poor, poor Tippy Cumber,” she said with a smile. Her voice was no longer vanilla; its stench made Tippy feel like a sun-baked carcass had been placed over his head.
         The groan returned, but this time louder--closer.
         She kneed him in the side of his face, sending him reeling onto the swamp moss. “Here lies Tippy Cumber,” she said, “the fool with a hollow soul.”
         A small twig cracked nearby--in a different direction than the groaning.
         Mera looked towards it, then quickly returned to look at Tippy. She grabbed her head and ripped at it with a loud whimper. “Tippy!” Her voice was vanilla again. Through her hands, Tippy noticed her face returning to normal. “Tippy, please!”
         “What?” he asked, barely audible.
         “It’s all my father! He made me do it!” She stooped close to him. Her witchlike features were gone, and her face was more radiant than before. She kissed him, which sent the warm tremors through him again. 
         Another stick snapped.
         She grabbed his face with both hands. “I’m so sorry. It’s my father’s fault, I swear!” 
         He was about to speak, but she placed her finger over his mouth.
         “I’ll always be yours.” She stood up, looked towards the twig snapping and darted away in the opposite direction.
         Tippy tried to move his head and watch her, but it was frozen in place. He tried moving his hands and feet, but they were also immovable. The moss on the forest floor crept up Tippy’s sides and slowly enveloped his legs and arms. 
         Whatever had made the groans made a final groan, softer and less menacing, before going silent.
         Without a sound, the twig-snapper appeared above him. It was a man, clean-shaven and bald. He wore a tattered wool suit coat and slacks. “My name is Karis,” he said. He spoke with a rich somberness, like he was speaking to someone on their deathbed. “Remember that name so you’ll know its me the next time you see it. You’ll need to hear what I have to say, but I can’t tell you until your awake.”
         The moss had now submerged Tippy’s body, and when it reached his eyes, he woke up in his house; he had fallen out of the chair and was now on the floor. After a long series of steady breaths he sat up and saw Cru sitting on the nasty couch, glaring at him.
         Cru opened his mouth, but paused and lowered his head with a slow shake.
         “Cru...”
         “Shut up!” Cru threw the pill bottle at Tippy, which struck him in the chest and bounced to the floor. The pills rattled inside it as it rolled to a stop on the hardwood floor. Cru leapt at Tippy and pressed his hands into his chest. “Don’t you realize how hard it’ll be for us now? You better pray you’re banished from Sun Land because you’ve just pissed off everyone--everyone. If they see you again...” He gave a final hard press, then stormed to the front door. “You know,” he stopped without looking back at Tippy, “I thought you were gonna die--being taken into Lamoor. Somehow you lived; consider yourself lucky.” He whipped the door open.
         “Who’s Karis?” Tippy asked quietly. 
         “Never heard of him,” Cru said before slamming the door behind him.
         Tippy slumped his head and remained motionless for more than an hour. The hardest fact to grasp was that Sun Land was real; he felt it in his bones, which still ached for Mera’s touch. He disregarded her recent malicious antics and convinced himself she was forced to hurt him, as she said. As the night progressed, the ache worsened, but he ignore it by eating more noodles. 
         He then moped aimlessly around the house until 2 A.M., when he finally collapsed on his bed. Before he drifted off, he entertained the hope that Mera would be waiting for him in Sun Land. He woke up at 9--late for work. In the midst of scrambling to get ready, a realization sank in: he was banished from Sun Land. 
         He worked for another month until he was fired for consistent tardiness. Cru and Tippy continued to avoid each other, but this time their mutual avoidance was obviously justified. The ache for Mera continued to weigh on Tippy. He sought for every trace of her in the dirty magazines, websites and venues where superficial beauty is flaunted and paraded for the ravenous eyes of men. The images on the page and screen gave him a temporary solace from the ache in his bones, since admiring the beauties gave him warm tremors similar to those he has with Mera. He grew to relish the women--women he considered to be shadows of his Mera. 
         Yet the ache would always reappear. He spent the greater part of his savings on all the smut that promised the ever-elusive relief from the ache. For three months he indulged in the temporary relief. Yet with each bout of disillusionment came the emboldening conviction that only Mera would satisfy him.
