Parables by Kvasir

There once were three lone wolves. They wandered desolate terrain for miles in endless search of food until they came upon a massive flock of sheep. They observed that the flock of sheep were well guarded by two strong shepherds and 3 large herder dogs that were well trained and healthy. The flock was highly controlled and well protected. The three wolves, starving, downtrodden, and lacking morale, shared lamentations of hopelessness as they wondered how they could overcome those daunting obstacles and seize one of those luscious bodies of meat. The first wolf had an idea, “I know the best way.’ He said, “Watch me as I put on this fake wool sheep coat and infiltrate their herd. I will surpass those shepherds and dogs by cleverly posing as one of them and then when the opportunity presents itself, I’ll kill one when they least expect it.”

Thus, he put on the coat and ran off to attempt his strategy as the other two wolves looked on to see how he faired. As he approached the flock, the sheep made an instinctive recognition of him as one of their own and he worked his way with ease into the herd. He kept his predatory gaze on them, being patient, as he pretended to graze on the fodder and keep himself incognito waiting for the best opportunity to strike. The shepherds and dogs went about their business, moving the herd across the land and feeding them. When night fell, the two wolves saw that he had still not made his move, even though he was now in a position to do so under the cover of darkness. He simply slept in peace and quiet with the rest of the sheep, still wearing the coat. Confused, the two wolves watched on, thinking that he was bidding his time diligently. As the days passed however, he continued to go about the business of migrating and feeding with the flock and never making a move to take one of them. They began to notice that his predatory look had softened and faded away and that he was beginning to enjoy his time with the flock, eating the fodder and grazing and being protected and nurtured. Until the time came when some of the sheep were to be selected for slaughter. He was chosen among the unfortunate and was promptly killed.

The second wolf had another idea; “I know the best way.” He said, “Watch me as I put on the wool coat, but unlike that fool, I will not become soft and weak, I will not forget that I am a wolf and I will only concentrate on the purpose of this masquerade and do what he should have done had he not allowed himself to be taken in by comforts.” Thus, with an invigorated reserve, he placed on his fake sheep coat and made his way down to the flock to attempt his strategy. The last wolf watched on to see how he faired. The wolf, like the last one, successfully merged with the flock, tricking them into accepting him as one of them. As night fell, he seized his opportunity to kill one of them. He snuck as quiet as a mouse and clamped his jaws around the throat of one as they slept and killed it silently and feasted upon it. The next day, the shepherds found the corpse among the barking dogs and the fearful braying sheep. Irate, they tried to find out how this happened and who the culprit was but they were unable to figure it out for the time being and he remained hidden underneath their noses. Yet another night fell, and the wolf again, keeping his coat on, quietly made his way to another sheep and like the night before, killed it silently and feasted upon it. He rested and fell back asleep, fat, happy and enjoying himself in his gluttony, feeling cozy in his abundance of meat. The next day the dogs and the shepherds found the new corpse among the screams of the sheep and decided to investigate the flock thoroughly. They saw blood stained on one peculiar looking wool coat and examined it closer to find the wolf hiding underneath it. With his disguise cast off, he was discovered and cornered by the sheep and the dogs who began gnashing at him viciously. He was outnumbered and attempted to fight back but was overwhelmed and killed.

The last wolf, having borne witness to the tragedies that befell his brethren decided the best thing was to keep his distance and retreat back into the forest; he may go hungry, or die alone, but at least he didn’t have to pretend to be something he wasn’t; he would remain a wolf and that was a great victory in itself.

There was a grandmaster who devoted himself to the game of chess. He displayed great talent and potential. He spent his many days and nights studying the game and refining his play. He was a member of a prestigious chess club where he spent most of his time playing a wide variety of opponents of different skill levels, but none above his own. He defeated most of them and garnered a reputation as one of the best players around. Many players were intimidated by him and rarely questioned his abilities as it was obvious to them that he demonstrated a superior skill. It was even rumored that he had memorized every chess opening and defensive strategy by heart and his tactical command was undisputed.

Then one day a new man who nobody had seen before entered the club. He was reserved and kept mainly to himself. He did not express much interest in actual play, but instead preferred to be an observer to other games. The games he took special notice of were those of the Grandmaster himself given that he was the popular player. He watched closely and silently, studying his play, as he beat one player after another. The Grandmaster, like everyone else, was curious to the identity of this man and most importantly how good he was at the game, and so he finally challenged him to a match and the man politely accepted. The first game between them ended nearly as quickly as it began as the man forced the Grandmaster to resign in under 20 moves. He was shocked. He immediately offered a rematch and with almost the same result. Becoming more anxious and bewildered, he called for a third match, then a fourth and so on and was defeated every single time and with little difficulty from his opponent. The other players looked on with astonishment as their highly esteemed star player was thoroughly embarrassed many times over. “How is it that you keep defeating me?” the Grandmaster finally asked with dismay. To which his opponent replied, “because it is clear that you have striven to be superior in mediocrity, rather than excellence.”

