I have been the serpent and the tail. I have devoured my tail, and kept on devouring, on and on, eating, eating, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, and I have lived to tell about it. I'm telling you about it now, aren't I?
I know what my tail tastes like. You don't.
I'm talking of course about an allegorical, mystical, subtle spirit-tail, as opposed to my real one.
I have a tail.
I forgot to mention that, didn't I? Well, I was getting to it, you just need to learn how to have patience, like me.
I'm a tiger now.
Yes, really.
Sort of.
I must admit, I'm not quite a tiger... see, there's something odd about it all; I am much more a tiger on the outside than the inside. On the outside, my corporeal, crude self, my avatar, vehicle, vimana-visage, earth-suit, shell, costume... You would see I have a very tiger-like way about me. I have the stripes and the colors, and the fur... yeah, I've got it... in spades I've got it. Girls could run their fingers through my smooth and silken coat, for days maybe, and they'd never get bored. God knows I wouldn't. I exude tigerness.
Inside, however, I'm a work in progress. My thoughts aren't very tiger-like, I confess, and I still find myself wanting performance vehicles and job security and nighttime companionship... very human things.
But, I'm getting better.
It took a long time, and it was very, very painful. Most transformations are. If it had been a physical pain, I think I would have been able to endure it with more dignity. But, I no longer need dignity. I'm a tiger. All I need to do is give myself a quick wash, and the blame is off of me. I'm a god, in that way. A religion unto my own. I can judge, condemn, heal, save and pardon myself and only myself. I need nobody else. If others should come to worship me, than that's fine, but I don't need anybody.
Well...
Well, that's not... hmm.
That is not quite true. I still need my teacher's aid. If one wanted to place blame for my rise to magnificence on anybody, it would have to be on his shoulders. He's the one to blame for my greatness.
My tigerocity.
He warns me sometimes. He does it less than he used to; I think he knows I've stopped listening. But, God, you should have heard him prattle on a few hours ago. The man was in full-katabasis-swing back then.
"You fool! You've forgotten your vow! You made the descent to find something within yourself, and have you found it? Or have you forgotten what it was?"
I refused to dignify the question with an answer, so he answered it for me:
"Let me remind you, then! If you still have ears to hear, then listen, and listen well. You sought strength... but why? It was to protect those closest to your heart! You sought cunning, and speed, and wisdom... but for heaven's sake, why? Can't you even remember?!"
I glared at the man and prowled past him. If I ignored him for long enough, perhaps he would cease talking and let me enjoy the day.
"Sheryl..." The man hissed. "Remember sheryl."
Oh, I remembered her, all right. Hadn't forgotten her for an instant. She was another silly human creature who was much too wrapped up in her world of human woes to enjoy simple, important things like fresh water and green grass. She had a disease, I recall. It was something that could probably be cured with a good run and a better diet, maybe something with fresh meat, but the poor girl was too lazy to do anything other than spend her days laying around, moping in bed, and looking worse and worse every day. Dear God, some days she looked to be the very face of Death. Positively revolting.
It was a shame, but not a crying one.
"A cure!" The old fool crowed. "You were supposed to find a cure!" He went to kick at me, but of course I was too quick for him, and I dashed out of his study chamber into the hallway. How dare he! That foul, geriatric flesh-bag deserved much worse than the menacing hiss I gave him. I could have torn that tattered, smelly rag he calls a robe into infinitesimal shreds, but I didn't feel like it.
"No!" The man snapped at me, and I saw him reach for a long, dark, chewed-up-looking stick laying on the table full of scribbly paper piles. I had seen that stick before, and something told me I was supposed to think it was dangerous, but how could a stick be dangerous? They were for the occasional chewing-upon, as evidenced by this one, surely, and other than that, they could be left to rot in the ground which they came from, and nature would remain happy. The doddering creature would not be deterred, and he advanced, stretching his long shadow over me.
"If you will not change back on your own volition, then I have no choice but to do it for you. Forgive me for this, James."
The crazy old man stretched forth his arm with the grungy stick clutched in his gnarled fist, and began waving it around in meaningless circles, all the while mumbling some garbled nonsense. Did the old geezer believe that he could change my own will, too? My very will? What a ridiculous notion! I made the choice myself. Why would I choose anything else? Why would I change my mind?
Just then, everything began to get a little fuzzy. It was hard to stand, or at least, it was hard to stand properly. I began to think about the most audacious sorts of things, too. Things like time and space and death and forgiveness.
Too late, I realized what was happening, and I cried out.
***
"Oh, God!" James shouted, as he found himself upon all fours, crouched upon the floor. There was the distinct taste of canned tuna in his mouth. He looked up. Standing over him was his uncle Folliard, a good man, and one of the few people in this world who he would dare entrust his life to, besides his beloved wife, Sheryl.
"Oh. God." He said again. "Sheryl!" He tried to stand up, but rose too quickly, and fell over to his side again on the cold, stone floor.
"Easy, child." His uncle patted him on the back with his free hand. In his other was, of course, the ornately-carved ebony wand that was always at hand. "You cannot go on such a long journey without having it take some wind out of you."
James looked up. "Where did I go?"
His uncle studied him. "You don't remember?"
James sat up, cross-legged on the floor. "I do... maybe... it's difficult to recall."
"You went to Cat, my dear nephew." His uncle said, "And I dare say I mightn't think you weren't coming back."
James eyes widened. "Is that what it was? I wondered." He shook his head. "It was too strong, uncle. I couldn't fight it." He put his head in his hands and looked off into the distance.
Folliard chuckled. "Well, then, that's where you might have went wrong. A lad doesn't fight his own catitude, does he? He embraces it, learns from it, and moves on toward the rest of life."
"I think..." James closed his eyes, "I think I might be done with that particular lesson."
"Well, then... Let's move onto the next one, shall we?" Folliard reached his hand out.
James took it, and hoisted himself up. "Yeah, okay, in a while. Just give me a moment to... to..."
He shut his eyes again as he steadied himself on his feet. "That was rough. How long was it? I mean, exactly how long did that one take?"
"This particular Transmogrus Sutra?" Folliard raised his silken-robed arm and pushed back the sleeve to look at a digital watch. "About four, maybe five hours."
"That's all?"
His uncle looked concerned. "You were hoping for longer?"
"No. No! It's just..." He shuddered. "It seemed like days in there. I feel like I just lived an entire week inside the body of a cat."
Folliard laughed. "Well! Maybe you did. What is time to a cat anyway?"
James shrugged at the logic. "I'm not very good at this, am I..." It wasn't a question.
"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, James. One little setback will hardly keep you down, will it? Relax. You might have more fun with this next one..."
James' neck stiffened. "I'm afraid to ask."
"Oh, you mustn't be afraid of that. There are many more valid things in this world to fear."
James nodded. He was beginning to understand. "What's next?"
His uncle laid a hand on his shoulder, and a grin spread over his face. "Rabbit."
He groaned. "What in the world could a rabbit possibly teach me, uncle? That's worse than cat! They're so... so scatter-brained!"
"Hare-brained is the term you're looking for, nephew." Folliard gave him a sideways glance. "But survival is our goal here. Longevity. Vitality. And if there's one beast who knows the secrets of survival, it's our friend rabbit."
Taking a deep breath, James followed the old man's cloak into the next room.