         After searching on Craigslist, he found an advertisement for a woman willing to make money with her body. He was appalled at such a move, but the ache surmounted his wits. He grabbed the phone, dialed the number, and within the hour she was in his house. The relief she offered was, again, only temporary. He cycled through the Craigslist women for the next month, in which he spent away the rest of his cash. Yet each time the ache would return and remind him more vividly of Mera.
         When he couldn’t afford another Craigslist escapade, he stumbled into the local bar with his last twenty-dollar bill. He secluded himself at a corner booth and drank a single glass of his favorite lager. After the last draught, he stared at the empty glass, contemplating a bold move.
         He went to the bathroom and saw a notice above the urinal. Its first lines read: “Charis Church: Newness for the broken. It’s only by charis (Greek for ‘grace’) that the human soul finds its peace.” 
         Charis...that guy? What’s his name? Karen? No, Karis. He chuckled. The Ch is pronounced like a K, I get it. It would be a church. He left without bothering to read the address or service times, although he did agree with the flyer on one point: he was broken. On the drive home, Karis and the church flyer pressed on his thoughts, and twice he nearly turned around to take a second look. I wonder what that Karis guy had to say? Ah! Probably just to feed me propaganda. He turned on the car radio and drowned his curiosity in classic rock.
         Once home, he filled a glass of water, found Cru’s bottle of pills, and swallowed them all. The world blurred, and he slumped onto his nasty couch and embraced the shadow. He smiled and closed his eyes, heart dancing at the thought of seeing Mera’s face and holding her hand. The ache in his bones finally faded as sleep numbed him.
         A week later, the police found Tippy’s door unlocked and followed the stench of death into his living room, where his body laid on the nasty couch. Although Cru resented him, he was the one who noticed Tippy’s inactivity and called the authorities. Tippy had no family, so there was no funeral. He was cremated and his ashes were buried in a small cemetery near Rockford.

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

"The Tragedy of Tippy Cumber" (Part 1)

         It was a nasty couch. Once a richer shade of green, the fifteen years of sunlight altered most of it into a lifeless gray. It still served its purpose, though, which was to give its owner, Tippy Cumber, something to sit on while he ate his buttered noodles. It was during the winter months when he enjoyed his couch and noodles the most because the two worked together to foster the perfect relief from the cold workday. As a mail carrier in a suburb of Chicago, he grew to resent winter, especially when the lazy people on his route found it acceptable to leave snow and dog excrement un-shoveled between December and April. The daily mundanity of sloshing through the slop and poo gave him a certain entitlement to relish his nightly ritual of slumping onto his couch and enjoying his noodles.
         Tippy lived alone--not by choice, but by the wanton subjugation of perpetual singleness. He never allowed himself to like people, even though his workday consisted of seeing plenty of them. Everyone had their own business and their own lives, and Tippy believed none of them would care to listen to whatever he would say to them. After enduring their presence throughout the day, he found a type of solace coming home to an empty, cluttered house that reeked of day-old pizza boxes. 
         After one busy Tuesday, he prepared his buttered noodles and collapsed on his beloved couch, feeling the familiar indent of continual use. The local news was on TV, so that’s what he watched. Although he stared at the screen, he didn’t remember most of the stories; his focus was on his noodles.
         Once finished, he placed the empty bowl on the cluttered coffee table and nestled back into the couch with his feet resting on the table. The news ended after a short segment on the local animal shelter's twentieth anniversary. The Wheel of Fortune came on, and Tippy’s eyes invited the drowsiness that approached. Before the Wheel’s first spin, he had slipped into sleep. 
         The dream was ordinary at first, mixtures of realism with fantasy, but when the setting switched to his own house, it became something more. He saw himself sleeping on the couch, so he assumed he was undergoing an out-of-body-experience. Curious, he walked up to his body and touched his hand.
         The world changed: his house and body disappeared, and he now stood in a sunlit glade of oak trees. All that was left of his world was the nasty green couch, and it looked out of place in its new setting. The grass pushed itself against the couch, making it look like it had always been a part of the woods. 
         Being completely disoriented and unoccupied, he stood up and wandered in an arbitrary direction. Not far from the couch was a gravel pathway that meandered through the glade, from right to left. It tapered into a nonexistent footpath to the right, but widened as it stretched leftward. This leftward path led up a steady, gradual slope until it disappeared from view. Tippy decided on the wider option and strolled along it as it ascended the slope.
