FLUFFPOCALYPTO
By Royal Rabbit
The night sky was no longer an intricate mosaic of stars that memorialized the tales of his ancestors, it bore no specks of light. Dense clouds, heavy with water, hung low. Rain would come soon, and it would not stop. The loud roar, and subsequent flash of light, did not deter him. He continued on. Onwards, and upwards. The mountaintop, his destination, still several days away.
His bare feet carried him silently through the undergrowth. He sought game trails, finding few. Naked but for the small leather pouch that hung around his neck. His body, covered in mud to conceal his scent and to protect from biting insects. The ceremonial markings left by his loved ones, his mother, emblazoned his toned form.
He had been walking for days now. The journey typically took eight full days of walking. In most cases, if the boy had not arrived by the tenth night, he was presumed dead. The thought of this embarrassment pushed him on. One foot over the other, keep walking.
He wouldn’t eat for this journey. Nobody did. Fasting was an important component of his faith. His metaphysical self-actualization a combination of physical exertion and a potent organic hallucinogenic. The flora of the region was sacred to his people. He could trust nature to give him the strength he needed for this journey. He reached into the pouch hanging from his neck. Just a pinch would do. He shredded the small leaf between his thumb and forefinger and tucked the plant between his lower lip and gum. The tingling sensation revealed the plant was still plenty potent. He continued on, with renewed vigor.
He hadn’t slept since he left. Most nights he would enter a trance and would walk for long periods of time without realizing. He knew he would get an opportunity to sleep for one night. At the foothills. He would drink the clear waters of the mountain stream. He would rest one time, and then begin his ascent to the heavens.
The hours pass and the night becomes day. The sun illuminates the fringes of the horizon, but cannot penetrate the thick canopy of the rain clouds. The boy steps faster, knowing how difficult his ascent will be even without the annual torrential downpours. He will make the foothills tonight, if he hurries. He breaks into a brisk jog. He will have to decide. To rest, as he was instructed. Or to push on. He tried to block out all other thoughts as he swiftly trotted through the trees.
The greenery of the jungle was perfectly familiar, despite his never having been in this exact area. The birdsong. The hum of insects. The flow of the river. Every sight, sound, and smell was like home to him. He stopped at a large tree to empty his bladder into the soil and reapply the resulting mud onto his arms and legs. This act took considerable effort, due to his state of dehydration. Once finished, he ripped a small piece of bark from the tree and slowly chewed the white interior. His people knew this tree to have healing properties. The sicknesses caused by the biting insects would be less harmful if he routinely ate bark from this tree.
He had not drank water in several days, beyond what dew he could suck from leaves in the morning. His muscles ached and he could practically taste the cool water of the mountain stream, only a few hours away. He kept a piece of bark in his hand and continued to jog.
He did not worry about predators. His spirit was one with the predators of the jungle. The resourceful cats watched him, and leant him their eyes. The cunning monkeys watched him, and leant him their swiftness. The merciless crocodiles watched him, and leant him their patience. The noble eagles watched him, and leant him their wisdom. He repeated these mantras in his head as he jogged.
He forced himself to appreciate the rain clouds for blocking the sun from cooking him like a snake over a campfire. As the gods created one tribulation to overcome, rain, they removed one tribulation as fairness. The gods were kind to him. He was nervous. He would be meeting the gods soon.
As the sky began to darken, the boy reached the foothills. He saw signs from generations of boys who previously made the pilgrimage. Small tokens or trinkets left behind at the site, silent communiques from one sojourner to the next, across countless lifetimes. He would appreciate their reverence after he drank his fill of water.
And drink he did. He drank deep from the cool, clear stream of water that fell from a stone waterfall near a rocky outcropping. A stone ring indicated the location of thousands of previous campfires. He did not have to search long before finding appropriate tinder. Several striking stones had generously been left by the previous pilgrim. The boy crafted a small fire more as a symbolic gesture than for warmth. He laid down for the first time in nearly a week.
He was hungry. The hunger pangs worsened at night time, when he normally ate whatever he hunted that day. He thought of the fish and snake he had gorged himself on before this journey. He could still taste the flaky white meat. His stomach lurched. Sitting near the fire, his body was unable to accept that he would not feed it. He began to shake. Just as he was told he would.
