Avatar: The Feral Child

Book 1: Chapter 1: Tea With The Spirits

Daima felt the untainted air encroach his chest, smelled it with the intensity of a farmer savoring the last breath of his country life. Had he the ability to taste, he would imagine it tasted the way a smile looked on a beautiful woman, or the sight of a rabbitfox finally free of a hunter's trap. The sweet, the bitter, the stinging of salt and vinegar-- none of this holds any meaning to Daima. His world is a testament to the watchful eye of the owlfly with his utmost focus in sight and awareness. Even as he relaxes beneath the fuzzy shade of his favorite tree, his eyes take on the scene around him.

He resides both atop a hill and on the edge of a nameless forest. At the foot of the hill, a rolling field of fresh grain sits unharvested and unmanned-- as wild and natural as himself, he remarks. Inside the forest stirs the many inhabitants of the brush and bush, all tittering with the elegance only the residents of the Spirit World could offer. They sing and lalala with one another, performing their own shows of drama and intrigue before matching their cadence of song with guffaws and bellows of laughter. But their whinnies and cries are distant enough to allow Daima solitude with his journal, his true reserve in this heavenly realm. As his quill drinks the black nectar of an inkwell, his solace is broken.

"You're back," an excited voice caws, "and so soon! How has your home world treated you, Owlfly?" An extended sigh escapes Daima's chest as home is rekindled in his mind. Without moving his eyes from his tattered pages, he responds carefully.

"I am... living in tree," Daima drawls slowly, "and... I am eating plants. I have dirt... on me. Me stomach has pain in days." He relaxes having completed most of his thoughts on the subject matter.

Familiar with his speech, the voice returns quickly. "Yes, I have heard of your condition. I will make sure to speak with Joral about sending more game your way for hunting." With a shuffle of feathers and a fluff of white, the spirit makes herself comfortable beside Daima. Peeking over his shoulder to his blank pages, she inquires, "Owlfly, are you having trouble with the letters again?"

"It's... the noises," Daima confesses. "there are a lot but... not a lot of... letters." As if he had delivered the statement to end all statements, he shuts the book and rests it on his lap. He turns to acknowledge his avian mentor, and tries for a question. "Do you know the letters?"

"Unfortunately, no. Your kind is the only to hold the knowledge of writing, at least to the extent that they use it." Her beak does not open when she speaks. All that moves is her many feathers, pure white like the pages of the retired journal. She stares intently with large, black eyes like that of a mirror or an oracle's looking glass. In their reflection, Daima sees his wild mane and stoic gaze beneath the grime of the wilderness that has come to cover his visage. "Humans are endlessly inventive, and they tend to overlook the fact that they are the entities of progress in a world founded in tradition. In fact, Young Owlfly, you are one of the few that would still adhere to the ways of old," she pauses, as if to smile and swell with pride, "and yet you are still one of the most inventive and intelligent of them all."

Daima recedes in light of the flattery, compulsively brushing it off. "I am not... human... you know it, I know it..." Daima's head lowers to inspect the lush, green grass before mustering the words "they know it." He swallows, realizing his thirst. Before he can raise his head to look for fresh water, a ready cup of tea and saucer is placed atop his book by a snowy wing. It's the color of the sunrise with a storm lurking. He lifts it to his nostrils. It smells like the sound of gentle rainfall.

"No, you are not human. You are tea leaves, wherein the spirits are water. Your flavor may seep and mix into our world so that they may be inseparable, but the tea leaves still remain." Daima takes a sip, feeling with his tongue the weight of the water. The warmth spreads through his body, filling his chest and stomach. "What you need is the heat of interaction. Then, Young Owlfly, and only then will you truly be the best of both worlds."

"Thank you... Talam." Daima swallows the tea. He wonders what the tea leaves are meant to taste like.

...

Nightfall came quickly. The moon rose into the sky with the vivacity of the celebration below. Tonight, the Spirits of the Forest and the Spirits of the Hills decided to come together for a festival, rewarding themselves for still being alive for another year. They brought juices of many colors, meats of no animal, nuts of the highest branch, and bread of the finest grain. They gathered where the moon was the fullest in the sky and the bonfire could burn the brightest. Together they slithered, pawed, trounced, pounced, howled, and flapped against the rhythm of the percussion-- Daima's drums. He hammered and heaved, breathing heavy and sweating with ease. His drums spun a new sense into the night and played a foreign game where locals learned the rules as they went. They drained their claws, hands, wings, heads, and hooves of love, giving everything they made to the moon above. With their stomping, clopping, romping, hopping, they burn on fiery feet amidst the beat of the Wild Boy's toys. Snapped here and over there, moledeer, platypusbear, lemur, and antlered hare-- all bask in the Light of the Moon and the Passion of the Year.

All the while, the Feral Child brings to the wilds the gift he does not own.

...

Daylight came even quicker. Shafts of light broke through the canopy and dug through Daima's eyelids. He was awake within the minute, accompanied by a barking headache. He noticed that there was no stirring of spirits nor smell of burnt wood left over from the previous night. With the distant cacophony of lumber collectors chopping and laughing over the passage of the new year, Daima knew he was back in the Human World. He found his footing and started away from the noises of humanity.