Verbum

Thought. Inexpressible, trapped. Fighting to get out; struggling for freedom. It is a powerful thing, thought. Capable of creating universes –and destroying them. It can change lives, end them, and begin them. We control it, and it, in turn, controls us. But what good is a thought if it cannot be expressed? I say, none at all. And that is where our tale begins.

It began in darkness. No –not darkness- emptiness. Utter and complete. Void of everything, a space so empty that it was nothing. Nothingness so complete that we cannot even name it –for that would make it something. And then, suddenly, that nothing became something.

Existence. A spark… a spark of thought? Of life, of sentience. A realization. The nothingness became something; it became the world. Or, at least, in this case, the inside of his egg. Huge, at first. It was roomy and dark, and seemed to go on forever, farther than eyes could ever see. But, as is the way of things, as he grew, it shrunk. It was barely noticeable at first; just a little less room to extend himself; the world began to seem a little less vast. And then a little smaller, and smaller, and on from there until the world had become miniscule, and he was left wondering what had happened. Pressed up against the sides of his egg, he recalled when the world had gone on forever. When had it changed? When had he realized it?

No answer was forthcoming.

No matter how much he willed it not to be, the world continued to get smaller. Pressing in on him; crushing him. Panic began to set in. He had to escape. But… how was that possible? You can’t escape the world, can you? Is it possible to break the boundaries? And, if you do, what lies beyond? These thoughts were too much for him. Impossible to answer; circling round and round in his head, taunting him, tormenting him.

It takes courage to destroy your world. Real strength, to take that step forwards, into the unknown. But he did it, for what other choice did he have? To stay in this world until it crushed him completely? No. He wouldn’t stand for it! And, so, he cracked it. He cracked the shell of his world.

The chick was surprised at how easy it was. He threw his head forward instinctively, and felt it rebound against the edge of the world. He tried again, and felt the wall give a little. Steeling himself, he smashed against it a third time, and, the edge of the world cracked. He had broken the world. The thought was terrifying. But now that he had done it, he couldn’t stop. He repeated the motion, over and over, until the shell of his world fell away.

And showed him a new one beyond.

Tumbling out of his shell, the newborn chick fell into the nest. Thump! He lay there, feeling the texture of the wall of this new world against his tender skin. He felt it; he felt the heartbeat of this new world. Felt it beating in tune with his own. Alive. He had destroyed his world… and discovered a new one beyond. Nothing was impossible.

The newly hatched chick then realized that he was not alone. A chirrup came from above him, somewhere. He was not alone. Amazing. A warm body pressed against him, and he leant into it, feeling something, a tickling in his chest. A new feeling: happiness.

The young chick grew. His eyes opened, and he realized, truly, how endless the world was. A blue sky, stretching overhead in all directions, and, underneath, the woodland floor. Life was everywhere. In the breeze that ruffled his young, downy feathers, in the rain that pelted from the blue sky, in the noises of the world surrounding him.

But even more amazing than that, was flying. He was pushed from the edge of the nest one day, by his mother. Shoved forcefully. Spiraling downwards towards the forest floor, he felt panic as such that he had not experienced since he escaped the previous world. And so, again, he did the only thing he could. The growing chick raised the appendages on either side of him, and flapped them. Hard. He did it again, and again, and, slowly but surely, felt himself beginning to rise. He was flying! Flying, as he had seen his mother do, when she launched herself from the edge of the nest to search for food. Wings rising and falling, or just outstretched as she glided. The air was her servant –and now his as well.

After that first flight, the chick came to a realization. Something had changed. He knew not what -nor when. It was a half-formed thought, niggling in the corner of his mind. He tried to explain this to his mother, but she remained as apathetic as usual. And, for the first time, the chick questioned this. Was it really that she just didn't care? Or... or... was it that she didn't understand? It sent a chill through his young feathers. Was his mother different? He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind, dismissing them for the present.

He grew even more, shedding all the downy feathers of childhood, and replacing them with the sleek gray ones of adulthood. A chick no longer. No, now, he was an owl. This thought brought him pride; a warm glow that spread from his centre, all throughout his body. Full-grown, and ready to face the world. He no longer needed to depend on his mother for food, for protection. He was self-sufficient at last.

But this pride was tempered by sadness. For, his coming-of-age meant that he no longer needed his mother. And so she left. Left him alone once more in the wide, wide world. Well, not truly alone, the owl reflected, but devoid of close companionship. And that was terrible indeed.

Independence is a fickle thing. Worthy of a plethora of emotions, none of which match up. Happiness, pride, sadness, anger. And the young owl was filled up to the brim with all of these emotions, as he watched his mother’s figure retreat into the night. Smaller, smaller, smaller, and then she was gone. And he was alone.

The owl spent many nights and many days alone. The solitary figure who stubbornly refused to leave his nest in the oak tree. Whilst the other animals ran amok, searching and fighting for mates, he sat there, all alone. Watching and wondering. Wondering why they acted the way they did.

And, at last, he came to a conclusion. Recalling the thoughts he had many days ago, the ones that had plagued his dreams, the moments between waking and sleeping. Thoughts he had brushed aside, refused to admit entrance to his mind. Thoughts he had first become conscious of after the first time he had been pushed from the nest. He was different. Not they, but he. He was the oddity. The realization was chilling. The owl could not understand why they did what they did, because he wasn’t like them. It sent a sudden chill through his feathers, causing them to ruffle. He was the different one –and, now that he reflected on it- he always had been.

So he decided to set himself apart even more. To accept his difference -which was invisible to all but him, and give himself a name. Verbum. That would be his name. None of the others had names, he supposed. He had never heard them. No shrew called out it’s father’s name to the world, hurrying after him. No wolf howled their identity to the moon. It was one word, and that one word summed up his entire being. Verbum.

The Great Sooty Owl. And so he proceeded to write it. Language, another thing he created, to set himself apart from the rest. Speech, records of time, scratches in the bark of the trees. The other animals had language, he supposed, but nothing as complex as his. They had gouges in the trees to warn others off their territories; sharp growls and playful yips. Body language, too.

But nothing, nothing, like his language. Words, they formed words. His thoughts, transmuted through a scratch made by his talon, a notch in the bark. Amazing. Words, to express himself. Writing, to change the world.

Rather than hide his differences, he embraced them. Verbum, he was unique. Amazing. No other being was there that could rival his sentience. He had descended above the realm of animal –he was something else entirely. Verbum had a gift. A gift that he treasured above everything, and would rather die than lose.

Verbum, the owl with endless possibilities at the tips of his talons. He could do anything.