Chapter 8: A Birthday Story

There wasn't anything particularly interesting about it. It didn't have any special features, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing about it screamed "Hey, look at me!" or anything. There wasn't a ring of emeralds around it, it wasn't studded with faceted jewels, glinting in the hot afternoon sun. There were no flashing spotlights, no pyramids, no red carpets. It didn't even have a specifically negative magnetism to it- no mar that would have set it apart from others like it. No weird old haunted house popped out of it, there were no creaky floorboards, no spiderwebs that got into your face and made you scream the crap out of yourself. No, no, and no. If someone were to whip out a checklist it'd run something like this. Colourful stage lights? No. Vegas-style music? No. Rolling clouds of white mist? No. Death-defying stuntmen cartwheeling in the air on bikes with flames coming out of the exhaust? No.

No, there wasn't anything really special about it. Not at all.

So what so special about this? You ask, bewildered. Why would anyone want to write about nothing? Why would anyone want to read about nothing? Why would anyone even think that anyone would want to read something that is really made out of nothing?

Must've lost you there.

Here's why. Because in this gaping, rectangular nothing, something and everything is being closed and opened. It's dead, but it's coming right back to life. Snap, just like that.

* * *

Picture this if you will.

Spring. A crowd of young people. There's a couple of old folks hanging around here and there. Not senile-old; middle-aged old. Though there might've been an odd senile-old individual somewhere. A leathery, wrinkled face in the crowd. Senile-old people are quite hard to spot sometimes. People tend to forget about them. It's as if they'd spent too much time here, so that they fade into the background and become part of the tree or the sidewalk or the shop window. Sometimes even time forgets them, and then all they do is sit and watch the world go by eventhough they can't even remember the names of the people around them; maybe even their own names at some point.

Anyway, the crowd on that spring afternoon was mostly made up of young people. And you must not forget that.

It was incredibly hot. The sun was absolutely merciless; t was literally yelling "Lighten up, folks! It's sunny here!". Those who had had some experience in this field brought umbrellas. When popped open, everyone else huddled underneath, the sun beating down upon their sweaty backs the way a native African in a stupor would beat his goat-skin drum during a native African dance ceremony. It was a ceremony that spring afternoon, all right. But there was no drum-beating and dancing involved.

There was a tractor somewhere. Probably in the background, having a pleasant chat with the senile-old individual also at the back. The guy manning it looked bored. In the intense heat and silence, it'd be no surprise if he was discovered sleeping with his eyes opened. Or maybe his eyes were half-closed. Half-opened? Half-closed? No matter. The state of the tractor guy's drooping eyelids is of no importance. He comes in much later, when most of the young-people crowd parted. They're doing pretty much what crowds normally do right about now. Crowding over something.

Perhaps you should go over and take a look yourself.

* * *

Ah, here you go. Flowers. Lots of them. Do you know their names? Bright orange gerberas, white roses, little purple violets. Pretty, don't you think? Wait, there's more. Go on, look closer. Can you see them? Know what they are? Bits of paper? You reply, confused. The crowd's throwing handfuls of them. Not just any bits of paper. Nope, they're wonderfully creased and folded with razor-sharp precision papers. Pretty papers, too, if you'd like to know. Violet, tangerine, yellow, navy- there's even some patterned with adorable kitty cats. And all of these fiddly bits of paper are folded; folded in the popular Japanese art-style of folding paper into decorative shapes. What's that word again? Oh, yes. Origami. Yes, these handfuls of coloured paper the crowd's throwing into the rectangular nothing were folded Origami-style. Folded to take the form of some sort of decorative shape, so that it looks less like a piece of coloured paper and more like something else.

That something else, in this case, is a crane.

Here's the saying. Or belief. If you folded a thousand (or was it more?) of these cranes, whatever you wish for will come true. If you wished to be famous, to win the lottery and become insanely rich, or if you just wanted a loved one to recover from a mysterious illness that not even the doctors can name, you fold a thousand pieces of paper into a thousand paper cranes, and poof. Abracadabra, wish granted.

If only life was that easy.