         A light breeze, warm and aromatic, rattled through the leaves and whisked through the glade. It had the power of a lover’s touch as it brushed around Tippy. He closed his eyes and welcomed its embrace, and when he opened them, a woman stood a short distance ahead on the pathway. She was the glade personified: her hair matched the hues and texture of the surrounding oaks, and the greenery of the glade seemed to be woven into her dress.
         “Hello?” he said.
         She stepped towards him as a spider taunts its entrapped prey. Her footfalls were delicate and the movements of her body accentuated her beauty with every step, and her eyes, never swaying in their gaze, were focused on Tippy as she approached. The grace of her movements beckoned Tippy’s gaze with an abrasive allure, forcing him to goggle. His insides were undone; his heart lurched and his stomach sloshed. His feet grew numb, causing him to sway. He rubbed his eyes, partly due to disbelief and partly from the tears that they had secreted.
         “Welcome to Sun Land,” the woman said. Her voice was potent enough to be tasted; it was sweet, like vanilla. “Are you Tippy?”
         “Tha’s me.” His voice was loose, a fumbled mix of sound and breath. “How d’ya know me?”
         “I’ve been waiting for you.” She stopped a few steps in front of him. Her face mirrored the same uncomfortably evocative form of beauty as her movements. “My name is Mera, and I’m yours.”
         “Wha...?” His voice cracked.
         “Will you join me on a walk?”
         “Where?”
         “Anywhere. You’ll find something beautiful anywhere in Sun Land.”
         “Yeah, I can se--” He paused.
         “What?”
         “Never-mind.”
         “You think I’m beautiful?” she asked with a smile.
         As if the exposure of his attraction wasn’t hard enough on his composure, her added smile brought another wave of haze into his vision. He nodded and averted his eyes, fighting a smile of his own.
         “Where should we go?” she asked.
         Tippy looked around, and pointed to the right, where the glade transitioned to a field.
         “Ah, the bluffs” she said, extending her hand to Tippy. “Let’s go.”
         He took her hand, and a wave of warm tremors coursed through his arm and into his body. The sensation seemed to give added strength to his body. He bit his lip, pursed a grin and turned his face from her in an attempt to relish the fervor. 
         They silently meandered through the oaks and came to the edge of the glade, where a large, fallen bur oak blocked their path. It’s branches snaked in all directions and formed a tight web of branches. Instead of avoiding it, Mera lead Tippy right into the tangled branches, which forced her to release his hand. The moment their hands separated, Tippy’s knees buckled and he stumbled to the ground as if a giant weight was placed on his shoulders.
         “Easy!” Mera said, extending her hand to help him up.
         His strength returned as she grasped his hand and hoisted him to his feet. With a quick smile, she turned away and let her hand fell from his. His strength left again, but this time there was a cavernous ache, as if his bones squirmed for relief.
         He followed her through the branches while watching her body as it twisted and ducked through the maze. They surmounted the trunk, and meandered through the branches on the opposite side until they emerged into an open field that laid at the base of three giant bluffs. Tippy ignored the scenery and immediately grabbed her hand, relieved to feel his strength return. She grinned at him, as if she knew his newfound need of her, then tugged at his hand as a signal to follow her. 
         As they approached the bluffs, they kept their hands enjoined, even though the constant pressure of their interlocked fingers had numbed them. They talked about the simple pleasures of life--of trees, the sounds of birds, the tastes of food, the various forms of love. 
         “Are you married?” she asked. Her voice continued to leave the taste of vanilla in his mouth.
         “Never even dated.”
         She smiled and said nothing.
         “What?”
         “Nothing...I’m just...surprised.”
         “Really?” He leaned forward, searching her face for more information.
         Their eyes met for a brief moment before she looked away, but it was enough for him to catch a curious glint in her eyes.
         “I love this place,” he said, still looking at her.
         “Doesn’t it just erase all the turmoil,” she said, “all that is wrong with life?”
         Tippy said nothing as he watched an eagle soar alongside the face of the central bluff. A gust of wind wafted the scent of the sun-heated grass into their faces. “It’s perfect,” he said.
         The longer they walked, the more Mera eased into Tippy’s mind like the gradual onslaught of high tide. He shrugged off all thoughts of doubt and confusion about her and the peculiar strength her touch brought him.
