There is a place at Lonely Oak Elementary, in the school's courtyard, different from any other place in the world. There is an iron fence that has no gate; just an open way. The fence surrounds a modest square of land, nestled in the corner outside of where the library joins the first-grade hallway. A garden-stone path marks the entrance of the fence, and on either side of the path are garden plots, where flowers are always blooming.
Gentle Ouly's Meadow.
The boy stood at the threshold of the gate, having just arrived. He felt warm as he gripped the bars, at the border of the meadow. He raised a hand to his brow, gazing into the distance. He started his journey with a crisp breath.
The trail was laid out by cobblestone, with pale blotches of red and blue and white amidst the gray grout. Touched by bare feet, it felt sun-warmed and shade-cooled; a perfect temperature that was just right for such a path to guide the way.
It meandered here and there, not exactly straight. On either side, it cut through vast fields of tilled and cultured flowerbeds, or here and there a garden of some sort. A scarecrow perched in the middle of a lake of golden corn. He had a smile on his face, and his hand held the brim of his wide, straw hat, in a perpetual and cheery greeting.
The wind that gently blew was filled with the perfumes of spring. Fresh and sweet, it tousled the boy's hair and fur, giving him only the slightest chill before carrying warmth back to him in its still wake. It was like a gentle hand caressing him, comforting and soothing; it gave motion of vitality to an otherwise still and tranquil world.
He approached a brook, though long before so he could hear the murmur of the water over the smoothed, weathered pebbles in its bed.
Amidst the babbling was the creak and crunch of a wooden waterwheel. As part of a shaded resting area across the creek, a windmill slowly whirled as if in response, never ceasing for neither did the wind. Together, these two conversed day and night, speaking wisdoms of Mother Nature to any and all who would stop, and listen to their language.
The boy paused, observing the waterwheel and windmill for four slow rotations. Each noise they made was different from any other it had uttered in its life, and yet it was a familiar sound. Ever-churning, ever-learning, the structures talked on as they had, and as they would.
The brook that passed beneath his feet, beneath the stone archway, twisted this way and that. It originated from somewhere unseen, and went to somewhere likewise. It teemed with life, some of which could not be thought or believed to live in such a place. There were salmon and carp, as well as crabs and oysters. But there were also such things as squid, sharks, whales, and sea-horses.
Not many took the time to observe these creatures, or the wonders of their presence. But, some knew that this brook was merely the smallest window to an infinite and wondrous underwater realm, residing below the meadow.
His respite at this familiar spot now through, the boy stood and stroked his hand gently upon the side of the bridge as he journeyed on.
For a while, the Meadow appeared to mirror itself. The boy once again passed a field of corn, a scarecrow in perpetual salute in the distant middle. But this was just symmetry; a majestic detail that the Meadow held. It would not last that long, just long enough to give newcomers a brief sense of confusion, to thrill the exploration. It was even more fun at night, but the windmill was always there to guide wayward visitors to a place unique and familiar.
The fields of flowers and strawberry-, blueberry-, and raspberry-patches soon fell to an open and vast view. Naught but the pink-and-yellow glow of the finest sand against the sun could be seen. It was not so bright that it tired the eyes.
Here, the sky became curiously crepuscular, but for good reason. The transition was swift, like a time-lapse: from a mid-afternoon, partly cloudy dome to a low-hanging greenish-blue, and finally to purplish-orange. The transition occurred as the boy walked along the cobblestone path, amidst what appeared to be a rain-slicked salt-flat.
The path below him became covered by water. He waded through, although his steps did not disturb the gentle push and pull of the tide about his ankles. It was like an illusion, and yet he could feel the ebb and flow of the water, and how cool and refreshing it was against his bare feet.
The boy walked along the path through the shallow ocean that was like a flooded desert; the vast sky reflected on the surface, in similar symmetry to fields before. Gulls and pelicans flew about, swooping and scooping water. Fish swirled and swam about, passing by his feet and dodging between his ankles.
To his left and right, small islands with odd structures could be seen in the distance. They glowed, sporting floating rocks or intricate twinkling structures of crystal or pure stardust.
Then, he heard it. The boom of thunder that was a harbinger of The Turbulents.
Abruptly, twilight turned to a purple darkness; the sky was lit by thousands of lightning arcs. The wind began to swirl, and the water at his ankles began to tug and twist with aggression.
