Beautiful…
Peace filled the whole garden as birds sang, flowers bloomed, trees swayed in the gentle breeze, and little insects came out to feast—the place was a wonder despite its quaintness.
Little Clowee's smile widened at the sight. She was as bright as the sun and as beautiful as the blooming daisy that also smiled at her as she passed.
The little girl jollied at the beautiful scene, laughing, prancing, and running around as she chased the bees and butterflies that played along with her. Her little squeal was the song, echoing throughout the little garden. The trees continued to sway, as if their prayers had been answered, and they danced in gratitude towards heaven. "Glory be! For the daughter of the oleander came to visit us!" The whole garden sang, bringing more melody to the tranquillity.
"Oh, this is such a beautiful garden!" Little Clowee, now red and pearled with sweat, giggled. "I do not want ever to leave here! I wish Bastjan were here…" She pouted, slumped into the soft grass, which reminded her of her father's carpet in his library.
As she sulked, a bark came through, reverberating from a distance. The little girl's loneliness vanished—revived as her ears perked up at the bark. A small Maltese Dog then appeared, running to her—displaying contentment and exuberance, as though Clowee were an old cherished friend who finally returned.
"Oh, my goodness!" Her heart leapt as she opened her arms out to the approaching dog. "Is-sliem ghalik, little one!" She greeted.
Kisses on her cheeks, licks, and pants of glee; the little Maltese's brown eyes lit up, and she couldn't keep her feet down as she hopped and trotted around the little girl. Clowee could not stop laughing at the pup that suddenly appeared, brushing its curly black-and-white fur, which reminded her of her own fur coat. Inspired by the day's beauty and tranquillity, the little girl took the dog's hands, and they danced—waltzing in the heart of the garden as the music of peace lingered in the air along with the birds and clouds.
The two sweet beings, dancing and all smiles, were a sight to see. It seemed as if heaven had set aside a part for the little girl, now, all for her in that moment.
However, though battling such a notion—afraid to be hailed as selfish—Clowee thought about a certain someone who already had a place in her heart, and hoped to be there with her as she danced with the little dog. "I wonder where Bastjan could be?" She became despondent and carried the dog in her arms once their dance ended. "You would love Bastjan, little dog," Clowee continued, and the little dog answered with a loving lick to her face. "He is my friend, and he is very brave."
The dog tilted her head, listening to every word. As if by magic, the dog suddenly asked the little girl, "Are you all well, Clowee?"
Her gold eyes widened in disbelief once she heard the small creature's voice. "You can talk, little doggy?"
The dog panted—tongue out—smiling at her as she asked again, "Are you all well, Clowee?"
"Yes, Clowee, are you all right?" A bird flew down and inquired the same question.
"Are you all right, Clowee? Oh, do let me know!" The butterflies and bees came as well, besetting her as their eyes grew worried and pleading.
Confusion ravaged her thoughts as she turned around and around, meeting the prying faces of the worried creatures that spoke to her. The little dog in her arms was in tears—eyes wide as if she could see the earth's hue. Clowee was baffled and could not find the right words to answer.
She turned around and around, mesmerised, afraid, and deeply puzzled by the phenomenon's uncanniness. The dog talked, the bird, even the butterflies and bees too? How odd… Truly odd, as if the law of nature had already changed.
"Are you all well, Clowee?" With the mildness of a calm breeze and the tenderness of an angel, the Maltese dog questioned her.
"Yes, Clowee, are you all well?" Two birds asked in a duet.
"Are you all right, Clowee? I want to know. Oh, do tell me!" The butterflies and bees repeated, now swarming in many as if heaven poured petals down on the earth.
The whirlwind of unending wonderment made the little girl woozy. Clowee's fingers and toes suddenly went numb, followed by a chill that made the hairs on her body stand up, which reversed into an overwrought heat as if her skin were melting.
The voices echoed loudly, pounding her ears and head; poor little Clowee could no longer handle the staggering sensation, and she lost consciousness…
And suddenly…
A gentle hand cradled her face, prompting her to open her eyes.
"Hmm?" She groaned, for sleep had not yet faded. The warmth also weighed on her spirits.
"Are you all well now, Clowee?" The voice resonated as the hand brushed her face.
As the haze faded from her eyes, she finally saw him by the quaint glow of the fire lamp. Bastjan looked down at her with anxiety plaguing his mismatched eyes. She tried to smile, but her body seemed to defy her will as she felt heavy and very warm.