An academic man who lived in town learned about a wise man who lived in a forest. He was told by the townsfolk that he was one of the most renowned scholars and teachers in town but the mystery abounds that no one knew why he departed. Intrigued, the academic went to seek him out. When he found him, he discovered that he lived in a tiny log cabin and spent his days foraging for food and water, chopping wood, enduring daily physical labor, cleaning and living as a primitive. “This is interesting,” said the man, “you have no library, no books, no educational materials, in what way are you learned?” The forest dweller replied, “it is interesting to me, that it would not occur to you that books are merely tools that once they become used up, the knowledge which was created from them must become the prime mover.”

A treetop owl and a burrowing owl crossed paths. They watched each other hunt day after day, the tree owl swooping down to catch his prey and the burrowing owl running along the ground to catch his. Finally, the burrowing owl came to the treetop owl, looked up and asked him, “why do you hunt up there? Down here, I can see my prey easily and get up close to it”, to which the tree owl responded, “because unlike you, I keep myself clean, and I need not be near my prey to see it and know what and where it is.”

There once dwelled a novice monk in a secluded commune, learning the strict discipline of asceticism and aspiring to devote himself with all his heart to quiet contemplation. He spent as much time as he could fasting and meditating, taking long walks into the forest alone. His Master came around once every so often to monitor his progress. His Master was profoundly wise and accomplished in the discipline of asceticism and the novice desired eagerly to win his approval. The Master however, was unflappable, and not easily impressed, so the novice worked hard to perform his duties, pushing himself to ever stricter extremes of self-denial, but his Master remained cold in his recognition. So, the novice decided to challenge his Master’s standards and came to him with a proposition.
“What if I venture out into the deepest and darkest realm of the forest and remain there alone unmoved for a whole month?”
“If that is how you think you will accomplish self-knowledge, then carry it out and I’ll judge you when you return.” The Master replied. The novice went forth with his excursion and after a whole month returned in dire straits from his efforts hoping for merit. But his Master remained stubborn in his expectations.

“What if I shut myself in my solitary cell, in total silence, and immerse myself in meditations for another whole month”? He proposed. “If that is how you think you will accomplish self-knowledge than carry it out and I will judge you at the end of your duration”, the Master replied. So, the novice once again took on his new test and locked himself away from the world in his cell, fasting and meditating day after day for one month. At the end of the month, he returned to his Master to once again find him indifferent to his efforts. The young man finally expressed some disappointment, “tell me then my Master, what is the best way to wisdom?” The Master stayed his agitation and said, “Wait, you have not had food in a long while. Go down to the citrus orchard and procure yourself a provision. There is a kind villager there who will give you a good stock. Return to your room, eat, and I will show you the way.” The novice did as he was told and took leave to the orchard. When he arrived, he saw the villager working in the fields at a distance, and as he drew nearer, he discovered it was a beautiful young girl. He was immediately smitten by her appearance. Nervous but as politely as he could, he approached her to ask for provisions. Her smile was radiant and captivating, as she generously handed him a basket of fruit. The young man took it with some haste, thanked her, and departed as quickly as he could. When he returned to his room, he realized he could not eat, he could not concentrate or meditate. All he could think about was the girl he saw, enamored with her beauty and being plagued with feelings of longing for her. He began to become extremely unsettled and paced about the room, his mind now in a whirlwind of feelings and urges unlike he had felt before. He ran out of his room in fear to his master and told him about the girl he saw and his state of duress. The Master smiled and asked “how much wisdom does the greatest wise man truly have if he loses touch with his greatest source of strength, which is weakness?”

A strange man who nobody had ever seen before, entered a small town. He was dressed nicely and greeted everyone with respect. He was vociferous and spoke to everyone he crossed paths with garnering attention to himself. He was quite cordial and well-spoken and more people grew to like him. He eventually drew a crowd to him as his voice grew louder and louder as he spoke with an ever-greater sense of conviction.

