The Legend Of Jop The Brave

॰ ⋄ ♢ PART ONE - THE BOY ♢ ⋄ ॰

My mom used to tell me stories about myself. I remember the old house, a cookie-cutter duplex a mile from town. For her, it was a holding cell, an in-between place before we relocated. But for me, a three and a half foot tall five year old, it was paradise. We had a front yard with room for an immense black cottonwood, a decent swingset, and a copse of spruce, all tied together with a gravel drive that snaked around to the mailboxes. The real fence was the woods, deep and promising. Signs told me that it was private property, but I had no real need to test their words. 

I would play in the yard all day, and when nighttime came, I would be tucked into my yellow comforter, curled up into a nest of down. Disgustingly clean, all my hard work in the yard would have been washed down the bathtub drain. But no matter, each night, my mom would give me a new storyline to play out the following morning. 

“Tell me a story from your mouth.”

This began our ritual. Mom, settling into the beanbag next to my head, would look into the corner of my room, and after a moment, would begin. 

No two stories were ever the same. I wondered, and still do, at her ability to design worlds for me out of the air, sending me off on pirate ships in search of treasure, my unbrushed hair and teeth finally welcome in the stink of a ship. I could be flying through the air as a mouse, a dagger made of a forgotten sewing pin at my hip and a shoelace as reins to guide my steed. 

My favorite life by far was one from deep in the trees outside my window. A world of fallen leaves and screeching black crows, of shelf mushrooms as the many sunshades of a cricket market and it’s stalls. Of musty holes in trees, begging to be explored, and the lights appearing late, so late and so high in the trees, it felt as if the stars were coming to greet me. 

I would lean into tales of my daring climbs high into the largest Engelmann spruce the woods could offer, off to regain the stolen prizes of the townspeople. I would laugh at the unintentional jokes the many fireflies shared over acorn caps of pine tea, while the version of me in the story would be telling them that they could be quite dim at times. I was lulled to sleep with the lilt of her cadence sweeping me down a bubbly creek, coasting past dangerous sticks that threatened to rip open my small oak leaf raft, in search of a princess kept captive high in the nest of some fearsome, unknown king. 

Once the sun rose, I would recreate the stories in our yard. Leaping from the railroad ties to the large stones that failed to contain the old man of a black cottonwood, I would be racing from a lynx alongside my chipmunk friends. I would tame the laughing foxes, red with happiness from at last being heard, and we would protect our woodland kingdom from the dreaded ravens. When I was too tired to adventure, I would lie in the grass and speak with the pillbugs and nightcrawlers, spinning daydreams and flying into the sky on dandelion down. I spent years of my life in that yard, and decades in the worlds she created, just for me. 

॰ ⋄ ♢ PART TWO - THE STRANGER ♢ ⋄ ॰

My mother used to tell me stories about our home. Hidden safely in our nest, the bent bough of our ponderosa door was sealed tightly each night, folded upon the open entrance my uncle had carved for us. Mother had many stories, most I had come to know, even that young, to be warnings against the night and large, hungry beasts. My favorite tale, the one I asked for whenever I could, was the old legend of Jop the Stranger. We lived high in our ponderosa, and in the nights where the wind caught the openings around our sanctuary, singing their dead moans and whistling their ancient anger, I would find safety in the history of my unknown hero. Mother would wrap her long, fluffy tail tightly around us and begin. 

“In the dark days of stretched wings and sharp talons, there was not much to hope for. But the people in our kingdom placed their faith, all that they had, in the elderberry harvest. The many creatures of the woods had small patches that they dutifully protected from the weather, fed, and carefully pollinated the sprays of beautiful white blossoms. On the long awaited day, they would gather and celebrate the joyous collection, with maypoles and song and many dishes, all of the coveted berries. And when the festivities were complete, the berries would be preserved, dried, smoked, frozen, and crafted into concoctions that seemed to never end. It was the lifeblood of the town. 