He reached into the pouch around his neck. He knew it was time. Any thoughts of forgoing rest and continuing up the mountain were abandoned entirely. It was time to rest, and for his vision. He was nervous. He would seek a vision from the gods. A spirit, in whatever form it would chose, would guide him through the night. The boy removed a wet piece of fungus from the pouch. He placed the fungus in his mouth and began to chew, holding the paste under his tongue. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the smooth stones, warmed by the small fire. His communion with the spirits would commence almost immediately.
He was everywhere and he was nowhere. Time lacked meaning, and location became insignificant. His concerns about summiting the mountain ceased, for he had already summited the mountain. He simply had yet to climb. His success was foretold. He would climb, ascending to the heavens. He would convene with the shaman. He would be greeted as a boy for the last time. He would perform the ritual, overlooking the expanse of rivers and trees. He would become a man.
He opened his eyes. Colors and shapes he had never seen, twisting and flowing like leaves on the wind. He leaned against the stone wall. His eyes half-opened, completely unfocused. He stared at the fire. He knew his spirit would join him. For one brief moment, one time in his life, he would be able to speak directly to the gods.
The spirit arrived as darkness fell, emerged from the undergrowth and moved directly towards the fire. The boy stared curiously, unsure what type of creature the spirit had taken the form of. It looked like a large capybara, but the color of a poisonous flower. It had wings, tiny wings. He had never seen anything like it. Curiously, the creature moved to the fire as if to warm itself. It sat on its rump, much like him. It held it’s small limbs towards the fire and made the most curious noise.
“Huu huu… wan bestest wawmsies buh nu wan buwnie huwties nice mistuh fiwe…”
The boy, believing this to be a prompt to initiate conversation, attempted to recite an incantation taught to him by his father. The dreamroot rendered his tongue useless, and his incantation came out as a guttural grunt.
The spirit seemed surprised by his words. The spirit emitted a shrill scream, and voided its bowels as it turned to face him. The boy looked at the spirit. Its eyes were wide. It was afraid. The boy became afraid. If the spirit that chose to appear before him showed fear… what did that say about him? He was overcome by a sense of sadness and dread. The spirit, however, did not linger on such unpleasantries.
“Oh, hewoo! Ou ams… widdew mistuh? Nu ams big mistuh? Ams… nice widdew mistuh?”
The boy remained motionless. The noises uttered by the spirit sounded like words, like a language. But… he did not understand. Maybe the words were less important than the intonation. The spirit seemed pleased, almost happy. He once again tried to say the incantation his father taught him. His tongue failed him again. The spirit laughed. The boy felt incredible shame.
“Ou sownd siwwy! Ams ou otay? Ou needs huggie fo sickies?”
The spirit approached him. His heart raced. All men claimed to have conversed with their spirit during their journey into manhood, but none had ever claimed to have been touched by their spirit. His dread and shame melted away. Was he… chosen? Was he special? Did he have an important destiny? What did this mean?
His spirit approached him and stood by his side. The spirit spread its limbs wide and leaned against him. He was enraptured at the sensation. The softest pelt imaginable pressed against his side. The spirit squeezed him, much like he would squeeze a fish to remove it’s organs. It was symbolic. The spirit was removing his dread, his cowardice, his fear. In it’s place grew wisdom, bravery, cunning, and strength. He had been chosen.
“Dewe! Huggies wiww make ebwyting aww bettew!”
The spirt continued to talk at length. The boy tried to commit as much of the sounds or words to memory as possible, believing the noises to be powerful incantations. He sloppily repeated after the spirit, receiving encouragement at each attempt.
“Ghu… gher… ghert… herrrr…. Herr…. Hert.. heerrrrttt… herrrddd… herd. herd. herd. Herd.”
“Teehee! Dat ams wite widdew mistuh! Fwuffy ams pawt of a hewd! Fwuffy awms wook fow nummies and den get wost!”
“Gnuuh… gnuh! Nuhh… nung… nungum… numn… nubbie… numbbies…. nummies.”
“Yus, vewy good! Nummies ams da bestest! Fwuffy ams nu habs nummies fow a vewy wong timesies. Fwuffy miss da bestest hooman nummies ob all- sketties!”
