Omichon (A Purgatorial Tale)

 

OMICHON

 

     Omichon woke up, and before he could even shake out his mane or put on his glasses, he knew that he wanted an apple. He could picture very clearly the tree where he might find it, too, near a stream that wound down from the hills on the other side of the Valley. Some stray bird, perhaps, had dropped the seed carelessly years ago in a sheltered place not far from where the water was cutting its way through the humps and hillocks of the Valley walls, cutting steep banks as it went. He had seen it there on his rambles one spring, heavy with green apples, and remembered thinking at the time how one day they would be quite delicious.

The lion leapt to his feet, throwing the heavy faded patchwork quilt aside, tossing the last sleep from his flowing haystack of hair, and yawned. There was something in the nip in the morning air that told him that those apples would be quite ready today. Omichon had seen the tree years before, it is true, and had thought little about it since, but something about the chill coming up from the stones into his paws and the clarity of the morning air that tickled his old nose told him that today should be the day. He fixed his glasses to his snout with a hasty but precise spell and reached for his black cane.

Omichon had been quite a fierce figure in his day and had wielded this black stick with remarkable magical ability once upon a time. Now it was mostly used as a cane. He had grown used to the dignity of walking upright, but lions walk on their toes (a trait he had never been able to modify), and as he got older his balance got more and more tricky. The stick, at first a tool of power, was constantly in use as help for his balance these days.

He went slowly through his morning routine, planning the journey as he brushed out his mane and the stiff little pointed beard that hung from his chin. When he and his friends had created the Valley as a place to retire to and be done with adventures, they had given it plenty of space to roam in. He grumbled in his throat these days at that decision; now that he was older, he wished they had placed things more conveniently close together.

Omichon went and sat down to the breakfast table. It was already spread with mounds of bacon and eggs, a tower of toast, and a steaming hot urn for morning tea, all magically provided as it was each morning. He chumped it down with little enjoyment. It was the same morning meal the spells provided him every day. It was another thing the lion hadn’t really thought much about when he’d cast the enchantments. It had been set up for convenience. He hadn’t been thinking about just how long he might live.

That was part of the allure of the apples. He hadn’t really included them in his plans. The Valley was mostly sealed off by spells, but there was no way to keep everything out, especially small things that could come in on the wind, like rain or bugs or pollen, though of course bigger things, like dragons, were excluded. The apple tree wasn’t part of his plans, a bonus, as it were, happily foisted on him by luck itself, a break in his minutely planned routine.

He pushed himself away from the table, the dishes and the broken remains of his meal vanishing away as he tucked his chair back in. Omichon sighed heavily at that. If he had allowed himself opportunities for a little honest work, he sometimes thought, at least he could feel some satisfaction about small tasks accomplished. As it was, life was almost too easy. He might just as well be a contented hog in a wallow, except that his mind was still restless.

The lion went in search of his Bag of Tricks. It was a pale blue bottomless valise he had often carried on his travels when he was a wanderer, into which a surprising number of books, food, weapons, magical equipment, and tools could be fitted, without care about how much space they took up or how much they weighed. But when he had settled down here in his comfortable cottage in the Valley, he had hung the weapons up, put the tools in the shed, and locked the magic gear away in a cabinet. The books he had put on a shelf by his bed, where he had read them all to rags and where they now gathered dust, he was so wearily familiar with their contents.

He found the Bag slumped in the back of the hall closet. He uncooked the clasp and looked inside. There were only a few bundles of wood left inside, and an ancient ham sandwich, still edible but drying out a little despite the preservation spell that kept the contents fresh and separate from each other. Plenty of room for however many apples he might want to carry home. He snapped it shut briskly and hoisted the case by its familiar old handle in one paw.

Omichon left the cottage without bothering to lock up. There was nothing in the Valley that could hurt it in his absence, anyway.