"Ba–Bastjan…" Clowee's voice was rough as her throat swelled and dried. "Yo–you're… You're he–"
"Shh…" The little boy soothed, "I am sorry I woke you up. I am really worried."
"I feel warm, and I feel like the world is spinning."
"Do not worry now… You have a fever. Sleep now." He took her hand and felt her forehead, which was burning with fever.
Clowee said nothing, closed her eyes and, for a while, fell again into slumber. Bastjan, who stayed by her side, placed a wet cloth on her warm forehead, hoping it would ease the uncomfortable ague her body was battling. He looked down at her, feeling guilty for what he had done. He was truly ashamed of his behaviour and wished he could go back in time and never have endured the ordeal they had faced. Once more, he took Clowee's hand and held it tightly. The little boy fought tears as the moments of their misfortune repeated in his head.
Defeated—a total surrender as his pride fell like the walls of Jericho—Bastjan lowered his head and cried, pitifully echoing in a whisper, "I am sorry… I am sorry…"
Stirred from his grip and lamentation, Clowee opened her eyes and looked at Bastjan, visibly miserable, never raising his head as he continued to wail.
"Bastjan?" Her voice was faint amidst the eventide's cacophony. "Bastjan…" Now, she felt concerned too—worried for him, thinking he was ailing and was tongue-tied from all the pain he was feeling. "Please, te–tell me wha–what is–is wrong?" As her free hand lay gently on his head, she felt that Bastjan was warm too—feverish just like her. "Oh, no! You have a fever too?"
Finally, the little boy lifted his head and looked at her with his mismatched eyes. Tears ceased not as bitterness taunted him with relentless whispers in his ears. "I–I—" He struggled, tightening his grasp on Clowee's hand. "I am so–sorry for–for waking–waking you up."
"Do not fear… Is your head throbbing too?" Though concern radiated, a cough threatened her sore throat. "Pray, tell me…"
Bastjan faintly smiled as he honestly answered, "Yes. I do have a fever. Papa found out I hurt my left arm and leg, and both are quite swollen." Dead air loomed. Bastjan's thoughts wandered for a moment, staring blankly into little Clowee's golden eyes that still twinkled despite the fatigue that frenzied them. "But I am distraught. I am not to remain in silence, knowing I caused you pain. I am really sorry, Clowee. I really am sorry." He cried, bawling until his eyes began to swell. "Sorry… Sorry…"
Little Clowee was bewildered by his countenance—becoming blue and sorrowful as he bowed his head and cried. "Do not worry about it. I was scared, but you saved me." The little girl then raised his head as she cupped his chin. "I could not vividly recall what had happened, but I know I was scared. I am afraid that those ugly cryptids would hurt me. I pray to God you will find me, and you did!"
Her kind words gave him life, making his downtrodden spirit spread its wings again. Although the room was dim, Clowee's smile was brighter than the lamp's dancing flames, a comfort to the ailing heart. And because of her sweetness, the little boy's pride crumbled, slowly vanquishing the anxiety that punished him.
Sensing the lightness of his shoulder, Clowee giggled—happy to know some of her friend's burden was lifted, despite the fever which they both suffered. Bastjan, after he kissed the little girl's hand, followed, "Thank you, Clowee… I shall be going to my room now."
As he was about to depart, Clowee grabbed his hand and begged him to stay. Despite the magic of joy flying in the air, she refused to be alone, as the ugly visages of the cryptids continued to torment her thoughts. "Please stay, Bastjan! Please do not leave me."
Gold eyes widened, turning into the sun that shone brightly on a clear day. It carved yearning, all the more the little boy could not bear to reject.
He sighed deeply, smiled and complied with her wishes as he climbed into the bed when she patted the space beside her.
Innocent laughter rang through the room as the children lay on the soft bed, realising they had endured the cryptids' wickedness. There was a small conversation—Clowee, facing Bastjan once he was settled and all tucked in, began to tell him about the dream she recently had about how she was in a beautiful garden where there was music, the flowers were smiling, the trees swayed, and the butterflies and bees were in better spirits. She also never forgot the little Maltese dog whose soft black-and-white curly hair lingered in her palms. She visualised the pup as if she was a monk painting a manuscript. "She was a dear!" She whispered, giggling as she recalled the dog's face. "The dog and I danced, circling around and around… I now remember she had the same coat colour as my fur suit."
"Was she smiling?" Bastjan was curious as he also tried to visualise what Clowee narrated.
"Yes! She kissed me many times."
"I hope to have a dream like that."
"You will."