“My friends, I have just come from a town full of people who have demonstrated such a poor quality of character that it could hardly equal the strength of my own. I was searching for people of great principle, virtue and civility, and alas I found only derelicts and selfish fools of every sort. I tried all I could to expose their lowly natures to themselves but they refused to face the truth, and would you believe it, they chased me out of their town! If only they understood themselves and how vile they really were! The charlatans! But now, I hope to be at peace with you all here and accepted as an equal among you, my friends! The people all clapped for him and reassured him he would be welcome. As time went on the man continued to roam around town, from business to business, park to park, anywhere where someone would lend him an ear, preaching about the principles of good character and how ugly the previous towns people were who chased him away. He spoke loudly, never letting up on his points. His listeners eventually dwindled and began to avoid him because he was loud and annoying. He spoke on and on about the failings of the other townspeople. He spoke in great length about how inferior they were compared to him and how hard it was to find someone who could possibly live up to the noble standards he lived by. “Such cowards they are to chase me out like that!” He raged. “Ha! You’d never believe such ugliness lurks beneath these social facades people put up! How pitiful and disgraceful they are! And I couldn’t help but notice that some people here are revealing some of the same reprobate tendencies I saw in the other people!” And so he went on that way, every conversation he engaged in digressed into the “principles of nobility” and his superior character. Soon he began to attack some of the locals, chastising them for giving him contemptuous looks and brushing him off when he tried to speak to them, and then preaching about his virtuous spirit. Eventually people began to speak out against him and point out how crude and intolerable he was. The man overheard these murmurings and raged even more at them.

“Ha! For the life of me, I see I have found yet another haven of degenerates who lie to themselves! You all deceive yourselves into your own false sense of moral righteousness and superiority!” Then a group of locals assembled and chased him out of town. The man ended up walking down a dark road and in the distance he saw an empty darkness reflecting no light.

There was a man who was hopelessly lost. He walked along a path that seemed to lead nowhere. He had not known how he lost his way or why this path had no direction even though it was laid out before him. Both anger and sadness consumed him, confusion tormented him and he was falling ever deeper into a depressed state, until he noticed a bush of flowers in bloom and in it one lone bee was visible tending to a flower bud. He saw it and stopped in his tracks, though he knew not why, and began watching it. He looked very closely at it, captivated, studying it, and observed every movement of its tiny body going about its business. He watched it writhe, and squirm, hover delicately as it adjusted itself. Every movement of it was incredibly precise, purposeful. He then pictured himself as the bee; what the bud looked like if it were that close to him, how it would smell, how it would feel. If he were that bee all that would exist would be the flower; nothing else would make sense, or be of any worth. He gazed a long while, transfixed by it, the movements of it so engrossed him that it seemed as if the whole world had frozen for a moment. He felt a deep connection to it somehow, something reminiscent he could not identify. Then it flew away. He stood for a while longer and suddenly he knew why this path was here, why he was on it. He changed his direction and began to march steadfastly in a new direction. He did not know where it led to, but he knew exactly how to get there. All his bad feelings evaporated and he felt as uplifted as if a ray of sunlight shone down upon him. He saw the world in perfect clarity.

An aspiring art student came to a master painter eager to become great. Though he had never painted before, he displayed an impressive willingness learn and an earnest interest in art. “Why do you want to paint?” Asked the maestro, “Because I want to create great masterpieces and succeed the predecessors.” He staunchly stated. Appreciating his devout spirit, the maestro took him under his wing and diligently guided him through all the basic instruction. He became familiar first with the art of sketching, making outlines and rough sketches, playing with shading and so on. He was taught the importance of perspective and shapes and practiced mastering how to draw them. He surrounded himself with all the necessary tools, and only of the highest quality. He memorized every type of graphite pencil, tip size, hues, and tones. When he moved to the canvas and brush work, he meticulously learned all the important brush heads and how to use them and for what purpose. He learned the art of brush strokes and how to hold the brush in his hand. He learned techniques of how to mix colors, how to perceive them properly, and how to accurately observe his subjects. The maestro worked with him for many hours allowing him to copy works he had done or to deliver detailed lectures and instructional exposition on how other artists created their own. The student worked hard, he was industrious, and fastidious in his dedication. His knowledge of the art grew and he developed good skill. The student then came to the maestro and proclaimed he was confident to finally take on his first major work. The maestro wished him luck.

After a number of days, the student returned to the maestro looking very despondent. “What happened?” The maestro asked. He shook his head and replied “I tried everything I could to find the right subject, but everything I attempted I either discarded, or couldn’t understand good enough. I do not know how to proceed. Something is wrong. How do I create?” “Create?!” the maestro exclaimed, “creation is not something you learn.”

A professional fighter who had ever only fought in the arena, one day learned about a soldier who was known for being a superior opponent in combat. He reveled at the prospect of competing against such a fine opponent and defeating him for sport accolade. He sought him out and challenged him to a match. The two fought and the soldier ended up killing him in the fight. The spectators were shocked as one asked “this was meant to be only competitive, why have you done this?”, to which the soldier replied, “combat never taught me it was about play, nor did it teach me to spare my enemy.”

