Path to Wisdom

"With dedication to the cementing of the EU as a warning to us all:"

By way of a silken thread, leant to her by the tarantula, the mud dauber remained suspended by two rear insectile legs. Her inverted body moving ever so slightly on the kind breeze of a furtive tropical autumn. Her abdomen rising and falling in a peaceful steady rhythm, a sign of the wellbeing she felt from within. Enough to give her the aura of wisdom she claimed to possess, despite her deadly stinger and burning lava poison.

Already she prided herself for extending her lifespan. For three generations of mud dauber had passed her by, and still here she lived as Yogi, the oldest mud dauber around.

A young hornet passing by on its way back to its barnyard home, stopped halfway before he reached the nest, curios to return and investigate what he thought he’d seen of a mud dauber suspended from beneath a mature conifer frond.

Though, on his return Misfortune came afoot, as he rounded a young birch sapling and crashed into another young hornet of the third generation. Dazed upon the river surface they sat staring at each other from laid against the strong white petals of a lotus flower, saved from the water of the lake where they might have lost their day old lives. The lotus flower itself was a fine specimen, compared to those around it. Not a wetted petal or leaf did it have as blemish, as did those.

Recovering sufficiently the first drone went on to explain the sight which he’d been returning to see. Before their fool hardy lack of flying skill, and the subsequent accident they suffered for their novice wings.

Together they agreed to journey there together weaving and diving as they wound their lively way through the thick haunted forest.

Sure enough when they braked to hover at the sight in the conifer tree, Yogi was there. Unsurprised by their presence, for many youngsters had stopped to see her hanging around from time to time during her extended lifetime.

‘Why do you do that?’ the first drone asked as he settled himself on a nearby frond to view her more closely dangled as she was from a thread of the spider web. One which she’d tied by herself to one back leg. A practiced movement, coordinated to perfection. And from the webs he always made for her. He himself, an exponent of insect longevity. Well known in spider circles for his acrobatics.

‘Ah, replied Yogi, attempting to sound like the young two might have been the first to ask such an obvious question, ‘It has assured me of a longer life,’ she paused, ‘Though I am sad,’ the mud dauber admitted with a long meditative sigh.

‘Why is that, er?’
‘Yogi,’ interrupted the tarantula listening nearby as he crouched flat to become almost one with his cloaklike surroundings, ‘That is what the wise one is called,’ he said rising a whisker from his crouch to peer from in front of his larder door, ‘I am myself and therefore need no name,’ he explained himself as almost inferior, ‘For I am gone beyond, and now returned once more to nothing more than my blessed ignorance,’ he said with a feebleness which sounded almost practiced.

The first hornet laughed at what he’d heard. Though ignoring the stupid remark , and once his friend had recovered, the second hornet repeated the question of his friend again to the mud dauber: ‘Then why Yogi, are you sad?’

Why?’ Yogi questioned back in an absurd voice, ‘Because none of you care to let me show you how to tie a silken thread around two back legs,’ she paused from her answer to heave herself up, and there she remained seated like an insectile crescent moon, making a tightrope hammock of the silken rope whilst she studied the young visitors, ‘Something so easy to learn and of value to longevity,’ she paused to puff up her striped abdomen and look important, ‘And therefore wisdom.’

‘Why then oh wise one,’ he said as he paused to preen his antennae with his front legs, have you lived to become so old Yogi?’ the child asked with an equal absurd tone of voice in order to emphasis his own equally absurd though typically young and honest minded question .

Yogi huffed with angered disbelief, ‘Because I am wise, and every passing moment of my life is precious to me, as it is too all of us alive,’ she told them in her most soft, disarming, and musical voice, ‘And old, and wise, go beautifully, hand in hand.’

The two wasps regarded each other with incredulous looks, and then the first spoke, ‘So we are wise too then,’ was his realization, ‘For—

’For we did not drowned today, and we are still living every moment, like you Yogi,’ the second interjected, having perceived the insight of his brother, and stole what he was about to say next. As was often the way of things within the nest.

Yogi regarded them almost longingly, such was the effort of remaining composed as she debated over the menu choice, homing in on a nearby juicy wood beetle with her insectile eyes. Eyes which were still as sharp as they had been in her prime. As if sensing the mud dauber’s hunger the beetle vanished inside a hollow burl, causing Yogi to remember ‘Then you are indeed wise to escape death and live to see another dawn stain the east,’ she paused to clean her mandible from the solidified juice speck, left from her succulent snack of Colorado beetles. ‘As long as avoidance is within your control,’ she said, though she knew fate eventually awaited all with no offer of escape. Such was the way of life in the jungle for insects, ‘Friends don’t come easily,’

‘Not wisdom,’ the first was adamant, ‘Luck Yogi,’ he corrected her, ‘Sheer luck.’
‘For it was by chance we both rapped our heads and crash landed upon the petals of a lotus flower,’ the second wasp joined in agreeance, suddenly overcome by elation in the realization that they were in fact wiser than she for all he days alive.

‘Then luck was a part of wisdom,’ she agreed without complaint, interested to know more of their fortunate escape, ‘Mm…’ she was intrigued, ‘…a lotus flower saved you, you say,’

‘And luck that we were to land on a flower so perfect,’ he said, for how could he forget what they’d observed of their so perfect savior.

‘Not even one speck of damp upon its leaves,’ the second wasp joined.

‘Nor the pure white petals.’

‘But your fall must have damaged it surely?’

The two wasps shook their heads defiantly.

‘Perfect,’ they claimed in unison, ‘And indestructible.’

