Failed fall

The third or fourth time Big Goof tried to kill himself, he learned he could fly. Despondent, lonely, stupid and tired, the big guy thought just maybe if he threw himself off a precipice, he wouldn’t end up bouncing above the river like that other time because he’d be nowhere near it.

He had tried other methods, too, which failed, but he was determined to keep trying.

So, this time, he picked one of his favorite spots – a high precipice entered through a grove of ash. A natural stone bench had always welcomed him there before – sometimes moist with dew; other times, hot from the searing sun.

He would simply close his eyes and lurch footfall by footfall across the threshold between life and whatever it was that had happened to the other creatures, usually lost one by one, but sometimes many at once, succumbing to some mysterious state of being – there but no longer there.

He’d seen elk killed as they crashed headlong over cliffs as they rushed frantically from a consuming conflagration. He’d seen bears vomit their guts out and die, foam burbling from their wretched mouths. He’s witnessed birds falling like a rain of stones, dozens dead all at once. And he’d been close to the angry mountain when it belched coughing ash and shouting wind that killed everything within a thousand thousand strides – at least a thousand.

He had no idea how many strides he’d stretched as he fled from the hellish nightmare – so many, he was exhausted by the effort.

Now he raised his right foot, stamped once, and was off, lurching forward like those trees flattening before the mountain’s shouting winds.

Three strides toward the cliff, his left foot reached over the abyss where no ground would hold him back from his intent – to die and join those whom he missed deeply in his being. Their images suddenly flashed before him though veiled by the long yawn of time since they had left.

He knew he would fall like a boulder. He sensed the deep chasm below him but as his right foot swept forward, the next sensation perplexed him.

He knew what falling was like and he should be falling now but he wasn’t. It was a completely unfamiliar feeling. He preferred the wooziness of a winter illness to this. This feeling singed his fur and whitened his eyes. He hated this feeling of – what, he wondered – what is going on? Why am I floating listless in the air?

For shooting star moments, his huge bulk was poised like a ballerina in mid-leap. His two legs flailed around, pirouetting clumsily as he thrashed against his predicament. He could see a huge, dark form seemingly also twirling but far far across the river – his shadow mocked him.

His breathing ceased. His heart beat as rapid as a woodpecker’s handiwork. His thoughts raced as fast as the strongest wind. His brow rippled like the waves pushed by those winds.

Then, he just gave up and laid down on the wind, his heavy trunk legs light as a cloud’s. His hairy arms stretched in reverent awe toward … life.

He floated. He soared down down the flank of the mountain, then zoomed over the deep blue waters, pushed by the wind. He was so close to the river’s surface that waves reached up to tickle his underbelly.

He rose and fell and laughed – what was that horrible sound gurgling from deep within his belly? Never mind, it feels good, he consoled himself.

He laughed as loud as the wind now. The sound ripped through the air – a queer cackling sound that scared him to the core but also filled him with a heat of happiness.

The river frothed from salmon fleeing the sound of his laughter. Trees bruised as elk fled through them, running as frantically from the laughter as they had from the erupting volcano. Bears crawled back into the winter burrows to muffle the sound.

He pushed his arms straight before him and fisted his paws. Then he turned against the wind and battered into the unseen force. The wind pulled the air from his lungs so he had to turn his head every few moments to gasp in a deep gulp of fresh air.

A gust would suddenly push him one way or another. He soared with the wind, surfing the air.

Then a strong gust grabbed him by the neck and flung him toward the precipice he’d leapt from.

“Ah, maybe now, I’ll know what happens after I crash headlong against the rock. Perhaps I’ll join all those before me.”

He could see the murder of crows that had fallen cold like stones, the elk smashed against a tree, and the bears burned to a crisp by the heated ash as the wall of gray death neared.

Then another gust nudged him just so, just enough to push him parallel to the cliff. His left flank grazed against the granite wall, scraping fur from his hip and elbow. He winced from the sandpapering, so he reached over with his left paw and pushed off from the cliff.

Now he flew a few feet from the cliff. An eagle soared up on the thermals and he followed it high high high over the land. The bird suddenly turned and plunged straight down, directly at him, challenging the great buffoon to winged combat.

Big Goof veered off somehow and the eagle squawked past, its talons reaching for his eyes. He instinctively threw an arm over his head. The bird forgot about Big Goof moments later as it spied a field mouse vibrating in the grasses far far below.

He floated now as the wind lightened some. A gust would come up to push him over the friendly sea of air. The clouds chilled him as he passed through them. The sun caressed his bum as he lilted along.

Soon, though, he realized he had ventured far beyond his natural environs. Things here disturbed him – too many noises from too many creatures.

The din frightened him. He turned back, fisting into the wind, scrambling upriver like the salmon.

He furiously gulped air as he fought upriver.

A rage heated him as he berated himself for having strayed so far toward the dangers downriver. He much preferred death to there.

He beat into the wind, exhausting himself as he sought home. The mountains now rose around him and the gorge narrowed through the cascades near where he had jumped. He peered far below as he sought the stone bench on the high precipice.

He saw the slab there on the outcropping and made his way there.

Safe back upon the rain-cleansed bench, Big Goof sat down. His tree trunk legs crooked as he sat on the rock bench. He leaned forward, placing his right elbow on his right knee, bowing his head into his fisted hand – a sculpture of self-reflection.

Ring of sound

Then it rang out. Rang? Nothing ever rang in his experience. Winds howled, waters gurgled, bears moaned, birds screeched – but no ringing came from nature. Not from animals or plants or the skies.

Yet he heard this loud ringing sound. It came from every direction at the same moment. It emanated from everywhere and from everything. The stones vibrated with the sound; the waters sang it in their waves; the skies cleared before its voice.

It had always been there and would always be there – immutable, illogical, impossible.

Even for those in that lifeless state?

He shrugged his shoulders. He had no reason to wonder what it meant. He had no capacity to ponder the imponderable. He would never ask what it meant or why it happens. It just did.

It would come upon the land, upon him, a sudden storm of sound encircling and embracing him without warning. It would arise after moons past moons of the silence of nature, then, BOOM, strike him like lightning and deafen him like thunder.

It would remain, ringing all around as squalls roiled upriver, as rainbows arched brilliantly for brief breaths, as sun sizzled the land, as winters froze the waters. It would just be there.

Was it the thing that cursed him to endless attempts to kill himself? Was this an unseen force toying with him? What messages did the ringing bring him? Why did he experience anything at all?

Perhaps these notions skipped across his consciousness like a flat stone skipping upon the calm waters of a lake. The circles from each skip soon diminished to nothing as they flowed upon his thoughts.

He’d lived endless rotations of sun over moon over sun. Every full moon was familiar and fresh to him. Every bone-chilling winter sacred for having survived another one. Every summer challenging him with its parched earth, crackling wildfires and slow-rolling creeks.