“Shh… shhku… skuhhh… skuhh… skubb… skubbit… skuuhbetti…”
The night progressed and the vision continued. The boy had no idea that a spirit would speak for so long. Most men had said the spirit would utter a single word, maybe a full sentence. Not only had his spirit touched him, imbuing a spiritual gift, but it remained with him and continued to impart wisdom. Surely he had been chosen. He continued to memorize the incantations to relay them to the shaman.
He wasn’t sure when he passed out. The combination of exhaustion, starvation, dehydration, and psychedelic mushrooms had left him unable to maintain consciousness. He fell to his side, face pressed into the dirt as his eyes rolled back into his head. His body was racked with tremors and his eyes eventually closed. He snored heavily as his body entered a deep and restful slumber.
He awoke to the feeling of rain on his face. His fire had died. It was morning. Early morning. The rainclouds made good on their promise.
He looked down and saw the spirit was still with him. Resting. Curled into a little ball under the stone overhang of the small cave. The boy stared. The mushroom, apparently, was still affecting his mind. He didn’t dare touch the lingering spirit, his mind still reeling with the experience of his vision during the previous night. He let the sleeping spirit lie and exited the small shelter.
He stretched him limbs, the cold rainwater soaking the dried mud that had been caked on his body. No matter. Neither biting insects nor glaring sun would be of concern that day. The boy was euphoric. His journey nearly complete.
His mind occupied with thoughts of his communion with the spirit, he began his ascent into the heavens.
There are few topographic challenges that compare to the steep ascent of a mountain foothill covered in dense jungle vegetation. The tightly packed trees did not allow for a straight climb. He would have to weave and scramble. On his hands and knees he scampered, repeatedly calling out to the monkey for the gift of swiftness. He thought of the spirit and the incantations he had learned. He mumbled them as he dragged his exhausted and malnourished body up the steepest side of the mountain.
”Hu-huh… huuuww. Huwd.” He muttered as he grabbed the root of a tree, several feet above him, and pulled his body atop an earthen ledge. He looked upwards. He wasn’t even close. He begged the spirit to put him in a trance again and to let him ascend in bliss.
He spoke loudly, his own voice giving him strength. His mind played tricks on him, and he thought he could hear his spirit, even now, with the sacred mushroom no longer guiding his thoughts and vision. He listened closely:
”Huu huu… whewe nice widdew mistuh gu? Fwuffy ams wan huggies and wub. Pwease nice widdew mistuh, swow downsies an wet fwuffy catch up!”
The boy continued to climb, his eyes ever upward. His father told him that if he looked downhill after starting the climb, the spirits of the boys that had failed the journey would be there, behind him. Taunting him, tempting him to stop. To rest. To die, as they had. He grit his teeth and continued to climb, repeating his mantras and incantations.
”Gnu- gnuhhh…. gnuhmbie.” He rasped as he cut his knee on a jagged rock, the free flowing blood warming his numb lower limb. He would ignore that for now. He was almost halfway to his destiny.
He paused for a second, and he heard his spirit again: “Huu huu, biggest hiww ams tuu hawd to cwimb wen su wetties! Pwease cawwy fwuffy, gib bestest uppies huuhuu…”
He ignored the cries of the dead. He willed his consciousness to leave his body. He wanted to stop. To rest. Even to die. Every movement was agony. His muscles burned. His stomach lurched. He swallowed acid as he dry heaved. This pain was his. It was his moment. This was his trial. Success was his. Promised to him by the spirit. The same spirit that touched him. Blessed him. Imbued sacred wisdoms to him.
He could see the summit. His heart was on fire, his aching and battered limbs propelled him upward with renewed vigor.
The hilltop consisted of a stone plateau slightly taller than himself. The peak of this mountain was the only spot above treeline. He was above the jungle canopy, and could survey the entirety of his peoples domain.
He didn’t dare stop to appreciate the majestic view.
He fell to his hands and knees and crawled the final few feet. Many men before him had completed their journey in similar fashion. There was no shame.
He looked up and saw the council of shaman waiting for him. They stood stoic, like statues, their four faces covered in masks. The Cat. The Monkey. The Crocodile. The Eagle. He crawled his way to the center of the circle they had formed.
