2.
The
flee
And once again we’re all around
the table: me, my wife, our daughter and the ‘Bout mouse. Actually, it was more
that we were around the table and ‘Bout mouse was on the table; he wouldn’t be
seen any other way. ‘Bout mouse is a small rat which I met on the street. It
was wet, sitting on the drainpipe with an umbrella, and tiny boots on its feet.
I was shocked, and to be honest, right now I just couldn’t take in the
sight of a small rat lounging on a Barbie chair kindly offered by my daughter
and tucked in a plaid by my wife as reality as well. And if you count in the
fact that he was sipping milk, with a drib of whisky added by his request I may add, from a doll-sized cup, you
might think that you’ve got nuts. I’m not entirely sure that I didn’t.
“So” started the ‘Bout mouse
after taking a sip from his cup. ”I presume you all know about the flutist.
Yes, the exact same flutist, the puppeteer of the rats. I was there, I was one
of them. The only thing that I could do was run, run from the place that was
once a safe zone for me. It was a place where my wild youth took place, where
my first love happened and where I kissed her rosy palms. A place where my
brothers, sisters and all friends lived… I could only run. I ran and cried. The
only thing in my mind was: run, as fast as you can, as far as you can.
‘Bout mouse stopped too deep
in thought. We didn’t disturb his reverie.
Beyond the window life was
running in its usual, for evening, pace. Someone entered the stairway. You
could hear the door’s heavy jostle against the frame as it opened and closed.
Somewhere far away dogs were going crazy and only ‘Bout mouse was indifferent to
all the sounds, tears staining his vision.
“Although,” ‘Bout mouse
continued, “Though… I should have done differently, but then I ran. I and my
friends had a raft hidden on the cost long time ago. We had a dream of taking
off to see the world. We were making the raft almost half a year, chopping the logs
and huddling them together carefully. We tied them together with whipcord which
rat Flakey, ahem, borrowed, from an air-head farmer while he was taking a nap
from his jeans. We used the biggest canker leaf we could find as a sail. We
call the canker tree - ‘the iron tree’. Leafs that fall from it lie and don’t
rot for years. We wasted a few days just to bite through the steam and then
drilled holes for fixture in it with small sharp sticks the whole week! Lastly
our raft was ready. How proud we were…”
And here I am, pushing the
raft to the shore all by myself. Normally I couldn’t even raise it up. Where
did all the strength come from so suddenly? I didn’t know, but I was no less
pressing forward, slipping on the dirt until the stream hoisted the raft up and
started carrying it way from me. Only a second more and the raft would be gone.
Almost unconsciously I
jumped in and only by sheer luck managed to grab on to the side of the raft
diving in. Ice cold water burned me. My whole body churned, I could literally
feel the stream and its spurts twirl around me in a wild dance, trying to shake
me off the raft and take somewhere deep from where I won’t be able to get out
anymore. But I held on. I tried and tried and tried and then finally managed to
get on the slippery raft.
Waves tossed the raft as
they pleased just like those small rods we used to throw in a river located not
too far from our lair and watch them spin and then sink in foam. I remember
that one time an ant accidentally got on the sinking prop, spinning on it. Now
I feel the same as that ant. Waves reminded me in horror of wild beasts with
desire of nothing else, but to swallow me whole. They draw me down and then
hopped up high just to drop me down again like on a rollercoaster. The only
thing I could do right now was lie flat on my belly and hold on to the raft,
hopping not to fall into the water.
I don’t know how long it
went on, but by the time the waves calmed down and the raft sailed almost
gently it was night time. No matter how much I looked around, back and straight
ahead of me I couldn’t see any kind of shore. I think it’s strange and
untimely, but sudden tranquility washed over me. I didn’t care anymore. I
didn’t care about what to do next and how to get out. A fantastic view around
me made feel small and unmeaning less part of the world. Stars reflected in the
ruffling water magnifying their shine and size. A silvery lane stretched out
over the raft and water from the unblinking moon disc high in the sky. And
right then, like on a queue, deep in the deeps of the stream miniature lanterns
lit up. It created an illusion of another world entirely. A world where up and
down didn’t exist and the whole space was filled with fireflies. There was no
wind and I couldn’t feel the cold because of that. Even my fur started to dry.
I sat more comfortably, leaning on the mast and stared into the dark infinity.
Occasionally the lanterns flared in a path of light and then something’s
flippers and horrible jagged mouth in which I could fit together with my raft
easily. But I didn’t really care. I was enchanted by the sheer beauty of the
place. Just like that.
And then I heard strange
whistling and splashes. I turned around and saw pied fishes prancing out of the
water one after another, flaunting their flippers and spreading them out for a
flight. Soon enough they surrounded me. They jumped up and then dived again and
again, drawing complicated figures in the air. Those figures reminded of a
dance and the persistent whistling became a song intentionally. It seemed as
if, you could tell those whistles apart and without much effort understand what
they were singing about. At one second I think I even understood. They were
singing about home, love and the sea. I can’t say for sure that that’s right,
but I believe it is. My grandpa, an old sailor, once told me that once a year
somewhere in the sea flying fish had a weeding ritual and if one saw it, he
wouldn’t forget it for the rest of his life. I’m sure I won’t.
Just like that, curled up
against the mast, I fell asleep lulled by the song of the flying fish and
silvery shine covering me like blanket.