There once was a solitary man, who took long walks alone. He took the same path every time, and reveled in the peace of being by himself. On this path, there lived an old woman who always happened to be outside her home when he passed, tending to a lovely bed of posy she grew. The man liked her, and looked forward to seeing her every time he walked, and she smiled at him every time, and he smiled back, as he enjoyed watching her delicately and lovingly care for her garden. Then one day venturing out on his walk, he passed her by as always and this time greeted her saying “Hello”. She brightened up and replied back with an over-eagerness that slightly put him off, but he forgave it as he briskly walked on. The next time he passed the old woman, she saw him and beckoned him over. He remained cordial, and tried to keep the interaction as brief as possible, but he ended up enduring a long session of her rambling about trivialities that kept him standing there for some time, by the time he was finally able to pull away, his walk had been terribly delayed and he felt frustrated as well as exhausted listening to her. The next time he passed her she held him up in a conversation so long that he knew he would not be able to even begin his walk. She was inconsiderate of his time and patience, and her selfishness and banality began to make him dislike her. Her warm smile, was replaced by unsightly expressions, her pretty garden now drowned into the background of her inane chatter. He no longer wanted to see the old woman with the charming smile, nor her colorful garden. He walked a new path, hoping he did not encounter any kind people.  

In a small town there was a fool whom everyone looked down upon, and a young boy who was curious about him. He did not mock him nor rebuff him as everyone else, but rather was attracted to his carefree nature. He asked his mother permission if he may spend time with him. “He runs around babbling nonsense and aimlessly plays in the woods, what would you think you could gain from him?” She admonished, “I just want to find out,” The boy said. So, he got to know the man, who ended up being, as his mother had opined, a seemingly frivolous dunce, who spoke poorly and was so void of any proper social etiquette that merely walking with any poise as to not make him appear a drunkard was difficult for him. He spoke very little having no knack for it, and the boy found him amusing and a fun distraction as he had expected, but little else. Until he learned in school, about certain birds who lived in the forest, he wanted to know where they resided but his teachers could not say, they did not know beyond their book information. He went to the fool and showed him pictures of birds he was interested in, and the man immediately took him along into the forest and showed him where all the birds could be seen, knowing where they came around and even where they perched. The boy was enamored with the experience and learned more about bird behavior than he had ever learned in school. At another instance, the boy came to him and complained about having a bad dream, the fool took him to a hill with a scenic lookout point which was also silent and peaceful. He told him, as coherently as he could, that the ‘quiet takes away the bad things’, and after having spent a good deal of time there in silence, he felt better. He enjoyed watching the fool in his antics, when he was happy, he never held back in showing it, whether it was through dance or laughter, if he was serious, he was stone quiet and reserved, acting with more purpose, and if he spoke, it was only to point something out or to make a practical statement. He also noticed that he stayed away from the bad or unsavory people in town as if he knew they were bad. The boy’s mother eventually came to him and asked him about what he has been learning, if anything from his new friend. “I learned that the forest is a better place than the town, and that being alone isn’t so bad, and not to talk so much because I might hurt myself.” The mother’s eyes widened, “and how could that blubbering fool have taught you such ideas?” The boy replied “Because when he’s dumb, I ignore him, but when he says something true, I can’t help but listen to him!”

There was once a man of great strength, who could lift the heaviest stones and throw them great distances. He had many challengers who competed against him, all vying for his coveted title, but he always proved to be insuperable. Then one particular challenger, a young man, full of not only gusto and bravado, but impressive strength and power of his own, offered him a duel. The young man was menacing, and everyone knew him to be a worthy opponent. The veteran strongman promptly accepted the challenge, and they dueled. The young man demonstrated incredible strength as he threw the heavy stones a great distance, but his title holder was simply too experienced and far more developed, and after a long and arduous battle, his distances dwarfed those of his younger opponent and he was victorious. The young man was defeated but vowed to his better that he would be back to challenge him again and advised him to be prepared, but he paid no mind of it. The veteran strongman’s defeat of the last great challenger awarded him immense praise from all townsfolk. He was truly the strongest of men. Immense adulation was lavished upon him. Women fawned over him, men respected him, children wanted to learn from him. He reveled in the glory of his strength and reputation allowing himself to take pleasure in it. Some time passed and he never heard a whisper from his younger challenger.After a while, he decided to simply forget about him entirely, relax and enjoy the fruits of his social status and labors. He did not even practice stone throwing anymore, and fell out of his strength training routines.

Then his challenger, true to his word, unexpectedly returned after a long hiatus. He walked around, drawing large groups of onlookers to him because of how larger and heavier he was. He was far more intimidating and menacing than ever before, so much so that some people even ran from him.  He came to the title holder, who looked at him with fear, and the young opponent challenged him again as he promised he would. Given his status, he knew he had no choice but to accept. They dueled once again, but because the veteran had not been training, his great strength was atrophied and he could not keep up with his challenger who had spent all his time since his defeat, training. He threw the stones so far, they almost disappeared into the distance, and it proved to be impossible for the veteran to meet him anywhere halfway. His challenger’s strength had become exceedingly greater than his own and there was no chance. Thus, he was easily beaten and mortified. The townspeople were shocked but cheered the amazing performance. They then began to praise the new strongman and offered him the title of ‘strongest man’, and anything he could want. He smiled and laughed at them, as he turned and walked away.