Most are frightened when they first see The Turbulents. There are other paths that do not cross The Turbulents, but the choice is entirely up to the traveler.
The Turbulents is the only place in Gentle Ouly's Meadow that gives any impression of harm. To a first-time traveler, the storm that rages is easily and understandably seen as malign and terrible. But it is not so; in fact, it is meant to appear that way. It represents an understanding.
The storm merely represented negativity. A controlled and finite place within the Meadow, the storm embodied the feelings and experiences that bring about the awareness of negativity in a person. For the Meadow knows, even when its travelers do not, that these negativities serve an important, and necessary polarity to help steer ones compass in life.
For without sadness, there would be no happiness to bring a smile. Without fear, there would be no haven from which to feel security. Without doubt, there would be no reason to have confidence. Without anger, there would be no appreciation for care and patience.
And so, as the boy lifted his hands to guard his face against the wind, he pressed onward, into the storm. By choice, he took this path, and by choice he could have taken another.
The storm gave him voices, memories and feelings. Tempted him with regrets, remorses, and guilts. The wind whipped his fur, burning the skin beneath just enough for it to sting.
But onward the boy pressed. The sound of thunder did not strike fear in him. The sight of lightning hitting mere feet before him did not startle him. The Turbulents was the true illusion, and he would pass through unscathed.
The clouds began to dissipate. The wind began to calm. He lowered his arms, and turned behind him, to watch the storm recede just as abruptly as it had come.
He had passed.
Before him was the last part of his journey. The cobblestone path led from the sand and beach toward a verdant forest. Even as he approached, he could hear the susurrus of the canopy. Streams of light danced and swung across his path, lit by a fine mist. He held out his hand, watching as a beam rested upon his palm, glowing warmly over his fur.
The chorus of birds was pleasing, and different to every traveler. They played a sylvan song that the traveler would inherently like.
Along the path the boy walked. Small glass globes hanging from overarching branches lit the way. Between the trees, spaced enough that an exploratory traveler could run full speed and not trip, more glowing globes could be seen here and there. Enough to light a small area and not get lost, but not so much such that the gentle darkness of the forest could be appreciated.
The lights were also colored, such that the exploratory traveler could find their way back to the path by simply following Roy G. Biv, where violet lit the cobblestone.
But travelers were not the only inhabitants of the docile forest. Now and again, a shape could be seen, either of a nebulous wisp or of the form of a friend, or more often an animal. One such entity the boy managed to spot, in the form of a fox. It ran away, its ethereal body taking on the same colors as the lamps the farther it dashed.
Over his head, archways began to mark the near end of the trail. Hanging from their arcs were more orbs, in varying odd-numbers, decrementing as each one passed. First nine, then seven, then five, then three. Then, came two; and finally, the last one, hanging all by its lonesome.
But this last bulb marked the entrance of a tunnel, cut into a gigantic oak tree—the only one within the forest. About the tree, wisps fluttered as birds from branch to branch. These wisps were peculiarly white, as if the culmination of the energy that made up the colorful orbs emanated from this very tree.
The boy walked through the tunnel, tracing his fingers upon cool petrified wood that was chiseled into brick-segments. The other end of the tunnel was bright, signifying the sunny day from whence he had started his journey.
He passed the threshold of the gate.
He walked the short path toward The House. Not much had changed since his last visit. The garden before the house was colored by a rainbow of flowers, and there was a small puddle of water in the shallow pool to the right side of the house.
A toad plopped into the pool, rippling the water.
The only noticeable change on the outside, was of hanging potted flowers. They had been changed from Poinsettias to Sweet Pea Vines, that spilled down from the pots like braided locks of hair.
The boy was a little worried about a bee stinging him. After he thought of that, he hurriedly approached the porch. His finger slowly went to the bell, and gave it a deliberate flick.
The sound startled the toad.
The tiger could feel the footsteps of the house's owner. The shoji slid open with a gentle whisper, the slats on the plastic-covered windows creating a subtle rhythmic beat. The old eyes caught the light of the sun, and as she gazed upon her visitor she emulated the sun with her smile.
”Good afternoon, Arkethius,” she greeted. “Please, come in.”
”Good afternoon, Mrs. Oulryk,” Ket greeted back, removing his shoes and stepping through the door. He shut it carefully.
”Oh...” the old bear suddenly caught a look of worry, lifting a hand nervously to her muzzle. “Please, take a seat...” She went to her shelves.
Ket went to the kotatsu.
