Storytime
I quickly devour my apple. I have a much bigger appetite than either Miss Lemon-Yellow or the boona bird as they take their time eating theirs, merely nibbling around the edges as we continue through a patch of thickening flurries. I see snow sticking to the side of the road among the grass and weeds.
My nemesis, with a weird look in her eyes and wearing a faint smile, continues to gaze out through a crack in the cart wall on her side. I’m happy to report that no fingers are lodged inside her ears. Perhaps it’s daydreaming about that creature she had met while we were getting the wheel repaired. No doubt, which explains why she’s too busy to eat her apple. I wish she’d toss it to me if she doesn’t want it as I’m still starving, but I dare not tap her on the shoulder to ask. I’ve learned that lesson only too well.
The blue boona only takes tiny bites of its apple now and then, its wide eyes instead fixed straight ahead as something more interesting grabs its attention. It gazes out beyond the two drivers at the dancing snow flurries, fascinated with their graceful acrobatics. And when the flurries suddenly transform into larger flakes, Big Blue’s eyes open wider as if amazed by the sight. The heavy flakes, some as large as mushroom slices, drop to the ground and silently explode as we drive through the rolling white mass.
Then out of nowhere a fierce wind rushes up over the hillside like a charging lion, its piercing whistle instantly grabbing our attention. Big Blue shudders, startled by the sobering sound. Then the snowfall revs into high gear and the road ahead slowly disappears behind a menacing white curtain pulled across our path. The cart slows down as our way through the countryside grows more dangerous by the second. It seems that the weather in these hilly heights has a mind of its own, and this sudden whiteout feels scarier than the darkest night imaginable.
When the boona bird cries out a moment later, I no longer observe a sense of wonder or fascination swirling in its eyes. I instead see anxiety and alarm and quickly realize the truth–Big Blue is afraid. And despite it hunting me down this morning and pestering me for most of the day, I find that I don’t like seeing this pile of blue fluff in such a troubled state.
Neither do Miss Lemon-Yellow and the furry, white creature in front. The first one gently strokes the boona’s pale blue feathers as the other turns around and speaks to the bird in ultra soothing tones. But all the assistance I’m able to provide is to look on with a blank stare, not having a clue as to what I can do to help. Then the bird glances up at me with those big eyes and I realize something else–it’s as if Big Blue expects me to help, as if it believes I can somehow get him through this current crisis unharmed.
Why? I don’t know. But with the force behind that soulful gaze bearing down upon me, I feel compelled to do something to put the boona bird at ease. I rack my brain for an idea, any idea, anything to prevent Big Blue from enduring even another second of worry. All I wanted earlier was to get away from it, and now I’d do anything to calm down the frightened bird until we can pass through this sudden storm.
Pass? I then recall our little game in the grassy lot where we took turns passing those pinecones to each other, and instantly an idea pops into my mind.
“Hey, big guy, did you ever hear the story about the boona bird who made the most amazing catch in history?” I say, looking at Big Blue with a friendly smile and hoping to convey that everything will be all right. I’m not even sure the bird will understand the words, but with any luck my tone of voice and facial expressions will take his mind off the snowy, white wave crashing down upon us.
The boona bird looks curiously at me, so at least I know I have his attention. I take that as a good sign and begin my story as the wild weather mercilessly pummels our cart.
“Well, I guarantee that this will be the most incredible story you’ve ever heard,” I continue with bubbly enthusiasm. “And it’s all about a giant, blue boona bird just like you!” I say, pointing at the bird who returns an excited cackle which I take as another good sign.
“One day there was a giant boona bird named Charley”–another exuberant laugh follows–“who had pale blue feathers and loved to toss pinecones back and forth with his boona bird friends. Anyway, on this one chilly autumn day, Charley and his buddies were tossing pinecones in a grassy field on the side of a steep hill loaded with pine trees. And they were having so much fun, some throwing pinecones as high into the air as they possibly could. But a few of those pinecones traveled too high so that some of the birds had to fly straight up into the sky to catch them. But that just made their game even more exciting!” I say, noting that I still have the bird’s complete attention.