“Following the darkest winter that the oldest, grey speckled robin could recall, there came a remarkably glorious spring. By June, the elderberries in their royal color were swelling with glory, to the point that the inhabitants of the land prepared for the harvest season a week in advance, in partial fear of the coveted berries simply bursting open with their ripeness. Baskets were woven and the old quilts and tarps stained from the previous collections were unfurled and mended. A maypole, constructed from a few donated quills the porcupines had shared, was the crowning addition.

“And the night fell, and along with it, the rustle of inky feathers shuttered with the disguise of the wind. Beaks and black eyes shone in the moonlight, bright as the glorious harvest-to-be. Come the dawn, all that was left of the crop the people had worked so hard to acquire was a few bloody marks, framed by heavy, gnarled footprints, and unripe specimens, green and tough. It was an unbelievable loss, and discussions were raised about the remaining rations from the previous year’s collection. There was simply not enough.

“It was at this meeting, at that moment, that he arrived. Whistling like a sparrow, clad in pinecone scales, and with a helmet of well-tailored bracket, he carried a pouch of fine cheesecloth on his back and a needle-sharp sword by his side, and nothing else. 

“Amid a grieving crowd, he inquired after an inn, and whether the wound of their loss was all too fresh or the creatures were simply struck by his strange appearance and general lack of fur, they gave him sanctuary. He told them his name was Jop, and he was on a quest. When asked further, he told them he had no real destination, and that his quest was to find an end to whatever his adventure offered him. He was cheeky and very witty. His presence was a light in the darkness that had been blanketing the land for so very long. He pulled a silver pan flute from his bag, blowing the familiar melody of his whistling song into it. A few of the other patrons of arts ran to fetch their dusty lyres and fiddles, quickly catching on to the bouncing melody, and to the rest he sang his song.

I’ve tramped through mist and mountain stone,

And plains where ancient wind has blown,

But give me pipe smoke, thick and sweet,

The kettle’s song, and dancing feet.

For though I’ll walk and though I’ll roam

I know no ale but found at home!

“He sang and danced with everyone, late into the night. When at last the noise began to die, and the memory of their predicament came back to the minds of the crowd, Jop looked around the room, demanding to know what so quickly had soured the mouths of his new companions. The others told him of their lost treasure, their barren cellars, and the looming winter which had no promise of mercy. Jop’s face hardened at the thought. That his newfound friends were to face such bleakness was not what he would stand for, and he pledged to return their stolen goods.

“The next morning, he gained wings from a gentle chickadee named Akie, and he structured a saddle for his seat. In saddlebags, he tucked tightly folded spider’s silk nets sourced, it seemed, from that odd pouch, and gently seated himself. He said his goodbyes and Akie alighted in the breeze, growing smaller in the clouds until the two of them disappeared.

“Elder inhabitants had little hope, swearing off the strange man as a charlatan, or at the very least, delusional. But many more, for the first time, had an odd lightness in their chest, the light of hope. The remaining food was distributed as much as it could be, and the various eyes one would meet in passing could be found flicking to the sky. On the third day following Jop and Akie’s departure, a cry rang out. Abigail, a chipmunk, was darting around, rapping on doors, shouting to windows, and stabbing her little finger at the sky. “Akie! Look! They’re returned!” And return they had, the speck in the sky became a smudge, then a hum of movement, and then Akie was aiming to land. Her silhouette was strange, almost bulbous, and a wide space was cleared for her. Upon her back, the saddle was swelling with a large sack, larger than the bird’s already small frame. Several mice rushed forward to unburden her, and when the town’s inhabitants had gathered, she neatly removed a stitching of twine from the silk bag. From within rolled many thousands of elderberries, but to the surprise of everyone, they were smaller than the youngest of the wood lice. They appeared as a large pile of fine grain, and yelps of protest began to sound from the group, quickly silenced by Akie’s wing rising gently.

“She told them of her long flight with Jop. He would sit in silence for hours, before having her circle a section of the woods and aim her in a new direction. They had found the culprits by the noon of the second day, and rested in a copse of quaking aspen. The strange man had tracked a family of ravens, and discovered their roost in a close pair of high spruce. The main roost loomed over the carcass of his stifled brother, and Jop had concluded that the berries had to be within its empty husk. 