What else do you see, nestled among the flowers and origami? See the bright green streaks? Yeap, there they are. They look a bit like scrawls, don't you think? They come in two different shades of green: dark green and light green. Nothing simpler than that. Do they remind you of something? Here's the hint: remember all those movies on t.v where the cute guy breaks his leg playing football and has to have a cast? Then his friends come around to see him in the hospital, chat up the trainee nurses and sign their names and write crazy stuff on the cast. Then when cute guy heals he'll probably frame up the cast to remember all the fun times he'd shared with his friends.
Yeah, something like that.
Lots of green markered writing. All over the place. Up, down, left, right. It looks so pretty against the stained wood. Almost as if it were glowing.

Yes, things are looking pret-ty normal. Though underneath its pret-ty normal facade, something was bursting from within. Going down, down, down. Decomposition, decay. Then it was going up, up, up. Shoots springing from the freshness of it all. Of course, that would take quite a long while later. It was still quite new. A bit like a new journal, probably given by a kind aunt on your birthday or Christmas. There're plenty of creamy, empty pages, the smell of newness of the leaves. As the years go by it'll be filled with a story. A bittersweet story of a life well lived, a life filled with fun and laughter and youth, albeit it's rather short, abrupt full-stop. But it did not simply end then even so. It continued on even after, moving on to the epilogue of sadness. There were tears, and with the tears laughter, with the laughter the strengthening of loose bonds and the rebuilding of ones once broken. No matter how wonderful the story, you'll have to come to its final chapter, it's last full-stop eventually.

This story just happens to be about a short story. A little novella, one no-one expected to end so quickly with such an unexpected ending. But then that's life.

Oh, look! What's this? Green rain? No, it's ribbon. Lots of them. Little green snippets being untied and let go to fall into the rectangular nothing, to take their place amongst the blooms and paper and marker-messages. Kinda like confetti, albeit a bit longer and more silky to the touch. Earlier in the day the young-people crowd were in a bit of a frenzy cutting the ribbons from big reels to tie in their hair. Then they realized that there were just a bit too many young people and too little ribbon on the reels, so they had to make do with tying slivers of green on their watch-bands. The earlier birds who got first pick had to cut theirs up into three pieces to distribute to the other young-people. Oh well, sharing is caring right? And no better time to share than a time where everyone needs everyone else to hold and cry on the most.

After a while the crowd of young people moved away, and as promised, the tractor guy comes to take centre stage. Shovelling the soil into the nothing, filling it all up with something. A while longer, and then it's pretty much over. Book closed, end of story. The end.

There's a paper crane poking out of the soil.

What on earth? You think. Yeah, that's the shocked look expected to be on your face. This is crazy! How can anyone talk about such things so carelessly? And sure, flowers are fine, cranes okay too, but markers? What the hell happened to respect? Blasphemy! Blasphemy! Blasphemy!!!

Here you must calm down. Take a couple of deep breaths; that always helps. Then you have to hold yourself in check and recall something that was mentioned earlier. Do remember, the crowd is mostly made up of young people. And rest assured, the old ones, middle-aged old or senile-old don't actually mind all that's been done. They see it as a genuine token of friendship, the last stroke of young artistry, the last happy shout of freedom of creativity and ingenuity.

The last way of saying goodbye.





* * *


Happy Birthday.

Chapter 7: The Turquoise Emperor

  Once upon a time, in the middle of a large desert, there was a city called Qalagh. It was ruled by a sultan, Sultan Hamed. Sultan Hamed was a famed across the desert for his bloodthirsty reign. He would not think twice of slaying a hundred men to test the sharpness of his scabbard, neither would he hesitate to wipe out an entire village just to test the strength of his army. When things did not go his way, many an unfortunate victim would be executed immediately in the slowest and most painful way imaginable. The Sultan had an almost obscene fascination to pain and torture, so that most of his executions would be conducted in public, using the most horrendous of tortures he could think of. In fact, he thought up various new ways to kill his victims faster than he could find a victim to try them on. In the Sultan’s opinion, the public executions served both as a warning to any of the citizens of Qalagh who wished to rebel, and as an entertaining- if not extremely cruel- pastime for himself.