Once the old lion got out onto the faded pathway, scattered with a few early curling brown leaves, he began to feel his spirits rising. This was a little bit more like the old days, when his restless paws took him down endless roads in search of … well, he never had really been sure of what. Adventure, maybe. He only knew that he had finally gotten tired of the search at last and settled down. But on days like this, in the changeable seasons of fall and spring, there was something in the wind that stirred the old questing blood in him. He banged his black stick as he stumped along, as if to beat out that ancient unsettling tune, disturbed and yet intrigued to have such feelings again.

As he walked along, he started humming a rusty, rumbling tune in the back of his throat, and then he began, without thinking about, to talk aloud to himself. It was nothing consequential, just passing comments like, “That’s a big dandelion,” or “That cloud looks very like a ship.” After a few miles he became aware of what he was doing and snapped his jaws shut and looked around in embarrassment. That’s when he realized that he was very close to the home of his friend the Professor.

Omichron had not seen him in years. The Professor had always been rather thorny, even during their adventures, and while friendly he was not the most sociable company. He had dedicated his time in the Valley to what he called Pure Thought, and the last few times the lion had visited him, he had seemed rather irritated by the distraction of Omichron’s company. There was nothing really to talk about, other than to thresh old straw, as the Professor said; nothing new happened in the Valley. Still, it would be impolite to pass by so close without at least checking in. At any rate, it would be better than talking to himself.

The little hillock was only about fifty feet around. On top was a spreading hazel-nut tree, more like a thick bush than a tree. Even as he drew near, it was dropping down a ripe nut every now and then that hit the ground with the softest thump.  In the side of the hill was a roundish hole, about two feet wide. Untrimmed creepers hung over it from above, and it was almost covered by overgrown grass below.

The lion stopped at the mouth of the hole and bowed his head low.

“Hello in there!” he called. “Anybody home?”

There was silence, then a sudden rumble in the earth he could feel under his paws, and a blasting earthy exhalation shook the grass around the rim of the tunnel.

“Anybody home?” came a creaking, cranky voice from the darkness. “Anybody home? And where else, pray tell, would I be?”

What happened next would have been shocking if Omichron hadn’t been expecting it. An enormous, bald, green head, the size and color of a watermelon, came popping out of the tunnel to blink in irritation at the lion through round black horn-rimmed glasses. It nearly filled the entire tunnel.

“Well?” it asked. “What do you want?”

“Oh, well,” the lion paused. “I was just passing by and I thought I hadn’t seen you for a while …”

“Nine years, seven months, and three days,” the head said promptly, screwing up its mouth in a prim, satisfied little smile.

Omichron was taken aback.

“Really?” he said in wonder. “Has it been so long?”

“Trust me, I know these things. I can’t help it, it’s like a clock inside my brain.” He squinted at the lion through the sunlight. “Or had you forgotten?”

“No, no, I just hadn’t thought about it in quite a while.”

“Obviously you haven’t thought about anything in quite a while,” the head said testily. “For, instance manners. Now what, again, has occasioned this little interruption? Is the Valley on fire? Has a volcano erupted?”

“No, no, I was just … I say, Professor, it’s rather difficult just talking to a head. Would you mind coming out to visit a bit?”

The head sighed.

“I was just coming to some rather interesting conclusions about the Whatness of the Isness. I think I was almost there before you came calling … within another year or two I might have reached some definite preliminary findings. But I suppose a few minutes break will let me check up on some calculations in the back of my head while we chat. Stand back.”

Omichon politely removed himself a pace or two, and the Professor began to squirm his way out of the tunnel, his expression a little strained as he came accordioning out of the hole. First what might have been called his neck, defined as it was by a collar and bowtie, then a pair of long skinny arms. And then foot by foot of long rubbery body, squeezing in contracting rings of almost translucent pale green flesh, until the Professor stood towering at least a head taller than the lion, his boneless body raised curving like a striking snake on two flat pseudopods on the end of his tail.