“Akie told us that she had been concerned about Jop’s sharp sword, and had expected a fight to ensue regarding the ownership of the berries, but Jop made no move to use his weapon in a show of force. He sat in silence on a thin branch, one hand in his cheesecloth pouch and the other tapping out a steady beat on his knee. When night came, and the horrid shadows sifting past the stars brought with them the heady scent of a kill, the two of them waited until the forest was silent again. 

“They quietly made their way to the stunted spruce. Akie hooked her claws into the rough bark, jumping quickly to the top. Jop followed, expertly maneuvering up the scaly tree. He dropped down into the divot of rotting wood at its top, and there, beneath the crisp, citrusy needles, lay the beautiful elderberries. The two wasted no time. Jop began to clear away the cover while Akie prepared their silk bag, noting its small size in comparison to the many berries. 

“Jop immediately began placing them on the soft fabric, at first scooping them up, then rolling the purple-black spheres toward the growing pile. Akie realized that the white threads, illuminated by the half moon, were not disappearing, and the heap of elderberries were staying at one height. Before long, the well of berries were contained in a sizable mound, and now it was being woven shut and contained in the saddle by the man’s able hands. 

“Akie had waited for him to climb aboard as well, but he circled to her front, fastening the strap of his pouch across his chest. He told her to return to the town, and to extend his thanks to the kindness of the townspeople, but he was off to find another quest, and would leave an adequate trail for the ravens to follow instead of returning to take back their bounty. They would wake soon, and Akie at last saw the first kisses of morning on the clouds overhead. Jop gave a smile, and began to descend. Akie was hesitant, but could do little more than watch his bracket helmet parting the grass. A small hand rose through the waving blades in farewell, and he vanished. 

“And so Akie returned. “That is well and good.” Yelped a raccoon, “So the question remains: what of our elderberries? What use are they to us being this size?” he spit, waving at the miniscule pile. But oh! When the townspeople’s eyes landed on the silk again, no, on the ground among them, they saw their full harvest, back to its full count, and more! The elderberries had bulged to thrice their usual size, rolling like toy balls at their feet.”

I never understood the end. Had the creatures grown smaller, or had their faith in a well-meaning stranger repaid them? I would find a new way to interpret it each time my mother told me the story, almost in an attempt to get her to change the story or continue telling it. 

But she would only smile and kiss my head, pulling me closer into her soft fur. The wind would roar, and my eyes would grow heavy, and sometimes I’d hear a different whistle, drifting in on the storms. 

I’ve tramped through mist and mountain stone,

And plains where ancient wind has blown,

But give me pipe smoke, thick and sweet,

The kettle’s song, and dancing feet.

For though I’ll walk and though I’ll roam

I know no ale but found at home!

॰ ⋄ ♢ ⋄ ॰

Mom passed away the winter of my freshman year of college; endometrial cancer. Isn' t it always? There's never a car crash or a sinking ship, she had to sit for years and fight against her own body’s cellular hatred, until her heart was unfit to keep beating. I couldn’t see her in the white room. Of course I visited, I mean I couldn’t find my mother. She looked foreign, yellowed and decaying in front of me. I brought vibrant flowers and comfortable blankets, trying to lessen the glare of a room that everyone knew she would die in.

I have mourned and given myself time. I’ve visited her grave. I accepted condolences. I sat in her closet and cried over her yellow sweater. I cried in the little room until I threw up from the lingering remnants of her shampoo that still graced the collar of her deep blue robe. I kept her close. After selling her now empty home, I did all I could to store her belongings, as I couldn’t bear the thought of them collecting dust in some stranger’s house. I had her half empty perfume bottle on my dresser, the rag quilt she made me spread upon my bed, and other small reminders everywhere. On one visit to the unit, I unearthed a photo album in the cedar chest that once stood at the foot of her bed. They were mainly photos of my mother’s graduation, her large awards, her glowing face among her friends. But suddenly, the tousled hair and gummy smile I saw every day in the mirror was looking back at me, if a little dirtier. Images of me with large sticks on family hikes, dressed in homemade cardboard armor and holding a plastic pumpkin bucket, a glittering christmas tree and my small body hunched over a large picture book. 