  Sultan Hamed lived in the heart of the large city, in a gleaming white palace constructed out of hundreds of towering turrets and minarets surrounding a huge central dome. The entire façade was carved out of the most dazzling white marble. Its shine could be spotted a thousand miles away; an immense glittering pearl in the middle of the desert. At night, the palace’s beauty reached its peak; it glowed with such an unnatural brilliance it made the moon herself weep.
  Remarkable as the palace was, its royal resident was its entire opposite in any way possible. Almost daily the immaculate marble steps of the palace would be slippery with fresh blood, drawn from the helpless men and women and children that the Sultan slays. He was fully aware of the terror he struck into the hearts of his people, exploiting that very fact to rob the citizens of Qalagh of their money, livestock and produce. From this Sultan Hamed would buy himself lavish jewels, soft carpets, and good food. Yet he was not satisfied; ‘More! More!’ He’d scream. ‘I must have more!’, and more was brought to him, and his hunger for luxury was still unfulfilled. So that although the white palace grew lovelier as each day passed, the people around it fell into hideous poverty. So hard was life that many families were forced to bury their newborns screaming into the ground, tears streaming down their thin faces. They could not bear the thought of another mouth to feed. All along the dusty streets were little piles of dirt, unmarked graves of city’s young, the first and last homes of the babies that did not live long enough to even be named.

  Many a time travellers from distant lands in search of shelter from the desert’s merciless sand-storms would head towards the white gleam of Qalagh. If they were lucky, they would stumble upon a wizened nomad atop a camel, or perhaps listen to the cries of the howling wind. The message was always the same to each passing ear:

 “Whatever ye do, tread not upon the bloodied soil of Qalagh, city with no future! Pass not through the gates of the desert Hell! Heed not the light of the Devil Pearl! If ye do, no escape will there be from mortal peril!”

  Should there be no nomad in sight, if the wind should be still for the moment, or if the brash young traveller simply tossed his head of curls and laugh, he would make his way towards the seductive effulgence, a gleam that promised meat and drink and cool respite from the scorch of the desert sun.

And he would never be seen again.

* * *

  It was on a particularly hot day when the winds of change were blowing. The heat waves shimmered and glared in everyone’s eyes, preventing them from leaving the scanty shade of their dilapidated shacks. Sweat ran down thin faces, shabby robes stuck to emaciated frames as the people of Qalagh huddled in their huts, exhausted from the extreme heat of the desert.

   It was then that the traveller entered the gates of the city.

   The traveller was unlike any other before him. He was soon to be the talk of the city, the story that was told to the new generation of Qalagh, one after another. Hundreds of other travellers would succeed him, and yet it was this particular one that would remain in the memories of the people forevermore, a glittering white spark in the darkness of their minds. The citizens would whisper about the traveller to their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how he was cloaked in a hooded robe made out of stars, that he had came on foot, without a mount. And his feet were completely naked of shoes, not even a straw sandal was on them. And yet not a single blister from the baked desert sand marked his soles. When he walked upon the dirt road, heading purposefully towards the heart of the city, no soil stained his feet a muddy brown. No footprint did he leave on the ground. In fact, no-one could remember seeing his shadow on the ground, not even in that horribly bright sunlight.

   Magic, the citizens hissed amongst themselves. Spirit, Devil, Shaitan. They shook their heads in fear and covered their faces with their worn veils. They ignored the white-robed traveller and in turn he paid no heed to the suspicious looks that fell upon him like accusing knives.

   In the midst of this cold welcome, the traveller walked on. Only once was he stopped on his way to the marble palace. A little boy playing outside a hut had held up a cracked dish of water to him. Perhaps it was out of politeness, of curiosity, of childlike innocence, but the boy had extended his little hand towards this stranger that everyone else shunned. The traveller took the offered drink and when he returned the empty dish, he knelt down to do so.

   And when he stood up again, the boy caught a faint smile upon the hidden lips. A smile that overwhelmed his young senses with the scent of cool rosewater, the sharp taste of cinnamon and lime, the sound of a heart-achingly beautiful birdsong, and a flash of brilliant turquoise blue, hidden within the robe of the traveller. It was a moment that the boy would remember all his life, so that even when he was lying on his deathbed, his weakened mind clouded with dark shadows, that very moment would shine out to him like the sun.

With that, the traveller had disappeared into the marble palace.

* * *

   Sultan Hamed was supping his mid-day feast when the traveller was brought to him. He peered at the robed stranger through his small, hard eyes, chewing slowly on his mouthful of meat.

 “From which country is he from?” He asked the chief advisor.

  “The man does not speak, milord,” the chief advisor replied, bowing low. “No words pass through his lips. He only presented this scroll,” Here he flourished a rolled-up parchment the colour of blood.

 “Read it,” the Sultan commanded with an imperious wave of his jewelled hand. The chief advisor quickly unrolled the scroll and proceeded to read its contents:

“A great gift of life is hereby presented to you,

A little of it goes a very long way,

For which corner of the world is rid of evil.”