“But then Charley was about to do something he had never expected to do in a hundred years,” I continue as the boona bird momentarily holds its breath, its eyes locked upon me. “Maybe even a thousand years,” I add in a slow, suspenseful whisper. “You see, because Charley was so determined to catch each pinecone tossed his way, he would always chase after every throw with a hundred percent gusto.
“So when a really tall boona bird with a strong throwing beak called out to Charley to catch, Charley snapped to attention and watched as a large pine cone was tossed high into the air directly over his head. But what none of those silly boona birds had expected to happen, happened next.
“A sudden icy gust of wind roared over the hillside and carried that pinecone higher and higher into the air like a rocket ship, so high that it almost disappeared from Charley’s sight. Almost.
“But as I said before, Charley was a determined boona bird and would try to catch every throw no matter how impossible it seemed. And this throw seemed the most impossible one of all. But Charley wasn’t going to give up. He knew what he had to do. Without a second thought, he took a deep breath, spread its wings and then leaped into the air as if he had springs on its feet, determined to catch that wayward pinecone.
“Up, up he went, high into the blustery sky, chasing the topsy-turvy pinecone as it spun somersaults through the air. But every time Charley got within reach of it, the wind would pick up and send the whirling pinecone even higher in the sky, so high that soon the treetops looked like tiny little specks far below. Still, Charley didn’t want to give up the chase even though the air grew colder and wilder the higher he went. But then something happened that really put the boona bird in jeopardy. It began to snow.
“And not just your average snowflakes blowing about, mind you. This was Snow Central! This was Whiteout City! This was a snow-way-you’re-getting-out-of-here-in-one-piece-my-friend kind of a snowstorm! And Charley knew it only too well. But in the face of all those obstacles, the blue boona bird still wasn’t giving up. He continued his chase even though he and the pinecone were lost in the storm and his wings were tired to the bone. Despite all the odds against him, Charley vowed to catch that pinecone if it was the last thing he’d ever do.
“So with its last ounce of energy, the boona bird stretched out its wings as far as they would go, and he flapped those wings as fast as he could, and then–he saw it! No, not the pinecone, but a wave of white snow as high and powerful as one could ever imagine–and it was heading straight toward Charley. And as that wall of white towered over him in the cold, turbulent sky, the boona bird thought that all was lost as the last of its strength drained out of its muscles.
“But just as the snowy wave was ready to crash down upon him, Charley also saw the pinecone plummet toward him from directly above while caught in a vortex and spinning like a top. And just as it dropped in front of him like a lead balloon, the boona bird reached out and grabbed the pinecone with his beak, making the most amazing catch ever in the history of the world!
“And with that, Charley summoned one more burst of energy from inside himself and flapped his wings as hard as he could, lifting him above the snowy wave just in time before it barreled past like a locomotive. And Charley rode on top of that wave for a few moments like an expert surfer, regaining his strength while holding onto the prized pinecone as if it were a precious d
iamond.
“Then Charley lifted himself off the wave crest and flew in the opposite direction, looking for a way out of the storm. Suddenly he could see the sky growing a shade lighter in the near distance and decided to make his move. The blue boona flew straight ahead like an arrow, holding onto the pinecone for dear life. He plowed through the storm and finally crashed through the wall of white, emerging into a land of blue skies, bright sunlight and lush green fields.
“But as tired as he was, Charley made a graceful landing while still clutching the treasured pinecone. After he carefully set it down in the grass, the boona bird looked up and was stunned by what he saw. He slowly turned around, amazed at the array of fruit trees, berry bushes and tall sunflowers growing along a clear, bubbling stream. It was a feast for champions, and he immediately called out to his friends from afar to join him. And after they all celebrated Charley’s brave flight and amazing catch, they feasted like kings under the warm and brilliant sunshine and had the best time ever.”