I recall now reading something, somewhere concerning the brain upon death. There’s seven minutes of lucidity, seven minutes where many theorize we watch back our lives. There’s conspiracy theories that you might be reliving that right now, and I used to like sharing that little tidbit with friends, accompanied by an annoying “Wake up, wake up, wake up.” But here, under the eyes of a divoted mattress, I thought about my mother’s last seven minutes. 

“I hope I was somewhere in there.” I heard myself say aloud, and the thought was so terrible, I felt bile begin building, clawing at my esophagus. It was the worst realization I had encountered yet. My mother had been my life, and yet I knew I was only a small slice of hers.  

I took the album back to my apartment, placing it in my bookshelf. I would take it with me to my bed and fall asleep observing my smaller self, a blur on a green yard, endlessly moving. The photos of myself began to resurface my countless days of adventure. I found myself doodling mice and voles with rucksacks of grain and little smiles on their snouts. Try as I might, they didn’t feel the way I wanted them to, too static. The stories were less clear now too; it wasn’t as if my mother got them from books or my father was there to write them all down. My trusty steed changed from a bluebird to a starling, or was it a finch? I remembered a line of market stalls, but the vendors were blurry. I began to write down what I could remember from the various stories, and, though I knew parts were missing, the more I filled my notebook, the more I could see the landscape. I would rebuild my childhood, and maybe find my mom there. I would think of all the things I would say; thank yous and apologies, everything I never had told her or said to her enough.

The more I tried to remember, the more I would dream. They were all centered around the horrible shape of a very large owl. There was only one story about owls from my mother. She had described their silent flights and drawn the forlorn face of the barn owl who lived in the neighbor’s shed, but this owl was not known by me from my stories. It had a striking feather coat, with soft brown rings around its eyes. Those eyes were quite possibly the yellowest things I had ever seen, yellow as the skin that had held my mother’s dying frame together. The two tufts of down that sprouted above its head looked less like strange ears and more like terrible horns. In the dreams, I would be cowering in the endless expanse of a nest, and across from me, there it stood, the only thing visible being a pair of eyes illuminated from some inner fire. 

Maybe it will kill me. Maybe I’ll die in my sleep. Not a bad way to go, at least, not at this point. I don’t have much left now but my notebooks and my memory. It’s nice to be looked at by something, even if it is with hate. At least it is looking, at least I am found and no longer alone.

॰ ⋄ ♢ PART THREE - THE OWL ♢ ⋄ ॰

A warrior from unknown lands. No scales, no exoskeleton, no feathers, not even fur, except for a tangled bit on the top of his head. Some said he was a lost soldier. Others said a traveling mountebank. He was “a friend to anyone, even those who didn’t deserve him”. 

What he was, if anything, was dangerous. 

It took some time. I would wait for the inkling of the news and chatter of his arrival. Word from the black squirrels of Timberlands, the bats from Coroforte Overhang, even the gurgle of some trout passing by, saying that a new face was being washed in the Farmbaug. I bided my time, following his path. 

Sometimes, he would stay for a week, sometimes months would pass with no word of him. His pattern seemed erratic, but at last, I found him. Only a mile upriver, in Silverwatch. He had frequented the village numerous times in the past, and tonight he would not sleep in his usual room at the inn. I set off, silent through the lodgepole pines and redcedars. 

The lights in the town were doused, only a few of the streetlights illuminating the pathways, for who that knew their home would be foolish enough to walk about at this hour? Clearly there was one, and it was he whom I had searched for. In a wide sweep of my wings, and a calculated angling of my ready talons, I dove, pounced, and made my exit. To anyone who was still drifting to sleep, my movements were comparable to an acorn dropping into the leaves.