The pillows were baby-blue and spearmint-green, and the futon had been put away with the coming of the warmer weather. In the center of the table was a small vase with a few flowers in it. Surrounding the vase, leaning against it as if relaxing beneath a tree, were a few of the porcelain bears that could be found sprinkled about the room.
He knelt upon the green pillow, folding his hands over his knees, clutching his surprise securely.
”I'm so sorry,” the old woman spoke genuinely. She retrieved a piece of wax paper from her shelf, and brought it to the tiger. She set it upon the table, and unwrapped it.
Inside, was an amorphous blob of soap.
”I tried to save it, but since the weather has gotten warmer and with all the rain, I'm afraid it's gotten soft and melted...”
The tiger smiled. “Well, I guess you'll just have to take this one, then.”
He set the wooden pagoda sculpture upon the table, closer to her side.
She gasped, and carefully picked it up to examine it. It had been carved from pine wood, as evidenced by several splintered edges where effort was made to soften them. It had three tiers, each one with different thicknesses where it recessed inward, but only slightly. The outside had been painted, but improperly. Instead of a few coats of paint, only one coat had been applied, allowing parts of the wood to show through where it otherwise may not have meant to.
The roofs were painted with black lines, representing the shingles. Black lines also outlined where little windows were to be at each floor. Red filled in the walls and the underside of the roofs. The cupola was painted yellow.
”Oh, Arkethius; it's beautiful.”
”Thank you,” the tiger smiled, a bit bashfully.
”What should I do with the soap?” She asked. “Should I put them together?”
He shook his head. “No. You can use the soap for washing your hands if you want,” he chuckled.
”Well,” Mrs. Oulryk set the wooden pagoda upon the kotatsu. “Come to think of it, I was just about to get more soap.”
For a moment there was a bit of silence. The house quietly adjusted to the afternoon heat, just as the sun went behind some clouds.
”May I have some tea, please?” The tiger asked, with an inflection that stressed more the beginning of the question than the end.
For a moment, the polar bear held a quizzical gaze behind her glasses, and then heard the low whistle. Over the course of the next few seconds, the kettle began to scream that the water was ready.
Mrs. Oulryk chuckled. “I wish you would come by more often,” she thought aloud, as she went to pull the kettle off the stove. “Not many of my children will drink tea.”
”I will.” He replied. “I haven't quite gotten used to coffee, yet...” he admitted.
”And don't you ever,” Mrs. Oulryk rhetorically warned, as a grandmother would to her grandson. “Caffeine isn't for growing boys.”
”Your tea is caffeine-free.” He stated.
”That it is.” She poured the water into two cups, and plucked two tea bags from a small glass jar. She brought the cups over by saucer, one in each hand, the tea bags resting upon the side. Each cup had a charm: she had the flower.
Ket was given the basketball.
They began to steep their tea in silence, letting the sound outside mark the separation of their quiet world from it. The wind blew gently, tingling chimes and butting one of the potted plants against the corner of the house. Now and again, a loud shout carried across from the playground. The library doors leading to the courtyard opened, and the hustle and bustle of a class passed by; heard, but not seen, the classes of second-graders headed toward the gym.
”It's very hot, so please sip.”
”Yes, ma'am,” the tiger acknowledged.
He took the cup by the handle in his right hand, and the saucer by his left, pinching the brim. He took a small sip, without sputtering at all. The raspberry tea spiked warmly as it swept over his tongue, quickly rushing as fast as it could down his throat. He set the cup back on the kotatsu, exhaling through his nose.
Mrs. Oulryk gently blew upon the surface of her cup, rippling the water and ushering the steam up and away toward the ceiling. She took her sip, only the slightest sputter emitting from her lips. She kept the edge of the cup against her lips, and proceeded to take three more sips over the course of about half a minute.
Finally, she set the cup down with the gentle tinkling of porcelain.
”Now.” The old bear rested her hands upon her knees. “Tell me, Arkethius. What is on your mind?”
The tiger's eyes darted to the left for just a second, before he looked down at the pagoda still centered on the table.
”Come now, Arkethius. I know that look in your eyes. Tell me what you're thinking.”
”Well,” he bit his lip. “I'm not sure how to state it.” He admitted, watching the steam rise from the dark amber liquid within his cup.
”I see.” she smiled, and reassured: “There's no pressure among friends.”
”Do you understand... love?”