Omichon never knew if his friend were a worm that had simply grown to gigantic size, or a man who had changed into a worm. It was a delicate subject, and the Professor himself had never volunteered any information. The lion-wizard only knew that he was certainly the cleverest creature he had ever met, and a good comrade on an adventure.  

The Professor blinked and hooded his eyes.

“It’s bright,” he complained. “Too damn bright. What do you think of my brilliant conversation so far? I hope it was worth the trip.”

“I didn’t set out for a visit,” Omichon hastily explained. “As I was going to say, I’m off to check out a fruit tree I found a while aback, over yonder.” He pointed with his black cane. “I just wanted to stop by and say hello; it’s been awhile. Maybe ask if you wanted me to bring you a few apples, you being a worm, and all.”

“I am not that kind of worm,” the Professor said, shrugging in irritation. He did this by flexing his entire body from his head to his feet, like a full body swallow: he had no shoulders. “I am perfectly happy with a few mouthfuls of earth.”

“Ah, but I’ve seen you eat other things before. I know you enjoyed them,” the Lion rumbled. “You’re just being prickly.” He smiled. “After all, all food is dirt, eventually.”

“A precise, if not too delicate point,” the Worm conceded. He smiled – a tight smile that Omichon knew was the closest thing he ever came to a frown. The Professor tended to reject worry as a useless emotion. “An apple tree, eh? I don’t remember that being in our plans, and my memory, you know, is of an exact nature.”

“Possibly a bird dropped a seed,” said the wizardly lion carelessly. He scratched his tufted mane. “A fortuitous accident, as far as I’m concerned. My diet has gotten a little monotonous, I fear.”

“Bah! Lions don’t eat apples!”

“They don’t fry eggs for breakfast, either,” Omichon pointed out. “But then you may have noticed that I am no ordinary lion, in any case.”

“The fact had not escaped me,” the Professor said absently. His smile tightened. “But this … unforeseen factor interests me. Yes, it is intriguing. Its effect on a closed system such as our Valley … which allow for transient elements such as are carried on wings … but becoming a permanent presence …” His voice was suddenly full of decision. “Yes, I think I must come with you to study the phenomenon. Its size, growth, and so on … it might very well upset the balance of our calculations.”

“I would welcome the company,” Omichon said, smiling. “But I think you’re over-reacting. What is one tree, more or less? It may even be an improvement.”

“One moment, while I get my umbrella,” the gigantic worm said, turning and bending back down into the hole. He came out again after squirming half-way in, shaking the dirt from a from a sturdy bumbershoot.

“What do you need that for?” the lion said, stamping his foot impatiently, wanting to be on their way. “The sky is clear as a bell.”

“It is now,” the Professor said testily. “But in a world where apple trees can just spring up, who knows when it might rain? And then I could drown. Worms breathe through their skin, you know.” He shook the folds of the umbrella again and the dust flew. “In the meantime, it makes a fine walking stick.”

Omichon snorted.

“You are a worrywart.”

“I plan for contingencies,” said the worm. “Now, let’s move along. I want to be back in my burrow by nightfall.”

“Humph.” The lion turned and started back onto the trail. The Professor glided up to his side, his feet taking tiny steps but dozens of them to the second, so that he seemed to slide along with little motion from the rest of his body.

They walked along mostly in silence, for there seemed to be little to say or much to do except to soak in the ambiance of a fine fall day. But it wasn’t an awkward silence; in fact, it grew more comfortable and companionable as they went. It recalled other days and other journeys when they had tramped all over the world in their days of adventure. But there was nothing to plan now, no dangers to anticipate. They would go to the apple tree and return home and that would be that.

It was late in the day and so warm and dry that the worm declared that he would in fact welcome a short sharp shower of rain when they reached the approach to the little gully where Omichon had seen the tree. A small crystal brook was flowing down from the hills. They stopped to drink deep and bathe their feet for a few moments, then moved on. The lion could just see the green crown of leaves peeking out from the hollows of the rolling land, growing ever taller as if raising its head in curiosity at their approach.