Silence lingered. Although his eyes were closed, Bastjan could not sleep. Twisting and turning… His mind found no rest. After a few more thrashings, the little boy became frustrated and resolved to face Clowee…
Only to realise she was awake—observing him with goggy eyes.
"You can sleep now, Clowee." He told her softly.
"How did we get home?" She wondered, yawning as the ghost of deep dreams tapped her shoulder.
"Papa and Zija found us. I do not know exactly how, but they found us. I woke up slightly when Papa carried me and whispered that we were almost home. But…" The boy hesitated, remembering something he found too pitiful to share.
Bastjan did not like being pitied.
He did not like when people felt sorry for him, thinking, "I could have done something." Bastjan looked away from Clowee, studying the bright lamp that sat on a little wooden table beside the bed.
Yet, no matter how hard he tried to feel alright—putting on the facade of an unperturbed boy—the little girl sensed something was amiss and tenderly placed a hand on his shoulders, lulling him as she said, "Is something wrong, Bastjan?"
A frown knotted between his brows; he hated that he could not hide his sorrow. Though he had been determined not to tell his friend, he felt a little disquiet. Bastjan gave in to Clowee's worry and faced her, saying his qualms in a hush, "Well, I am a bit in sorrow." The little girl listened. "Papa scolded me—reprimanded me for my behaviour. When I woke up moments ago, I immediately told him everything that had happened so he would not feel anxious anymore. I told him that I pushed you into the hole because I lost my temper, and I followed, leading to a very ancient place that looked like a buried temple. I also narrated about the spiral prison of the cryptids, where you were taken and where I saw some of them eat an odd meat that oozed with thick blood—enough to make the hairs on your skin rise. The fire, the smoke, and the golden bird that led us to that bright light… all of it, I told it to Papa."
"Did you tell him that you saved me?" She looked at him inquiringly, fluttering her long eyelashes coquettishly.
The little boy paused. It would sound quite opportunistic if he included that part of the tale to his papa. He was already in trouble for being hot-tempered, and telling him that he saved Clowee would only condemn him more—making it look like an excuse for his naughtiness. "I–I only did what is right, Clowee." He croaked. His voice was losing tone as his throat became dry.
"I am sorry…"
"No, I should be the one to say sorry. Everything was my fault. I was angry and pushed you. I am really sorry. I deserve the spanking Papa gave me. Even I believed that ten spankings were not enough for my misconduct; I was not being a gentleman like he and Mama always taught me."
Seeing the dejected look on Clowee's face, Bastjan felt more culpable for the whole unpleasant ordeal. He knew he deserved his father's scolding. Though it pained him to fall short of his parents' expectations, guilt consumed his thoughts. He believed his punishment did not justify what he had done, especially when he saw the little girl who only wanted to play with him.
"Please do not be sad now and take a rest." He told her, hoping misery would not taunt them.
For a while, the little girl was silent, meeting Bastjan's gaze. Gold eyes studied the blue and brown hues, fascinated as to why he was blessed with such colours. Whilst her thoughts wandered to her friend's odd yet enchanting difference, Clowee finally saw the remorse etched in his dilated pupils. "Bastjan, what is your mother like?"
Her question stirred a sensation inside him, like a moon on a bright morning. "My–my mother?"
"Yes!" Clowee giggled. "Does she have brown and blue eyes like yours?"
"Oh, well, no." He answered, envisioning his mother, whom he had yearned to see once again. "My mama has blue eyes. She is beautiful—the most beautiful woman I know. She has fair skin and has long golden hair that Papa always described as being touched by the golden sun itself. The twins were much more like her than me."
"My papa always says that we all have something from our parents, whether we look more like one or the other. Many told me I look like mama because we have pale skin and ebony hair. But I have my Papa's eyes because he had the same colour as mine."
Bastjan recalled that his mother always turned red whenever she was complimented, stayed under the sunrays while tending her garden, or was teased by his father. He smiled suddenly at the memory—oh, how truly desperate the poor boy was to hug his mother again.
"Well, she did turn red when Papa playfully teased her." He shared, grinning.
"Like a tomato?"
The little boy nodded and let out an infectious little laugh. "Yes, like a tomato."
"I know she is a beautiful tomato. A sweet, kind, and beautiful tomato."
"How do you know she is sweet and kind?" Though fever was gradually ravaging his body, a hint of playfulness stirred in his voice as he raised one brow.
The little girl was elated to see him sunny despite both of them being under the spell of fatigue, followed by Hypnos's tickling of their toes, with one goal: to take them to dreamland. "Because you are brave and you save me, you silly—silly dog!" She answered.