A flat stone. A flint knife. He knew what had to be done.
Kneeling. Shaking. Barely alive. He clutched the knife. His right hand wrapped around the blade, his left on the crude grip. He closed his eyes. He mumbled the incantation his father tought him. And then he pulled, as hard as he could.
He lacerated his right palm, deep. He opened his hand and pressed it to the stone, hot from the burning coals concealed beneath. That part had been a surprise to him. His father hadn’t warned him. He grit his teeth as he seared his flesh. He pressed his bloodied hand hard into the hot stone, the sky opening up into a heavier rain.
It was done.
The Eagle, father of wisdom, picked up the stone. He walked towards a nearby pile of stones, all with bloodied handprints. He placed the new stone at the top.
The Crocodile, father of war, knelt in front of the boy. “Stop crying” he ordered. The boy complied.
The Cat, father of bravery, knelt to congratulate the boy.
The Monkey, father of trickery, asked the boy “what did you see?”
The boy had been given a large pouch of fresh fruit and a stone carafe of clear water. He quickly gorged himself and lay on his back, sucking in ragged breaths.
He didn’t have the words. But he didn’t dare lie. The Crocodile clutched the ceremonial knife in his powerful hands. The boy composed himself and described his vision.
He described his spirit. He described the small size, and rodent like body. He described the colors, like the bright sky after a rain, or a sunset before a storm. He described the way it spoke, in unfamiliar incantations. The boy recited the ones he could recall. He described the spirit touching him, and observed the shaman bristle and grow stiff at this revelation. He described the spirit being frightened, sad, amused, and happy within a matter of moments.
He paused, unable to see the shamans faces through their masks. He continued. He described the spirit remaining with him into the morning. The shaman muttered to one another. He described leaving the spirit in the cave, to ascend alone, as was tradition. He described hearing the telltale call of the dead boys as he climbed. He described hearing the spirit call out to him, with further unknown incantations. He described his will to live, his confidence in his success, and his determination to prevail as he crawled to the peak.
He once again lay on his back, panting. The shaman did not bother walking away as they openly discussed his fate.
He was heretical. What kind of spirit had he described? One of fear and sorrow? That kind of spirit only visited girls on their journey to womanhood. And the spirit had been brought into this world? How? And these incantations, so foreign. This boy could not be permitted to return to the tribe. To spread such madness. The Crocodile insisted he be destroyed.
The boy lay motionless, too spent to fight or protest. His fate was sealed.
As The Crocodile knelt above the boy, crude blade pressed roughly in the area of his heart, a faint noise was heard. The scattering of rocks as a small creature scrambled the final few feet to the hilltop.
It was the spirit. It was exactly as the boy had described it. It panted as it walked, head low to the ground, making a beeline for the boy. It curled up against his side, rolling onto its back, rotund belly and comically small genitals in the air. The shaman were speechless. The Crocodile dropped the ceremonial knife.
”Huu… Huu… nu… wan… fowebah… sweepies… wan… wub… an… huggies… an… bestest… SKETTIES!” The creature shouted the last word before falling into a deep slumber.
The shamanic council convened only for a moment. The boy spoke the truth.
The boy opened his eyes. He waited for the shaman to give him a signal, a sign of acknowledgement of his journey into manhood being fulfilled. Instead, they got onto their knees, extending their arms, prostrating themselves while attempting to chant the incantations of the spirit beside him.
Even in his fatigued state, the boy understood. This ceremony was different. He was not being welcomed into the tribe as a man. He was becoming a shaman.
He knelt as the dried mud and adornments were washed from his body. His old name, River Moon, was discarded with the globs of mud and paint, scraped away decisively. He was cleaned and anointed with rare fragrant oils, typically reserved only for ceremonies involving chieftains. He remained still as the shaman tended to him, the colorful spirit still slumbering next to his knee.
The shaman bowed their heads. He closed his eyes. Fingers traced along his chest as he was carefully adorned with fresh dyes. His new name.
”You are no longer… River Moon…” said a voice he recognized as The Cat. The boy puffed out his chest. The Cat had chosen him. Bravery was to be his virtue.
The shaman then spoke collectively:
”You are now… Sketti God!”
He opened his eyes.