“Finally,” the Professor said, squinting ahead through his glasses. “Now we shall see if this little jaunt was even worth the effort.”

“I think it has,” said the lion warmly. “If only for the pleasure of seeing you again.”

“Hmph,” said the worm in skeptical tones, but the little smile on his face showed that he was not entirely displeased. Then they turned into a dell, and there was the tree at last.

Except that they could see now that it was two trees, that had sprouted next to each other and had intertwined as they had grown. Omichon couldn’t tell where one began and the other left off, except that some branches carried heavy golden-green apples and others fruit as red and strong as a living heart.

The two friends stopped and looked in amazement, for there in the deeps of the branches sat perched the third of their company, old Owl. His wings were slightly extended and gently flapping, as if to waft a little breeze through the waving boughs. When he saw the others, he blinked his sleepy eyes and settled his feathers behind his back, ruffling them into place.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. His voice was rather hollow, yet musical, like a baritone woodwind, or an old tree on a gusty day. “I was wondering when you would come.”

“You were expecting us?” the lion asked.

“I was calling you.”

“I never heard you call.”

The owl’s beak of course didn’t change, but his eyes grew more hooded, and there was a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

“You wouldn’t have come if some part of you hadn’t heard.”

He suddenly spread his pinions and dropped swooping to the ground, an alarming process. His heavy body came tumbling to the earth, stalled only by a lightning-fast spreading and folding of his thundering wings as he passed through the branches. Owl settled with a soft thud onto the grass before them. The top of the old bird’s head reached almost to Omichon’s tufted chin.

“That is just like you,” the Professor smugly. “Always with a bit of portentous pretension.”  He crossed his arms in satisfaction. “It seems to be the day for the reunion of old friends.”

“It is good to see you again,” the wizardly lion put in. His voice was puzzled. “But we only came out here to see if there were some apples.”

“Why don’t you go ahead and eat, then?” The owl pointed. “They’re quite ripe, and there are plenty and to spare.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” the worm said promptly, and accordioned his way over to the tree. Rather than taking any from the branches, however, he began methodically working on the windfalls that lay dotted on the grass around the trunk, picking up the juicy, over-ripe, almost rotten fruit and swallowing them with a gulp, core and all. He had already downed a half dozen when Omichon finally reached up and plucked his selected apple.

It was a beauty. Larger than his fist, firm but just starting to yield, golden but with a rosy blush that promised sweetness to come. He looked at it long and hard, like a jeweler examining a diamond before cutting it, or a baker reluctant to slice into a cake and spoil its gorgeousness. He breathed in deep, relishing its fragrance, and then hesitated no more, biting into the apple’s flesh.

It was the most delicious thing he could ever remember tasting. There was sweetness there, yes, but a tartness that made the very hinges of his jaw tingle throughout, like a sleeper awakening from a long slumber and feeling life coming back into his limbs. He swallowed, and immediately took another bite, savoring it this time, unwilling to let it pass on down until he had enjoyed it to the last bit of flavor. Even as he chewed, almost in a trance, the lion opened his bag and started plucking apples off the tree and carefully stowing them away into its bottomless recesses.

“Good, aren’t they?” asked Owl.

Omichon swallowed his bite.

“Very good,” he said. “I suppose because I haven’t had anything like them for a while.” The lion looked thoughtful. “I hadn’t included such things in my plans, really.”

“Apples, or surprises?”

“I don’t like surprises, as a rule,” the Professor said, oozing over to join the conversation. “Nasty, unexpected things. Upset your calculations.” He wiped away dripping juice from his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I must admit that today has been the most – er – enjoyable day that I can remember in years.”

“It’s been said,” Owl remarked sleepily, “That one must accept the possibility, even the inevitability, of nastiness, if one is ever to have the chance of joy. Otherwise, you do not have life, simply – existence.”

“That may be,” said the worm testily. “But without at least existence, there’s no possibility of joy.”