Innocent as the cherubs on the clouds of heaven, their laughter rang throughout the space—becoming the main song of the deep night along with the bugs and birds whose lives began the moment dusk came.
Later, after more insightful and dreamy talks, little Clowee beamed ardently, yielding to the fever's demand for rest, made the sign of the cross, and softly prayed, "Please send our angels with us, God."
Bastjan nodded and followed, "Amen."
When the choir of crickets and birds reached the pinnacle of their song, the little children finally slumbered, letting their angels roam their humble abode, guarding and trying to vanquish the shadows, perhaps the restless souls of the cryptids, who wanted to stain their purity.
*****
By the glowing hearth of the cottage's living room, the brother and sister, Pawlu and Alessandra, eased themselves after finding the unconscious children and learning what happened to them. Pawlu was evidently troubled—pacing back and forth while he brooded as deep as the dark ocean—when Bastjan told him about the unfortunate circumstance they had been through. "We–we came from the cryptids' lair, Papa." He told him, stuttering, sensing secrecy and fear in his voice.
When he told him this, his heart was pounding—in disbelief, knowing the atrocities these vile creatures did to lost children. "Cryptids!" He remembered exclaiming, holding his boy by the shoulders. "Did they hurt you? Bastjan, tell me everything!"
The little boy's eyes were now welled with tears. He did not plead… permitting the tears to flow down like the Tibris and Euphrates rivers in high spring as he said, "Well—they—they did threaten us…"
When the boy with mismatched eyes narrated what had happened: from the very beginning when Clowee told him about the golden bird on the rows of white willows, to the moment he got irritated with her and pushed her, not knowing a hole was hidden under the pile of dead leaves. The boy also said he followed Clowee down into the hole, where he discovered an ancient place he described as similar to a forgotten temple.
And there was the discovery of the cryptids who took poor little Clowee as their prisoner, taking her to their leader, who was the most grotesque of them all.
When the tale became concerning, Pawlu was mortified—mouth agape, thinking everything his son narrated could be possible. Pondering and troubled, the father stared at his son as he went on, telling him about the fire that burned the whole place into smoke and ashes, and how this golden bird suddenly materialised and showed them an escape route.
"Oh, I do not know how everything Bastjan told me was possible! Thank God they are spared from the smite of death." Pawlu felt quite defeated, paused on his steps and leaned on the table, hands tight and sturdy, body bent with anxiety dancing on his back, and head staring at the untouched food, for the only glorifying thing about the day was knowing his son and little Clowee were still alive despite the cryptids already having their scent. "A broken arm and leg—what on the good earth had happened to them? It would have been impossible for my son to have simply run and escaped. And little Clowee, oh, poor child—I am not certain if she is aware that her head was bruised and swollen—they could have been drowning in fear as these devils tried to hurt them!"
Vivid as the stain of pomegranate on a white wool shirt, his voice cracked, filled with anguish and contrition over the children's misfortune. "And you spanked my nephew." Alessandra reminded him, furtively sneering at her brother.
"He needs to learn, Alessandra. Coming from the boy's mouth, he did tell me he pushed Clowee because he was angry with her." Looking at his sister, immersed in stitching the children's tattered fur caps, he began to understand the irony she indiscreetly noted in her tone. "It is more difficult for me to punish my son, but a lesson must be learned. I remember Dun Johannes's sermon about how our Lord told us to 'turn the other cheek' when one strikes us on the other. The priest interpreted it as sanctioning transgression by acknowledging fault and teaching a lesson, not with vengeance, but as to what is just.
I need to extinguish the untamed flame igniting in my son. See what happened? His behaviour caused more hurt. So I spanked him and reminded him to be kind—be a better person! What I did was not for me but more for him."
Alessandra listened to every word. Her brother sank into his seat, hunching as he stared blankly at the floor. "The boy did grow a little jealous of Clowee." She exhaled and returned to her stitching.
As she drowned herself in mending the children's tattered fur caps, Alessandra could somewhat visualise what Bastjan and Clowee went through from the tears and dirt on their caps. Though her facade called for calmness, inside her heart, her soul was screaming—panicking that her little ones had just barely escaped the grip of death. As Alessandra continued to gaze at the bedraggled fur coats, she sighed, calming herself once more, recognising that if she showed anxiety, her brother would go even more berserk with his fret. "Thank God they are alright." She whispered a little gratitude—made the sign of the cross, and proceeded to stitch little Clowee's puppy ears.