   Upon completing the proclamation, the chief advisor rolled the parchment up and clapped his hands thrice, as was the custom of Qalagh. Sultan Hamed’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that all there is?” He asked.

  “Yes, milord, nothing more,” the chief advisor bowed low. Sultan Hamed leaned back in his large cushion, staring suspiciously at the stranger before him.

  “Well, then, where is this gift you speak of?” He demanded. “Give it me at once!”

Nodding, the traveller knelt down and took a large bundle from under his robes. It was wrapped in the finest silk the colour of the midday sea. Skilfully unwrapping it, the traveller stepped back to reveal the gift.

   It was a peacock, and certainly the most beautiful peacock anyone has ever laid their eyes upon. When it arched its graceful neck, the deep turquoise feathers sparkled with the light of a thousand diamonds. Its train was remarkably long, and each eyelet glowed a most glorious emerald and gold. The royal subjects in the hall were shocked into silence at the peacock’s astounding beauty.

   The bird cocked its head to one side, looking at the Sultan. It opened its beak and let out a gentle twitter. The soft sound was unlike the rude squawks of its brethren; rather it was like the softest note of a crystal flute, reverberating sweetly like vintage swilled in a goblet.

  “Impressive,” the Sultan said. He motioned with a fleshy hand. “Bring the bird closer to me,” The peacock was brought to the feet of the Sultan. It was very tame, and allowed him to run his fat fingers through the brilliant iridescent feathers. It gave soft coos now and then, arching its neck to glance at the royal sovereign.

  “Magnificent,” Sultan Hamed said, a small smile on his lips. “This cock shall be the jewel of my royal menagerie. Already I have two dozen peafowl in my possession, but none of them as gorgeous as this one- and what an intelligent eye! It is almost as if it had a mind of its own. Tell me, stranger, where did you find such a remarkable bird?...” Looking up from his dreamy gaze of the peacock, the Sultan sought the eyes of the traveller.

   Only that no eyes, hooded or not, from the mysterious stranger was returned to him. The traveller had disappeared.

   The Sultan let out a great roar of rage, and all the royal guards, the royal tea-maker, the chief advisor, all fell prostrate upon the marble floor, trembling. So angry was the Sultan he ordered the chief advisor and the guards that brought the traveller in to be executed immediately. Only when the unfortunate men were dragged away, begging for mercy, did he let out a long, noisy breath through his nose. He settled back into his cushion, turning to gaze thoughtfully at the peacock. It had been calm, almost disinterested towards the whole scenario. Sultan Hamed summoned the chief advisor’s assistant.

  “From henceforth you shall take his place,” He said harshly. “Take the bird to the royal garden, and build him a shelter fit to house his magnificence!” With another wave, the newly appointed chief advisor scuttled away as fast as his slippered feet could take him, unruffled peacock in his arms, for fear of receiving the same fate as his superintendant.

* * *

   The peacock was put into the royal garden in no time at all. It made itself very much at home, taken to wandering amongst the orange trees and the heavily scented jasmine bushes. Its favourite perch appeared to be on the tiled edge of the cool water fountain. On it the bird would sit from hours on end, its pretty head cocked to one side as if listening to the trickle of the water. It looked every inch a prince of the entire garden, the turquoise emperor of the lush and luxuriant foliage.

   Its new quarters were nothing short of fabulous either. Sultan Hamed summoned the most skilled artisans: architects, sculptors and painters of Qalagh to construct a fantastic dome-shaped pavilion for his new pet. The pavilion was carved out of the same glowing white marble of the palace. The walls and pillars were flecked with gold, and studded all over with little mosaic tiles of turquoise, ruby and jade. Before the pavilion was a courtyard of fine silvery sand, and in the middle of it was a fountain with a layer of glittering sapphire stones on its bed. This fountain served as the peacock’s private bath. Two large bowls- one silver, the other gold- sat on either side of the pavilion. The gold one was filled with cool water taken from the deepest, purest spring underneath the city of Qalagh. Its silver twin held the peacock’s fodder: plump berries, dates and almonds. Indeed, the bird had fallen straight into the lap of luxury, for no other beast in the royal palace besides the Sultan himself could come as close to the treatment given to the peacock.

   The elegant bird, however, showed little interest towards its lavish surroundings. It pecked at its food, then wandered around its pen with a bored look. The chief advisor glanced worriedly at the drooping turquoise feathers, hoping that it’d be happier when the Sultan came to visit- or else another assistant would be needed to fill his place.