“Indeed? And would you be content to return to being a simple creature, merely eating dirt all day and wriggling thoughtlessly through the crumbling earth?”

“Well, no.” The creature adjusted his glasses uneasily. “Then I would not be me anymore. The I that I am would not exist.”

“Hm,” said the owl. He turned to Omichon. “Have another apple.”

Automatically the old lion reached out obediently to pluck another fruit, but he paused suddenly, the crimson globe cradled in his in his paw.

“You were calling us here?” he asked. There was a strange tone in his voice.

“Yes,” the old bird said simply.

“Why?”

“Just to bring your attention to this tree. I thought you might enjoy its unforeseen presents before time wastes them away.”

“But it’s not that simple, is it? You want to tell me something … to teach me something.” Omichon looked troubled. He dropped his arm and leaned on his stick. “That was always your way. I know the ways of magic, of power, of action, and the Professor knows the way the mechanics of the world wag, but you … you were always the wisest of us.”

“Oh?” The word was almost a hoot. Owl turned his head, nibbling with his beak at his shoulder feathers as if to trim them, and said nothing else.

“And I think I see what you are hinting at. This tree, these apples, our walk here to find them … I have enjoyed them more than anything else in many a day. You’re telling me … you’re showing us,” He nodded at the Professor. “Our retiring here … our enchanting the valley … thinking we should wall out the world … this was all a mistake.”

“Oh?”

The worm turned to the lion impatiently.

“Now that’s not altogether true! We needed a rest, yes, and some quiet, after that last adventure. You know how much it took out of you. It was a well-earned reward. We all agreed the Valley was a good idea!” He hesitated. “Although I must confess there has been a certain lack of – ah – stimulation, which all the best thought needs. The arising of variables does check assumptions and leads to more accurate calculations.”

Omichon smiled.

“You know, I was thinking that too, if not quite in those terms. There has been a certain sameness to my days, not unpleasant, but not exactly rising to pleasure, either. I wonder.”

He looked at Owl. The old bird seemed to have fallen asleep, standing there with his eyes closed, but the wizardly lion knew he was listening intently.

“I wonder if it is not time that we break the enchantment and leave the Valley for the Road again.”

“Oh, well, if you’d rather,” the worm said airily. “I can think wherever I am; it makes no matter to me. If you’d rather go tramping out in the world with no assurance of a meal or a warm bed at the end of the day, I feel no never-mind about it. It’s your lookout.”

“You could always stay here,” the lion pointed out.

The worm snorted.

“And not know how your story concludes? Now that mystery would distract my calculations no end. No; you are stuck with me, wherever you go.”

Omichon smiled.

“Thank you, my friend.” He turned to the owl, who had raised his heavy eyelids. The bird’s eyes were beginning to gleam in the gathering twilight. “It’s decided, then. Let us undo the magic and leave the Valley.”

“Are you quite ready? Is there nothing else you wish to do before you leave, nothing else to take?”

The lion patted his bag.

“I think I have enough apples for the first leg of the journey. Other than that … all I’ve ever really needed on my travels was my bag, my stick, and my friends.”

“Then let us do what is needed.”

The three friends extended paw and hand and wing and did what was necessary. It was a rather simple procedure, and when it was done, the world around them appeared unchanged, except that a certain tension seemed to have left the air. An evening breeze sprang up out of nowhere, carrying a sudden brisk chill. Omichon shivered happily.

“Come on,” he said. “There’s just enough light to take us to the other side of the hills. I want to be out of here by nightfall.”

“This is certainly not how I calculated that this day would go,” said the Professor. He flourished his umbrella. “But lead on!”

Owl said nothing, but his eyes glowed with a golden light as he fell into step with his companions. In a moment they were out of sight, on a road that would only have one ending, foreseen but unknown.

Behind them, unobserved in the gathering twilight, an apple fell with a quiet thud to the withering summer grass.

 

--First draft finished 7:36 AM, 7/24/2020.