There once was a beautiful princess who lived in a great kingdom. She was adored by all for her immaculate beauty and aroused constant praise. She would venture into town, into any social circle, any hall, any festival and all would fawn and offer her whatever she wanted. But the princess was afflicted by feelings of boredom and apathy. She felt as if the attention she was given was simply too much for her, and most times she wished she was not so beautiful, and maybe there could be something more meaningful if she could find a way to look different. Then she was told about a powerful sorcerer who may be able to help fulfill her wishes.

She promptly went to him, “Dear beautiful hind, what could your troubles possibly be, hmm?”, he asked. “Please help me great wizard, I feel I am suffocating beneath all the lavish praise and attention I receive simply for being beautiful. I feel as though I am beaten down by it all the time. Make me no longer so beautiful and perhaps people will leave me be.” Thus, the sorcerer took pity on her, concocted a magic potion for her to drink, and said, “ingest this, and tomorrow morning, you will look completely different, as you wish.” She drank the potion and set off back to her dwelling. The next morning, she arose to find she looked positively ugly. Her beauty gone, and now only an unsightly countenance remained, demure, homely. She was shocked and almost fell into hysterics, but she decided to trust the magic and go about her day, believing something good must come from it. But when she ventured out into public, all eyes were astonished and revolted by her new ugly appearance. Women and children turned away in disgust, men greeted her, but only out of sympathetic politeness, and she could see they hide their revulsion. Nobody gathered around her or praised her anymore, and now there was only contempt and avoidance of her. It was too much for her to take and the sadness overwhelmed her. She ran back to the sorcerer and entered, sobbing. He said, “My dear ugly shrew, what could your troubles possibly be, are you not happy now?” She was beside herself with tears as she begged, “No great wizard, please, this is too much for me, now everyone hates me and will not get anywhere near me, treating me like I am a leper! Please, find a way to make me look different so that I will find peace!”. Thus, the sorcerer took pity on her once again and created for her another potion. “Ingest this, and tomorrow morning you will look different, as you wish.” She eagerly took it and drank it down. She returned to her domicile and slept. The next morning, she awoke to find that she now looked neither beautiful nor ugly, but something merely average, unremarkable, no great beauty or ugliness, or any special physical prowess. She felt a sense of dissatisfaction, but she decided to trust her new look and hope something good will come of it. She went back out into public and people greeted her with respect, some smiled at her, but most left her alone, passing her by. She finally found herself at some measure of peace. No great praise or derision was directed at her any longer and she was left, at last, to her own devices. But now she felt lost and empty, no great or meaningful experience had occurred as she had hoped, only a persistent loneliness and suffering. Somberly, she sulked back to the sorcerer and was let in. “My humble dear, what could your troubles be, nobody smothers you with praise nor torments you with contempt, have you not found happiness?” “Great wizard, now I am alone, and I feel as if I have nothing. Please help me possess something great, something of wonderful value.” “My dear, my powers have limits, for what you speak of is a spirit, something which must come from each person. That I cannot give you.”

In a small quiet farming village, there came upon it a man with twice the size and strength of most men, menacing the commune. He made his way through the villages speaking in a thunderous voice, “Ha! Here I find yet again, more of the same. The sheep tending the sheep! Weakness proliferates faster than any pestilence would on your crops! Docile sheep tending to the shearing of themselves to me!” He hollered, as he proceeded to barge into homes and take what he wanted. Most villagers kept away from him, capitulating, and some ran off. “Has it not ever occurred to your ilk what true power is, where it comes from? How foolishly you subsist in this decrepit rural edifice of peace, merely because you have yet to encounter something that will take it from you. How small you all are before me, how domesticated, how detached from the cruelty of nature that you would believe yourself free from a force of power such as myself!” As he continued his pillaging and terrorizing, he spotted a particular home with an assortment of potted flowers, colorful and in full bloom, he stomped over to it, “Ah, I have found that which speaks to the soul of this place! The innocent and foolish spirit that wanted to escape into peace, escape into illusion, hiding from the predator of nature. This is what peace and love of serenity does to men, it domesticates them, into the dull tubers they grow and mindless bovine they herd! Power itself cannot be stopped or opposed with such weakness!” He walked over to the flowers to destroy them when he noticed off to his side, the owner of the home, charging at him with the swiftness of a wild animal that the robber was surprised and had no time to react. The villager smashed into him with such force the man violently slammed on the ground. He fell on top of him and savagely sunk his teeth deep into his throat and ripped it out. Thus ended the marauder’s rampage and his preaching of power.