When the final touches of the pavilion was completed, Sultan Hamed went to the royal garden to inspect the handiwork. His tiny eyes roamed over the marble façade, missing nothing. The peacock was sitting serenely by the fountain, pleased at the large procession of brightly-clad visitors.

   At last, the Sultan gave a curt nod of satisfaction. The architects, sculptors and painters let out large sighs of relief.

  “All is well,” the Sultan said, nodding solemnly. “Not only is this pavilion fit for the peacock’s majesty, but it is also a symbol of our country’s wealth, a toast of Qalagh infinite abundance! Yes, our neighbours will be filled with envy if they were to set eyes upon this lovely dome; they will think twice before they make us enemies! In fact, they shall wish they were a part of us, so that they too can enjoy the riches the Gods have bestowed upon us…”

   Before the cruel monarch could complete his speech, the peacock reached forward, and with a loud chirrup pecked out the egg-sized ruby on the Sultan’s belt and swallowed it whole.

   The procession stared at the bird in horror. Even the Sultan blinked in surprise, not quite comprehending the situation. But when it set in, his rage was absolutely terrific.

  “Kill that bird!” He screamed shrilly. “Twist its neck! Roast it! Boil it alive!...”

Then the peacock opened its beak and broke into the most beautiful song imaginable. It was so sweet, so magical that it stopped even the Sultan in his frenzy. He listened intently, mouth wide open. When the song ended, the peacock bowed its head, a twinkle in its eyes. The garden went wild with applause.

  “Most…curious…” said the Sultan in wonder, stroking his snowy white beard. “Bring me another gem!” The chief advisor hurriedly brought out a rose quart bracelet that shone in the afternoon light. The peacock swallowed it obligingly, then proceeded to do a series of amazing somersaults, spinning so quickly it turned into one rolling green fireball. The audience gasped in shock.

  “This bird is magic!” The painter cried out. And no-one, not even Sultan Hamed, disagreed.

* * *

   After that incident, the peacock was treated even more like a king. Its feed of fruits and nuts was declared insufficient by the Sultan, who instead ordered the royal treasury be opened and the chests of priceless treasure brought out. Each day three maidservants, escorted by guards armed with bloodstained scabbards, made their way to the Peacock Pavilion- as it was now called- to see to the peacock’s daily needs. After the usual cleaning was seen to, the maidservants would tip a tray of jewels: glinting opals, topazes, amethysts, and teardrops of diamonds into the silver food bowl. The peacock would chirp and gobble up the precious stones greedily. Its appetite grew and grew, so that it took to pecking out the chips of turquoise, ruby and jade of its pavilion. When it had eaten every chunk, it began to peck at the marble gazebo itself. In less than two months, the entire marble monument was eaten up.

   Yet Sultan Hamed did not turn a hair at his pet’s voracious appetite. He was so entranced by the tricks of the peacock after each copious meal. It’d perform all sorts of feats: it sang, danced, even spouted yellow flames out of its beak, scorching the embroidered carpets. The Sultan simply clapped his hands and roared in laughter.

  “We must have a feast!” He cried out one day, when the peacock had done a particularly lively trick of hopping on one foot while juggling three goblets of vintage. He summoned the chief advisor.

  “Send out invitations to our neighbours,” he commanded. “Tomorrow night, when the moon is in harmony with Saturn, we shall have a feast in honour of this wonderful bird! Let our neighbours know that only Qalagh is bestowed such a magical peacock, let them realize that we are indeed the most powerful city in all of the desert- no, the most powerful city in the entire world, for no other city has a jewel-eating peacock of much magic!”

   The chief advisor hurried away to see to the preparations of the grand feast. All day and night the palace was teeming mass of bustling activity. Large quantities of fine food was cooked, the carpets replaced, choice vintage brought out from the underground cellar, flowers arranged. And amidst the sea of action the peacock sat, peacefully nibbling away at a marble pillar.