The abduction of my guest had resulted in a very un-herolike fainting spell, and so I placed him in the downy comfort of my nest. It had been a very long time since another living creature had shared in my space. My children long since have grown and moved on to their own nests and families, and I experienced the loss of my mate many years ago. I am a silent monarch of the forest, known only to myself.

The small man stirred, waking and giving a shout. He reached for his sword, finding only the empty scabbard tapping against his leg. 

“This is no place for weapons.”

“And no time for talk. Why am I here?” 

Impatient, as I expected. I was not one to monologue, however.

“You must leave this forest. You have done your time.”

His face shifted, clearly not expecting this.

“Why? It is the only home I have left!” he argued. I heard something darker, untouched perhaps.

“You are not made to be here.”

He scoffed. “Is that the problem? I have been welcomed by everyone I have encountered. I have no need for secrecy and midnight kidnappings to be heard.”

“I know you.”

Our eyes met. No longer through a glare, as though the words had opened some unspoken connection. I continued.

“I alight on your window each night. I see your fitful dreams, your scribbles. You have to fight to come here. What use are you to the inhabitants of these woods?”

“I offer hope!”

“You impede progress.” I felt the feathers begin to ruffle along my spine. “We grow, we die, while you have not aged. You have become a god for them, when you are, in truth, just a boy.”

His eyebrows remained knitted, but I could see his eyes flash with something else. 

“While your body sleeps out there, Jop comes to these woods and does what he wishes for as long as he can. There is no consistency in his travels, no regularity in his kindnesses. You are smoke, when they need fire.”

“That makes no sense.”

“You are mist, when they need water.”

He was quiet at last. 

“Try, if you will, to observe the flow of a waterfall by sections. Watch as the fall appears to slow, before splashing and rejoining the greater mass of liquid, moving onward downstream. Now observe a campfire’s smoke. Can you find a section? Can you follow that opaque mist? You may for a moment, but then the wind changes and it is split into more streams, various pieces, before dissipating into the air. The land requires water for health and fire for warmth, but you are only mist and smoke, promising perhaps the giving nature of what you came from, but vanishing when you are needed to remain. You hold the scent of wood, and you dampen the faces of those who meet you, but you have no real impact. The face can be dried, the clothes can be washed, but that will be done by a more permanent fixture.”

I paused to allow my words to settle. He did not try to speak.

“You have done well in the hearts of those you assisted, but you shall always leave them wanting for more. Do you know what you have, there within you, that will give without cessation?”

Silence, followed by a shaky breath, but a steady, certain answer.

“No.”

I nodded, then pulled his sword from beneath my feet.

“Then go. Find it.”

॰ ⋄ ♢ EPILOUGE ♢ ⋄ ॰

When the sun rose red on the horizon, and Jop had regained his footing following our return flight, I said my goodbyes before turning in the direction of my nest. I felt his small hand start to reach for my tailfeathers before hesitating. I faced him again, waiting for his unasked questions. I knew he was thinking.

He appeared very interested in the coarse grass before him, and when he spoke, it was quiet as a butterfly’s sigh.

“You…you said that you know me, the real me. Out there.”

“Yes.” “How long?”

“Since you were old enough to remember your mother’s stories. Since Jop the Stranger avenged the elderberries”

He laughed, I think. It was more of a dry sob.

“So, you know her stories?”

“All of them. She was an exceptional storyteller.”

“I know, she was. You know what…what happened. To her?” 

I didn’t need to answer. His head hung low again and his arm raised to scrub at his face, as though he had caught some stray chaff in the air.

“I heard you, your angry heart. I heard your desperate prayers. Most importantly, I felt your fear. I think you know the one.”

His face tilted up to meet mine, framed with the beaded pearls of a child’s tears.

“I am a mother. I’ll always be one, no matter the contents of my nest or how I look in the memories of my chicks. I am a mother, and I promise that you were not ‘somewhere in the minutes’. You were them all.”