The Miraculous Wilderness Chronicles

His tradition highlighted grass lawns trimmed neat and clean. Fences optional since sufficient psychological and physical elbow space existed between neighborly neighbors, and the tendency to complain if a stroll around a yard happened to step over a property line was more or less unknown. Bush or tree may be perfectly content to share allegiances or observe no single allegiance at all.

"Now look at me. Where I am. What was I thinking when I answered that little three-line advertisement? That could not be me. Something or someone -- some invisible diabolical someone, or something -- usurped my lifelong legacy of acting from a free and fully cognizant state of mind; taking care before jumping into a foolish or foreign proposition, especially the proposition proposed by another; always better for me when I come up with my own propositions, my own challenges, my own ideas for challenge or methods of testing personal progress or progress pertaining to a personal project or whatnot. No that was not me. The authentic me would never answer some silly advertisement like that little three-liner. Except, apparently, I did. Now look at me. Look at these thick woods. And I traipse with strangers. Eleven of them."

Not only was the character who opened this that intends to be a never-ending tale traipsing with eleven strangers, but he was part of a twelve-person collective looking to one other as their all-knowing guide, or to be brutally blunt, the guide who suddenly appeared in the paragraph warranted capitalization of that title, thus making him all-knowing Guide. Had not the all-purpose narrative office decided the guide's G warranted Capitalization, the majority of the eleven others the character who opened the tale now traipsed with, well, not only would they insist on capitalization, but some had already added Capital-T Teacher.

"Went from priding myself as one who never follows others; as one perfectly content to be a homebody quietly engaged in personal pursuits; ever watchful for silver-tongued con artists -- to traipsing through inhospitable terrain with strangers following this person they are already calling Capital-G Guide and Capital-T Teacher? What happened to me? Already they give me suspicious looks when I do not laugh or chuckle at the witty quips and cracks uttered by the one who seems quickest to cozy up to our so-called Guide and Teacher."

In a way the sight of the pathway ahead featuring a gauntlet of brambles, which a ray of sunlight managed to reach through the dense canopy of pine trees - they certainly had names, as in particular varieties of pine trees, whatever pine tree varieties or species or whatever the term was for trees; but tree names were much lower in priority than the fact that the ray of sunlight succeeded in touching select thorny sections of the imminent bramble gauntlet. Not a few of the bramble branches or canes had grown far enough across what poorly passed for a path, that the overly imaginative mind having a bad day might suppose those brambles were really sentient and acted with intent to draw blood from the flesh of whichever upright or mobile being dared to pass through their territory without prior-approved credentials.

"Yes they draw blood. That's what thorns do. But soon you will all forget about the pain, the blood, and your blistered feet; shoulder sores from your weighty backpacks. One more grade, yes it will be a steep trek, and you will see why you were chosen to come with me to this place. I promise all your pains will be washed away. And if not, surely you had the foresight to pack band-aids and such."

So were the words from the head of the column, head meaning you-know-who: Guide, and now Teacher. Of course all the words did not reach much further than five or at best seven of they who trekked through this woodsy wilderness. Blood. Thorns. Those two words succeeded in touching every ear. And soon enough bramble thorns were touching at least leg, arm, hand, torso, of each human being daring to pass through the bramble gauntlet. As though chosen to receive a lesson; as though no thought could here be kept secret, the character who began this tale did receive significant thorn thrashes, to the extent he could not accept figurative language usage, for this could not be as-though; this had to be on-command.

Night. Last night. This night. Two nights in a row for he who opened this tale did and would miss out on doing what had been taken for granted.

"Shame on me for having to admit what pains me more than these bramble thorn cuts to have to admit, but if I aim to exist in and for as much of what is plainly true as I know how, at least in any given moment... sigh oh sigh, but it appears I am learning a life lesson after all. Learning about blessings taken for granted. Blessings perceived no longer as blessing, because they became habit. Guitars. My two guitars. How long did I let them sit in the corner, untouched, and now I would give anything to be in my cozy couch, reaching for one."

Teacher. Did someone towards the front, a participant close to the guide, excuse the narrative, close to the The Guide, address him as Teacher? Yes he did. Telling the Teacher about a line or two of lyrics that might help them all as they began this final upward stretch, assuming it was the final stretch, for the Teacher had so promised.

"Oh no. Not a song. Not now. Not here. Oh no."

Now the grimace from the aching muscles and the irritation of the backpack straps and the sting from the bramble thorns; endurance tested by the burden of the grueling trek through these dense wilderness woods, could not stand against the new grimace dealt by what could only be devious demonic spirits created and trained to attack the sensitive psyche of whosoever desired to exist as much as possible in the ethic of individual independence.

Alas, unlike the previous utterance from the Teacher about bramble thorns and blood, this utterance from the Teacher replying to the request arrived in crystalline clarity.