A great giant spoke to his son thus, “Your great size and strength of 100 men places you in an unrivaled race of men; it means that you are destined for rule over all, and to never falter in exercising your power. Your power is your purpose, and you should never let anything sway you or stand in your way for this is how nature built you, and you cannot deny it to yourself. I wish for you to go forth into the world and conquer without mercy, and do not return to me, lest you have been bested by something stronger than yourself.” And so, the son, heeding his father’s wishes went out for adventures of glory.  He traversed deep lands and encountered many enemies, men who were no match for him, easily crushing with his bare hands any who stood in his way or opposed him. He entered towns and villages and all ran from him, and those who tried to resist him were torn apart. He took down whole armies, and overpowered the most ferocious beasts. He would run through a dense forest and break and snap any trees like twigs that made contact with him.

Eventually he grew tired from his escapades, and found a quiet grove near a creek to take some needed rest. While resting he noticed in the sunlight a bright yellow butterfly that flew into his view, and it was as bright as the sun itself, which shone down on it. He was fixated and watched it curiously and carefully. It came nearer to him with a beckoning dalliance. He put out his hand and it landed on his palm. It was pretty and delicate beyond compare, as the sun gleamed through its translucent wings which were razor thin, perky, flexing back and forth. For him it was so light it felt as if it had no weight at all, airy, like a rose petal, resting delicately on his fingers, a mere gust of wind could overcome it. He thought to himself how easy it would be to extinguish its life with all the great power which it was now at mercy, even though it showed not the slightest indication of any fear of him whatsoever. But he could not bring himself to do it, he simply stared at it, entranced, admiring it. Then it took flight and flew out of his hand back into the light and disappeared. The great giant was smitten, and felt sorrow in himself. He rose to his feet and begun to make his way back to his father. When he arrived his father was shocked and demanded to know what enemy, could have defeated such an all-powerful being such as him, to which his son replied, “A butterfly father.” His father raged, “This tiny pathetic harmless creature took your power?!” “No, it made it greater.”

Once there was a mother who bore a son. The boy was beautiful and she quickly became enamored with him. The mother was unusually more loving and caring than her other maternal peers. So much, that she smothered the boy with an overabundance of adoration and love. She imposed no boundaries, and allowed the boy to run free, revel, and explore to his heart’s content. Some friends came to her in concern;
“Dearie, though we extol your loving nurturing heart, the boy requires restrictions as well, limitations. You must tame his wiles!” The mother only laughed dismissively at their entreaties. As the boy grew, the mother hardly wavered from her loving heart and allowed him to wander away when he pleased, dress as he pleased, and engage in any activity that gave him thrills, even as he became more defiant to his mother’s will, she steadfastly continued to nurture his freedom. But her friends, grew frightened, noticing the boy’s growing rebelliousness, along with his height and strength, and implored her counsel once again: “Dearie, you must see that his selfish tomfoolery is becoming a rage! You must enforce laws and boundaries before it is too late, for legend has it, that once he wanders away for good, and refuses to come back to your call, he may return a wild beast instead!” The mother again laughed even harder than before and mocked their silly superstitions. “There is nothing better in the world than love, it is an absolute good!” She proclaimed defiantly.
Time went on, and the boy grew and matured, his face grew dark and menacing, and soon he did not hear his mother’s voice any longer when she called to him. He laughed, sneered, snubbed her until she was no more than a petty distraction. One day he fled home. His mother called to him every night, but he did not return for many days. The mother however, eventually told herself that wherever he is, he must be happy and free, and so she felt comforted that her love most certainly brought him prosperity.
Then, one day, the mother suddenly heard screams coming from the other townspeople. A wild animal had invaded and was running rampant through the town, massacring denizens indiscriminately. When the mother ventured out of her house, she saw it was no ordinary animal, but a huge strange and awful beast. It noticed her and came charging ravenously at her. She noticed that it bore the face of her son, and for the first time she screamed demands at him to stop, and rebuked him and desperately tried to assert her will. But it was to no avail, as her beastly son, now resilient to any form of discipline, gobbled her up.