* * *

   The night of the feast was bright and clear. The moon, looking like a dazzling circle of tin, shone hard white light upon the desert. The marble dome reflected its brilliance a thousand-fold, but without quite as much proud conviction as it used to. Perhaps it was because the great white dome was riddled with holes, made by the peacock and its insatiable hunger. The Sultan merely brushed comments on his residence aside, promising his guests that the creature behind the gaping holes was worthier of greater feats. From far and wide, kings and queens, sultans and sultanates arrived in their expensive litters to attend Sultan Hamed’s feast. All of them were bedecked in fine mantles and heavy jewellery- and all of them were as ruthless and bloodthirsty as Sultan Hamed himself. The grand hall was soon crowded with the royal patrons and thus the feast began.

   At the simmering height of the merry night, Sultan Hamed clapped twice, signalling the musicians to cease playing and for his royal guests’ attention.

  “My brothers and sisters,” he drawled. “Tonight I have requested your company to show you the pride and joy of Qalagh! By God’s wish this exquisite gift was bestowed upon me, and tonight I shall share its utter beauty with you so that you too may be awed by it!”

He clapped his hands again, and the peacock was brought out on a fat silver cushion. The grand hall burst into cries and exclamations of shock and delight. The royal crowd cheered in approval. The peacock, however, was not at all interested in the shouts and the perfumed hands that touched its gleaming back. No, it was the sparkling gems that the men and women were wearing that it wanted. Its eyes twinkled in excitement. What a feast this was!

   In a flash, the peacock pecked out the blue quartz in the King of Guobad’s turban. Immediately it did a whistle-and-jig that brought a swarm of blue night-moths into the grand hall. Then it gobbled up the string of pearls around the Princess of Zanzibar’s throat. To everyone’s amazement the bird exploded into a flight of creamy white doves that made a circuit around the hall before turning back into a peacock. After that the monarchs tore their necklaces, crowns, and rings off and held it out to the peacock.

“More! More!” They cried greedily, as the peacock ate jewel after jewel, gem after gem, performing astounding feat one after another. It swallowed an amber necklace, and its train bloomed bright orange flowers. It ate a chrysolite tiara, and turned white from head to toe till it almost blended into the white marble floor. It gulped a rainbow quartz cravat, flew to the ceiling and burst into an impressive fireworks display. All the while the kings and queens, sultans and sultanates, screamed and cheered wildly. As their excitement augmented, their store of gemstones diminished. But that did not deter them. They grabbed whatever they could get their hands on: a gold fruit platter, a ruby decanter, a crystal goblet, all was fed to the peacock to satisfy their hunger for the extraordinary.

   Finally, when the entire palace was devoid of any gem, when the rulers were naked of their glittering jewels, everyone was at a lost for what to feed the peacock with. The bird simply looked at the dissatisfied faces, cooing now and again. More! More! It seemed to say invitingly. The royal guests gulped, uncertain of what to do, so desperate were they to watch another breathtaking feat.

   It was then; a hand in the crowd stretched out and held a single bead of polished onyx to the peacock. The turquoise bird took the stone in its beak and swallowed. The crowd watched with baited breath to see what the bird would do next.

The peacock let out a loud trill, then spread its train open wide. The crowd gasped. Never once had the peacock open its glorious fan before. But the crowd’s amazement quickly turned into horror when, from each eyelet wept tears of blood. The peacock unfurled its wings and screamed out loud. Its cry now sounded like the wail of a newborn baby. A shriek, which like most of its kind in the city of Qalagh, was quickly followed by thuds of dry earth falling into a shallow grave.

   Without warning, the peacock soared into the sky, out of the white dome. Its wings brushed against the marble roof, and suddenly the entire palace, weakened by the pecks of the hungry beak, shuddered and crumbled to its white knees, killing everyone within its walls. Another cry burst forth from the peacock, awakening the entire city. It flew round the dusty streets, singing its own heart-wrenching dirge. As it did, its belly, stretched to its fullest with heavy stones, split open and showered the populace with fortune. The citizens of Qalagh cried out in joy, and their chorus of happiness blended with the peacock’s requiem. Onwards towards the rising sun the peacock flew, leaving a trail of sparkling gems in its wake. From the sapphires sprung lakes and streams, from the white marble pure, sandy beaches. Trees and bushes sprouted from the emeralds and jades. And newborn babies, still wet and unnamed, were borne out of the rubies and garnets.

And when every jewel was emptied from the peacock’s stomach, it gave a soft, gentle coo and became one with the wind in a flurry of turquoise feathers and green and gold winking eyes, knowing all too well that its mission in life was completed.

* * *
The small bead of polished onyx was the last to fall out of the peacock’s belly onto the new land. For which corner of the world is purely rid of a little bit of evil.