For a moment, all is silent. And when I look at the boona bird, now as wide-eyed as ever, I get the impression that my awesome story, accompanying hand gestures and wild facial expressions have left it beyond fascinated, and more importantly, no longer afraid. For a moment I forget the troubles of this weird day and feel a bit proud of myself for helping to keep things calm in the cart as our two drivers maneuver their way through this storm. Perhaps everything will work out all right in the end.
“See, there’s nothing to worry about,” I say to the boona bird with a smile. He still looks up as if expecting me to spin another tale, no doubt mesmerized by the first one. Even I think I outdid myself in the storytelling arena, feeling that my words and passion have saved the day, and wondering if maybe they were even strong enough to calm the storm itself swirling around us.
Then I glance ahead past the tall, leathery driver and reality hits me square in the face as if I were a sacked quarterback. And down my spirits go along with everyone else’s in the cart. We veer slowly to the right and stop along the side of the road.
The storm outside has suddenly grown like a rising sea serpent, and a white wall of snow envelopes the area so that even the towering pines to our right are invisible. The road ahead has disappeared, and the winds rock the cart as if it were a tiny ship lost at sea. And though I hate to think it, the situation is obvious to all–we’re trapped!
A Surprise Play
Going nowhere fast. That’s what we’re doing while sitting in this cart on the side of the road. The snow piles up against our wheels. The temperature plummets. And the wind whips up blinding clouds of white which prevent us from moving since we can’t see the road ahead. I’m guessing that the other carts behind us have pulled over, too. None pass by during the next several minutes.
The leathery and white furry creatures in front speak in hushed but urgent tones as they deal with the brunt of the storm. As usual, I have no idea what they’re saying to one another. And Miss Lemon-Yellow, again with fingers in ears, gazes outside, still in a world of her own. But her lips barely move now and her head doesn’t bob aimlessly about as before. I think that the creature is feeling worried rather than being standoffish this time, so I don’t hold it against her. But with a single glance, I know that the boona bird is consumed with worry.
Big Blue gazes up at me with a blank stare and tugs at my sleeve with its bright orange beak. Perhaps it wants to hear another story to take its mind off this rotten turn of events. Or maybe it needs a reassuring look to convince itself that everything will be fine and that we won’t be stranded here or buried here or lost here until next spring. Oh, if only this giant bird’s orange beak could light up like Rudolph’s nose, then maybe it could guide us out of this wintry mess. But for now we wait.
I suppose I should take a little bit of comfort in this delay to our destination as it prolongs the sentence for my crime. But seeing how everyone else appears worried and out of sorts, well, it just doesn’t seem worth the tradeoff, especially with Big Blue. That annoying little twerp has grown on me since this morning, and if I could make this storm disappear by accepting my punishment this instant, then that would be more than a fair enough trade. But I suppose it would take a miracle for that to happen, a gigantic, boona bird size miracle.
That’s just wishful thinking I suppose, maybe to cheer myself up. I guess I’m a little on edge too, or even a tiny bit scared, but I dare not let on to Big Blue. I must keep up appearances for his sake as the fierce wind howls and rocks the cart back and forth.
But how long can I wear this brave mask? If we don’t move soon, will we ever get out of here before darkness settles in? Should we make a run for it despite the blinding path ahead? Or are we all doomed, found guilty by the snow, wind and cold, forced to serve our sentence right here?
Hmmm, that boona bird size miracle, or any miracle at all, would sure come in handy right now.
And so we wait some more, twiddle our thumbs and watch the snow show. Occasional glances are thrown at one another, and if I can read faces correctly, the level of anxiety is rising rapidly. Despite the ferocious storm outside, the silence inside the cart is as thick as pond ice in February. It is uncomfortably quiet, with no one knowing what to say or do. We are at the mercy of the elements and each other, perhaps all wishing we could start this day over again. I know I am. But that’s not how life works.