The sun was setting on a cold winter evening in a forest clearing. A horde of vultures has gathered before a large body strewn on the ground: an old stag lay exhausted and dying. The buzzards were wary of approaching, lest they endanger themselves, but the merciless pangs of hunger kept them restless.
“One of us should go to him,” one buzzard said amidst the cawing cacophony, “to see of his demise.” All eyed each other apprehensively, unwilling. One brave member, of the taller more imposing statures, volunteered, and lumbered itself boldly over to the body. The noise of the group seemed to fall quieter as it came upon the stag. Other than the frosty breath still wafting from its nostrils and jerky movements of its hind legs, it was still. Only its eyes met the buzzards menacing gaze. Upon sight of the buzzard, a sharp plume of breath shot from the buck’s nostrils and the buzzard arched its wings.
“Why…have they not descended on me?”
“Afraid,” he replied, “waiting.”
“I would feel nothing.”
“Still afraid.”
“Why?” The buck asked through labored breath.
“You are stronger than us.”
The buck closed its eyes. “Not anymore.”
“Perhaps then, what strength lingers.”
Another billowing plume of breath emitted from his nose.
“There was…no dignity, in my failure against my rival. No power…in my dominance. Speared by my fate, some snowy owl told to me. A phantom of my glory. I…lived, too long in glory, in power, in frenzy…roamed too far, peering into the sunlight…so much light I have seen, too much… deep darkness I have gleaned, this war-torn bedeviled crown upon my head, …yet, it was too much, too much power, now I dread, I lived without.”
“I have known no such things of which you speak,” the buzzard said with its ugly menacing gaze, ever hungry.
“What have you known?” The Buck rasped.
“Hunger and fear,” he replied, “perhaps, only glimpses of your life, this ‘power’ you speak of, glimpses of it, through strife, known through the death of it, moments of it, only seen on the path of my wings, in the eyes of others like you, wrathful things. I’ve known only the horizon, motion, some fearful longing of a new day, a better day, say that never comes, but only array of indignities, suffering, and always some terrorizing thing, benumbs, pulling at me, to chase, surge and strive.”
“Do you strive still now?” the Buck asked.
“I must,” he turned and gave a look to the others, “I may have to kill one of them to insure my fill of you.”
“Nothing will be left?”
“Nothing but blood and sinew, hunger.”
“No dignity then is left.” The Buck concluded as it took its last breaths.
“Perhaps, not so. You were terribly strong, heat and flame…I see only that.”
The last breath of the Buck puffed out from its nostrils and it died. The vulture took a great sigh of relief, cawed triumphantly, and began tearing ravenously into the gut of the Stag as the horde swooped in all at once, their great wings, a whirlwind of blackness.

In a village, tucked away deep in a valley, people spoke of an old woman who lived many miles up in the summit of a mountain. She was known as a hermit, advanced in years, and dwelled in some ancient ancestral ruin. No one knew how she survived up there all alone being so old and frail. There were members of the village who were the old woman’s relatives. They lamented that she may die up there all alone and they would not give her proper burial. They called upon a young boy, one of their bravest, and most physically adept to make the strenuous trek up the mountain to explore the living situation of the old woman and try to express to her, her family’s concern of her welfare and persuade her to return to the village. The boy, excited for the adventure, eagerly prepared for the journey. However, he was also afraid, for he knew well the many legends and beliefs of the old woman in the mountain, such that she was a prophetic witch, a wise cannibal, a grotesque madwoman who was tortured by visions from God, a killer, or that she was already dead and haunted the ruin.

At dawn, in the frigid cold and darkness of the valley, he set off on the known trail path which led up to the summit. It was strenuous and harrowing as the mountainous terrain became ever steeper and more treacherous in his ascent. However, he never lost his nerve, and always mustered his youthful strength and pressed on. At moments when he stopped to rest, he thought about the many questions he wanted to ask the old woman when he saw her. Was she really an eater of human flesh? Why did she live up here like a strange lone vulture? Why did she abandon her village? Did she really speak to God? How did she survive? He grew more anxious as he continued to climb and pondered the possible answers to these questions. The climb took him many hours, and eventually the whole day. As he approached the summit, the wind wrapped and whipped him more forcefully in the high altitude. There was but little sunlight left by the time he finally came upon what appeared only as a network of walled rock formations which were extensively degraded. They were settled on a raised hilly terrain of less than half an acre with lined walkways running through them so narrow that only a pair of feet could conform to them. The day had become too dark to see anything more and the boy collapsed in exhaustion and fell into sleep. When he awoke, it was morning and he found himself in a dusty room with only a small stone fireplace, a tiny rock stove, and a window overlooking a view of the valley. He noticed a figure sitting in front of the little window, with emaciated hands, holding a small cup and gazing out into the valley. The old woman turned and looked at the boy, her face was small and shrunken, but with deep dark hollow eye sockets which resembled a corpse. The boy jumped up in terror and nearly ran away but saw that the old woman did not move, but only watched him with a tranquil demeanor. She did not speak, but simply looked at him with a perfectly calm affect. There was a knowing presence in her look. She sipped her cup and then gazed back out the window. The stone room was silent other than the strong wind wisping through the open window, he could feel the deep reticence of the mountain. The boy skulked nearer to her like an edgy cat. The morning sunlight glazed over her creased and weathered face. She looked at him again and pointed her bony finger toward the little stone stove. The boy turned to see another cup was prepared. Understanding, he quietly stepped over to take it. It was a strong tea and he drank it down gratefully. Still too flustered to speak, he studied the old woman. She was small, slightly hunchbacked, and wrapped in an old tattered dress with a heavy shawl and overcoat draped over her which covered her whole body, despite this her apparel was very tidy and dignified. Her head and hands only were visible. Her lips were deeply weathered, flattened and sunken into her leathery sunburned cheekbones, with a bulbous nose. The sallow skin on her wrinkled worn face and high forehead was akin to parchment paper. Those dark sunken eye sockets were ghastly, but the boy began to feel a soothing comfort from her calm pensive demeanor, feeling more at ease. He was compelled to speak, but something strange prevented him. He only stared at her and looked out the window at the distant rising and falling mountain valleys. He moved closer to her, her face never looked away from the window, nor her thoughts stray from her calm state.