"As long as your song does not seek to praise me or to elevate my name. I am only servant. I only wish to show others what I discovered. Can you ad-lib about the marvel you are within half an hour of seeing with your own eyes?"

"Oh dearest Teacher, yes, my song does or did hope to praise you and your work. But thanks to your tender rebuke... let me see if I can come up with an uplifting line or two."

"Well I guess if your praise is limited to the works I do or decisions I make, who am I to forbid it? I would not even strictly forbid your song that praises me. Uncomfortable. I am uncomfortable with the idea."

The character who started this tale knew one truth if he could think of no other truth to swear he knew. Had it not been for the two fellow travelers behind him, he would surely pivot on the spot, and bid adieu to this entire wilderness trekking crew.

But the one who had sidled up as though hoping to become Teacher's pet, reminded with a cringe-worthy chiming of ad-lib prosody, why the pivot and return to the civilized comfortable world could not happen.

"We questioned why you required us to place our devices capable of photographic magic in the discrete lock-box by the grandly ancient pine tree. Now we know you were wise beyond what we mere followers could understand. Leaving all that technology. Now we must rely on ourselves - and you who are our blessed Teacher."

"And I keep the key."

"Truly! Truly! Who among we humble followers would dare think to hope you may have a copy of the key?"

"Even if I did have a copy of the key, it means whoever would ask for it, and I can't imagine who might be so taken with skepticism and doubt, as to speak of going back while we are so near our destination; meaning, whoever would wish to turn back would still have to spend a night in the woods, this time all alone; knowing not what I know about this wilderness."

The character who featured in this tale's opening movement would've preferred having to swat at another pesky deer fly harassing his ear than to know the sharp bark from the person directly behind.

"You're falling slack! Keep up so we can keep up!"

Wordless reply in the raising of a hand to indicate desire to maintain amicable atmosphere, yet the character - and for the sake of conserving typographical space, the time seems nigh for the Creator to give this character a name. But the Creator had been mentally immersed in whether to make the uphill hike even steeper before reaching the crest. Perhaps add a couple boulders plus loose rocks, requiring the most careful foot placement. And then wondering if the Teacher should give encouragement that they had only twenty or so more minutes and they would be out of these thick woods and would see why he brought them here.

Thus, the Creator reluctantly switched off the valves of creation and said with a partially flustered wave of both hands, "let the character name himself, if he so wishes to be known by a name. Now if you don't mind, I have to come up with something else the trekking dozen plus Guide will either begin to wonder if this grueling uphill ascent will be their eternal fate or they will come to the crest and find themselves existing in an utter nothingness. I don't even know to whom I speak." And this revelation caused significant pause for the Creator. "Really. Who am I speaking to?"

Thankfully he who first appeared as a character solved the momentary crisis by sending a quick telepathic memo to the central narrative office. It read (or said): at this point I don't really care what my name is. At this point, all I really want is to be sitting under an umbrella at an outside terrace or patio, bidding a pleasant word of gracious gratitude for the cold glass of beer she sets in front of me. So just refer to me as... as... oh I don't know. How about Morley?

"Morley?" said the head of narrative naming. The saving gesture came from another who tapped the word count screen. "Yeah I guess we don't have the luxury. Fine. Morley it is. Or Morley he is."

While the character, rather, while Morley had written and telepathically sent his memo; and while the narrative office processed the new development, they who trudged up the steep incline in the dense woodsy wilderness had already navigated the two boulders and loose rocks. And the entire reading world almost missed out on the moment he who played Guide and Teacher raised his hands and then his entire arms, as his wordless bid for the company to halt, please.

Fortunately for the reading world, and for the twelve who had come all this way, they did not miss out on the moment their Guide and Teacher turned to face them, not intending to appear higher or holier, but his position at the crest simply allowed no other relative perspectives.

And though the stick he had in hand (and kept in hand when raising both hands) had been just a stick to help with hiking, as is common for all who hike, that it might resemble a special or even consecrated staff, was entirely coincidental.

However, not all of the twelve followers (let's say about seven and a half) interpreted it as a coincidence. In fact the approximately seven and a half followers who saw no coincidence but confirmation that this was all a genuine divine experience, were too enamored by the way the sunlight seemed to swaddle their Teacher who stood in position requiring they fix their gaze upwards, towards him... anyway they were too enamored to give full attention to the actual words he spoke.

"...this is why I took out ad space of three lines in the magazine's back pages. Sure I could've shelled out an extra couple hundred for more lines and maybe a fancy graphic, maybe extra-bold words. But this way... this way... none may now dodge the simplest possible truth: however diverse you may be relative to each other, I know this one thing about all of you. I know you actually read the least of the ads. Mine being the least, I call you my brethren."