The old bear's eyes had a brief twinkle to them. She stared from behind the lenses of her glasses. And then, in a rare gesture, she removed them, setting them upon the kotatsu. “Whatever makes you ask such a thing, I wonder?”
”Well, I...” He blinked. “I've been reading some different books. In some of them... two people fall in love but, I'm never really sure why. It always seems so... 'written.'”
Without her glasses, Mrs. Oulryk looked wiser than with them. Like they were actually weighted clothing that held her true power-level. “Are you asking about the instances of love you read in books, or love in general?” The woman clarified.
”General,” the tiger said, complimenting his response with a sip.
”I see.” She chuckled. “You've picked quite a topic to discuss today.”
”Is that bad?”
”No, no,” she held up a hand. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to sound so rude. It's just...” she folded her hands upon the table and exhaled. “You are a year older than the others. I suppose it's for the best; who knows what those middle school counselors would say?”
She was speaking mainly to herself. But she cleared her throat, and addressed her guest.
”I would say, Arkethius, that I do understand love.”
She let the answer flit about in the air for a moment. She expected him to ask further.
He contemplated. What to ask to get the answers he wanted, without revealing any of his knowledge. Best not to give it away in his face, at least. “How would you... describe it?”
She smiled. “I suppose I could try to... but, I'm afraid it would not help much.”
He silently felt a little frustrated. Either she was speaking a truth, or she was being a little round-about; if the latter, then this would get very dangerous for him.
But he had to find out.
”Why not?”
”Because, Arkethius,” she closed her eyes, as if fondly remembering something. They opened slightly, looking down at her tea. “Love means something different to everyone. There are many kinds of love: filial, fraternal, romantic, and others. In the stories you read with love in them, it is handled differently in each one.”
He would have to take a greater risk. “If I wanted to understand it,” he asked, “how should I? And how would I know when I did?”
”Very good questions.” She picked up her tea, and began to sip for several moments. All the while, the tiger before her waited patiently for the answers. She had to be very careful. “If I were you,” she began, cup still poised before her lips. “I would ask my mother. But, I will give you an answer, since I know you have probably thought about this for quite a long time.”
She set the half-empty cup back down, and the tiger adjusted his sitting posture, listening attentively.
”Tell me, Arkethius, do you remember when you learned to ride your bicycle?”
For a second, the tiger appeared caught off-guard; expecting an answer, he felt dismayed that all he got was a question. But, he still thought for the answer. “Yes.”
”How did you learn?”
”Um...” he uncharacteristically uttered the phrase. “I remember, when I first started, I had training wheels.”
”Ah. Let's skip ahead then, to when you learned to ride without them.”
”I... I think that... someone held onto the back of the seat.”
”Why?”
”Because, I kept falling over. Until I learned how to balance.”
”And now let's pretend you are trying to explain to one of your friends, who has never seen one before, how to ride. How would you describe it?”
For this answer, the tiger thought for a long time. That was a complex thing. From how to pedal, to breaking, to turning—not to mention balancing. He tried to go through the steps. Tried to itemize each one, counting on his fingers. But quickly he began to get so lost in the details of how to describe it that he realized it was overwhelming. “Why not... just show them?” He finally concluded.
”And there-in lies an answer. In order to understand love, one must experience it. But, love is a tricky thing. You can often choose when to ride a bicycle; you cannot often choose when to experience love, nor realize when you understand it.”
He looked down, and took another sip of his tea. “I guess so...” he replied, still a little dismayed.
”These stories you read,” the old woman said, replacing her glasses; “They are like the person whom held onto your bicycle while you learned how to ride. When you understand love, the love you read about in the stories will make perfect sense. I promise.”
He nodded.
”I have a feeling the bell will ring soon.” She smiled. “Much as I would love to continue our wonderful discussions...”
Another silent nod. It was clear he was already lost in contemplation again. And yet, after another moment, he stood. “Thank you for the tea.”
”You're quite welcome,” she responded, rising with him. “By the way, before you leave.” She approached him and rested a hand upon his shoulder. “Your little friend is doing quite well.” To her relief, a smile crosses his muzzle.
”I'm glad. Thank you.”
”One thanks is too many,” she replied with a chuckle. “Have a safe journey back,” she bid, seeing him out the door.
Ket finished tying his shoes on the porch, and waved as he stepped off to the earth. In less than fifteen paces, he passed the iron gate. Just as he did, the bell rang.