The boy introduced himself, but the old woman never responded, and after further futile attempts at conversation he realized she was either a mute, could not speak or chose not to. She did not cast him out nor make any hostile indication towards his presence, nor did she seem to welcome him. There was no unfriendliness in her, only general indifference. She paid no heed to the boy, and went about her business in a withdrawn manner as the boy shadowed her and watched her. She made a long daily trek deep into sparse wooded areas to gather firewood, forage food, collect herbs for tea, and collect water. Without a word, the boy helped her with everything. He helped to gather food, and carried the bucket of water back for her, and carried the sacks. She allowed it and made no response, lumbering back, hunched over, staring at the ground and sometimes the sky. The boy remained silent, and helped her and watched her. The walks were miles long and her endurance was superior. He never spoke. The days went by, and the boy remained with her. She allowed him to stay in the only covered rooms in the entire dilapidated ruin. Every morning he would silently go through the same routine. Setting out with her on the long trek to the woods, gathering the food, the water, the herbs, and helping her with any domestic duties in and around her property. Following her around was pleasant for the boy. Her mute calm indifferent demeanor was like a comforting spirit that lifted his own. Sometimes the old woman would simply wander around the ruins in a contemplative state. After a meal, she would sit on a high perch and overlook the valleys. The boy would curl next to her and fall into a meditative state. Time would become so lapsed, the boy could watch the sun move and glaze over the earth, as the universe dimmed his last thought into darkness. At evening times, he and the old woman would share tea while a small fire burned. She never spoke and never gave any sign of any emotional appeal towards the boy. She was not vulnerable, but deeply formidable. A stone. He would watch the light of the fire flicker off her dark unnerving eyes and hard worn aged face and listen to the whispers of the wind creeping into the room from the window. He would have inexplicable visions, feelings, wisdom. He became hypnotized. The silence was all enveloping. Silence which he had never experienced before. Thoughts he had never had before. Sounds of the world he had never heard before. The face of death gazing back at him in the old woman, but the flame of life still dancing behind it, a strange percolating caldron of power he could not draw from. He had lost touch with time, with his memory of why he had come. He immersed himself in the image of the mute old woman in the mountain, understanding himself.  One evening during their tea time as they both sat looking out the window, feeling the fading dusk into the cold dark night, the woman looked at the boy, turned, and opened her arms to him. Her crinkled face was pursed in deep emotion unlike anything he had ever seen in her face before. Astonished, the boy leaned into her and she took his face into her frail hands and bowed her head as if in prayer. The boy wept.

The next day the boy awakened to a shrill wailing voice that stirred him into sharp consternation. He jumped up and ran around the room and found the old woman was gone. He ran out of the room and into a big man who grabbed him. Wrestling in his grasp he noticed a large group of male villagers stationed outside the old woman’s domicile like soldiers. The piercing wail of the old woman echoed throughout the mountain. The boy tried to free himself to get to the old woman but to no avail. Her wail emitted a depth of agony and despair that was otherworldly and he never thought he could hear such terrifying sounds from one as godly silent as she was. The boy looked in the direction where the pathway entered the ruins and was just able to glimpse a body on a makeshift stretcher, being taken down, held up by a group of villagers, the arms were outstretched and the agonizing wailing continued to be emitted from the small body. Later, it was told the relatives of the old woman sent out a large group mission to track down the boy in the ruins after over two weeks had passed, and bring the old woman back to her family. The boy was forbidden to visit the old woman in the village, as she was taken in by her relatives. Her wailing throughout the village never stopped until her inevitable death.

The boy spent his nights weeping for the old woman, listening to her wailing, feeling the loss of it thrust through his heart. When the wailing finally stopped, her relatives buried her in the village cemetery, a common grave. Then one day, the boy made the climb back up to the old woman’s ruin. The crumbling walls of the many sections and rooms were still there. The wind was still there. The valleys were still there. He entered the room where he remembered her, and it was still there, the pot belly stove, the fireplace, the dust, the whispering wind. He climbed to one of the highest perches where he and her sat to gaze out into the deep endless earth, like an ocean of land and time undulating across the universe, the sunlight flooding all into resounding life. He stood high on the hilltop, smiled, and laughed menacingly. The laughter drowning out his wailing.