         Once they came to the base of the central bluff, she led him along a small trail that wound around the backside of the hill before it traversed its flanks. The trail narrowed, which made Mera release Tippy’s hand again. His knees hit to the dirt, and he threw out his hands to catch himself from falling over completely. Mera turned around, but Tippy whipped his foot in front of him in time to pretend that he was merely tying his shoe. He offered her a weak smile, then finished his tying act before following her up the trail.
         The climb was unbearable for Tippy. His strength didn't recover, and the mystery of Mera and what her touch did to him was now getting harder to ignore. Still, all he thought about during the ascent up the traversing trail was grabbing her hand again.
         After they reached the top and stood admiring the view, Tippy grabbed Mera's hand, expecting to feel his strength return. The instant he grabbed it, he woke up on the little green couch, and the Wheel of Fortune was on its final spin. 
         No! It was all a stupid dream! He turned the TV off and, with a grunt, stood up and grabbed his empty bowl. Good dreams are the worst. He lumbered into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. As he reached to turn the water on, a knock came from the front door.
         Must be the new toaster I ordered. He returned to the living room and peeked out the window. It was Cru, his neighbor. Although both bachelors with common interests, he and Tippy seldom interacted; they seemed to have an unspoken rule of mutual avoidance, grounded in ignorance. 
         Tippy opened the door. “Hey, Cru. What can I do for--”
         “Tippy, we have little time. May I come in?”
         Tippy frowned, then stepped aside to let Cru enter. He closed and locked the door while Cru paced in the living room.
         “Get two glasses of water,” Cru said, pulling a bottle of pills from his pocket.
         Reserving his questions, Tippy silently obeyed his neighbor’s request. He returned with the glasses of water and handed one to Cru, who was now sitting on the nasty little couch. 
         “I’ll explain everything at the glade,” Cru said, throwing the pills into his mouth.
         How does he know about the glade?
         Cru took a long draught of water and swallowed the pills. “It’s about Mera,” he said.
         Tippy’s feet went numb again. Was it not a dream? 
         Cru collapsed on the couch and his eyelids shut before Tippy could clarify how Cru knew the details of his dream.
         Tippy paused, holding the pills in front of him. His wariness of the pills’ effects was trumped by his curiosity, so he placed the pills in his mouth and swallowed them with water. The world blurred faster than he anticipated, and Tippy barely reached the nearby armchair before he also drifted into sleep. 
         The moment his eyes closed, the house transformed into the glade. As with the couch, he awoke still sitting in the armchair, but the nasty couch was nowhere in sight. After standing up and surveying the glade, he spotted the pathway and joined it. He neared a large oak, whose branches overhung the trail, and the familiar figure in green leapt out from behind it.  
         “Hey, Tippy!” Mera said with her usual smile. “You’re back early.”
         Tippy smiled back. “Yeah, my neighbor gave me--”
         Something whizzed from the left and struck her in the side. It was a wooden arrow with gray fletching. Without a sound, she swayed to the right and collapsed against a nearby oak. As her legs lost their strength, her hands ripped and scraped at the bark in a futile attempt to stay upright. 
         “No!” Tippy howled as he ran to help her. 
         She slumped to the ground in a quiet moan, and after a slight twitch, laid motionless. Tippy crouched beside her and shook her. “Mera!”
         Blood rushed to his head and his hands trembled. He stood up, pivoted and glared into the glade, searching for the attacker.
         As if on cue, a man emerged from behind a thicket with a primitive bow in hand; it was Cru.
         “You!” he said, propelling towards him.
         Cru made no attempt to prepare for Tippy’s assault: his arms hung at his sides, and his face was expressionless.
         Tippy lowered his head and lunged at him. While he was in midair, Cru sidestepped, letting Tippy crash into the thicket.
         “Tippy,” he said, holding out his hand, “enough horse play. The guys are waiting and they prefer not to linger.”
         Horse play? Seriously? Tippy scrambled to his feet, clenching his fist.
         Cru stepped back, nocked an arrow, pulled the bowstring and pointed the tip at Tippy’s chest. “We have no time to delay, a half hour’s all we got.”
         Tippy froze and stared at the arrowhead. “What?” he asked with flared nostrils.
         “Mera. She’ll be awake in a half hour, and she won’t be happy.”
         Tippy’s face loosened slightly, but he kept his fist tight. “She’s not dead?”
         “Of course not. She’s immortal, like her father,” Cru said, lowering his bow and un-nocking the arrow. “His name is Kurr, and he’s our enemy.”


-----------> For Part 2 click here <----------