And then I hear it. We all hear it as our heads turn slightly in unison to the left. A vaguely familiar call floats upon the turbulent air, barely noticeable at first, but slowly gaining strength as it gets closer and closer to us from behind. Big Blue perks up the most, recognizing the sound at once and growing more excited by the second. Could it be?
I turn around and look down the road, still treated to a view of windy white as I press my face right up to the back gate and gaze through a slit in the wood. As my eyes slowly adjust to the blinding glare, I detect a faint trace of yellow breaking through the wall of white. Sunshine perhaps? I quickly change my mind when I notice something else. The growing blob of yellow is moving fast and heading in our direction, its path steady and certain as a spray of snow erupts in front of it like a geyser.
And then I see it, though I can’t believe my eyes. It’s another boona bird, a giant, and I mean really giant, yellow boona bird, and way bigger than Big Blue whom I once thought of as being giant the first time I laid eyes upon it. But no longer. This new arrival is larger than the cart we’re riding in. It zooms by us, its huge claws plowing a path through the snow as it speedily walks on, its enormous wings flapping all the while to clear the snow piled in front of it.
But why doesn’t it just fly over us? I don’t have time to chew on that thought because I see one of the carts that was behind us now following the boona bird through the newly created path. Then another cart appears, and another one still, all following the giant yellow boona in this spur-of-the-moment wintry parade. And all at once I understand–the boona bird is leading us out of this snowy mess.
Our leathery driver realizes this, too. Without a moment’s hesitation, he and his furry white companion trudge forward and carefully steer our cart back onto the road and join the passing parade. Others stranded ahead of us get the same idea and take part in our little convoy. Big Blue cries out in joy as we start moving again, all traces of fear in its eyes having instantly vanished. Miss Lemon-Yellow, the two drivers and I also express our joy with bountiful smiles and fist pumps (well, I’m the only one who gives a fist pump), and the mounting tension in the cart begins to melt like butter on a pile of hot mashed potatoes.
But the storm continues to rage on as the giant boona presses forward, seemingly unfazed by what nature has thrown at it. But we are hesitant to claim victory yet as our path remains unclear. Still, we confidently follow the bird, hoping it will lead us to a place of warmth, food and light. Then I feel the road sloping downward and silently cheer that we are on our way out of these treacherous hills, and hopefully, out of this equally perilous weat
her, too.
But the storm doesn’t want to give up so easily. The wind gains speed and another wall of white snow looms ahead like an enormous cliff. I can faintly hear the yellow boona bird, now many yards in front, grunting and breathing heavily as it rushes onward. Its wings flap forcefully with dragon power, refusing to turn back as it barrels through the snow, refusing to surrender even one foot of forward progress, refusing to give up until it breaks through the wall of snow and leads us past our goal line.
But the storm pushes back mightily as the boona bird grinds on, fighting against the snow and wind with its head down, yet we are still not out of the wintry onslaught. I begin to have doubts, wondering if even Giant Yellow has reached its limits and will be physically unable to break through the barrier. I feel the tension rise in the cart as an icy silence again takes over, fearing that our hopes are about to be dashed. This could be the real end of the journey if the boona bird tires out on us now, leaving the parade of carts stranded on this desolate road to the mercy of the snow and bitter cold.
I shove my hands into my coat pockets for warmth and cross my fingers, knowing there is little left that I can do to free us from this prison. Then I feel the pinecone that Big Blue and I had tossed to each other during our game earlier, and a flood of warm memories rushes over me, and with it, a sense of hope. I realize there is always a chance to win any battle, no matter how small that chance or how difficult the struggle.
I turn all my thoughts to the giant yellow boona bird, willing it onward every step of the way, for what other choice do I have? I cross my fingers even tighter, feeling the bone beneath my skin, and can sense that the others in the cart are also silently urging on the yellow bird, mentally pushing it forward before the snow traps us in its wintry web with no hope of escape.
Prisoner of the Giant Boona Bird (A Griffin Ghostley Adventure Book 2) Page 5