‘Where, a perfect lotus you say?’ the voice of the nearby tarantula appeared full of interest, ‘Is there such a perfect flower?’ he said though when he turned away and questioned again: ‘Yogi? his eyes were full of dark intrigue, his mandibles twitching.

‘Mm,’ the mud dauber wondered at this perfect flower, as she cut herself free of the silken thread with a snip of her serrated jaws, ‘Will you show me this flower?’ she asked them as she hovered around the silken thread as if delighting in its pleasing use, though it was an acrobats disguise to hide her excruciating curiosity.

‘Of course,’ the hornets agreed as they took off to lead the way back through the forest to the river.

***

‘But it was here,’ the first hornet pointed defiantly beneath them, as the wasp yawned, and cleaned her mandibles whilst they all three sat upon the large green rock where the lotus had been.

‘Might it have been that one?’ Yogi asked as she pointed with her front leg at a nearby lotus flower, all be it, untouched, except for a droplet of river water, ‘Nearly perfect I see.’

‘It was here,’ the second hornet joined in adamantly, ‘A perfect lotus flower.’

‘Mm,’ the mud dauber sighed disbelievingly, ‘Your imperfect accident has obviously impaired your perfect judgment,’ she reasoned before she bid them farewell with a smug smile, and headed back across the river to find her tree, deciding she would talk with her good friend spider meditate upside down again for a short while, and then return to daubing mud.

***
Though it was as she neared the return bank, preoccupied with her meditative thoughts, that she was knocked from the air by a piece of dead dry conifer branch. Dazed upon the river surface now, she sat staring at the strong white petals of a lotus flower, saved from the water of the lake where she might have lost her wise old life. The lotus flower itself was a fine specimen, compared to those around it. Undamaged by her impact. Not a wetted leaf did it have as mark, as did the rest all around between the rocks, lapped by the steady current which led to the high waterfall. This had petals of the purist white she observed. Then in another moment she thought she spotted the two hornets as they flew high overhead seemingly in a race with each other and headed in the same direction as her tree. As she herself had been headed only moments ago.

When Yogi had recovered satisfactorily, she returned to her tree at a more observant speed, glancing overhead more often now, until she came to where the Tarantula was busily stocking his larder with the last of the two hornet bodies, pushing it further from her sight, deeper inside his webbed pantry within the hollow.

‘Spider, It’s true,’ she cried, ‘The lotus flower they spoke of,’ she went on to explain to the all ears spider, ‘Though I found it first,’ she scoffed, ‘They lied of course,’ she felt sure, ‘And this is what happens when you lie to Yogi the wise one.’

‘Really, oh wise one,’ was all the spider said in reply to the mud daubers claim, finishing his work, and crouching low instead on his bough, examining his claws for wear while Yogi continued to boast of her wisdom which she felt sure had led her to find the lotus flower.

Though it was a she suspended herself once more, and meditated on her cleverness with utmost pride, that the tarantula began to wind her in by the silken thread, carefully, as if he was but a gentle wind who would not disturb her.

‘Oh Yogi,’ the tarantula yelled in her ear, making her throw her folded legs apart. A moment of vulnerability which was all the spider needed as he sank his poison fangs into her soft thorax, pinning her abdomen down with leg claws, to avoid her deadly stinger.
‘But why spider? Why?’ the wasp implored as the poison took its affect paralyzing her limbs.

‘I thought you were wise,’ the spider answered matter of factly, ‘Though you trusted me as a friend knowing we are born enemies,’ there was no feebleness in his voice now, only vehemence, as he continued: "You’re boasting, and your pride, have sickened me’ he paused to hiss: ‘Over something… which is more than likely a lie.’

‘But, I could have taken you there,’ she gasped as the poison suffocated her, realizing to late that she should have killed him when she’d had the chance, ‘I saw it,’ she gasped three last words, realizing with a final terrored thought, her dawning realization, that all her meditations, and wise words had amounted to nothing but this, her dying humiliation.

‘I would not have gone even if I’d had wings, like yours Yogi,’ he told her, ‘For I have this tree, and this is my home,’ he paused to take a short sip of her juice, ‘Besides, in a short time I will see weather you lie or tell the truth. You are not the first mud dauber to whom I have offered my silken services,’ he told her, ‘And no doubt you will not be the last. ‘Unless,’ he paused to consider the possibility which was favorite in his mind, and always the case, ‘You and your little hornet friends do speak the truth.’

A short while after adding Yogi to his pantry, the tarantula made his way along the most southern bough which reached out beyond even the newest growth. And there upon a frond he looked down at the jungle river which appeared no bigger than a stream. It was here from his vantage point that he focused his eight eyes upon the rocks which poked above the glass mirror like pieces of gravel at its most narrow point, ‘Mm,’ the spider
debated as he pondered on the rocks with intrigue, and then turned his eyes to view the other bank, ‘We’ll l see,’ he said, as he continued to stare longingly at the outline of thick jungle. A place he had always wanted to live. His only barrier the river across.

For three months he waited, though no more wise fools brought him news of any more perfect lotus flowers. However the dry winter season came, and with it the lowering of the jungle river waters, ‘So they were all wise then,’ he forgave them though their deaths
all three, had been part of the necessity, ‘Though I am wisest,’ he praised himself out loud, ‘Their wisdom has proved useful,’ he concluded further in their praise, as he studied the completed appearance of the stepping stones which led to the bank, every last one appearing now, to poke above the river surface like the bobbing shells of turtles, inviting him with a safe passage to cross. A path which was irresistible to him, and one which beckoned immediately. There would he hoped be more mud daubers and the likes of quarry there, and perhaps another river with perfect lotus flowers he hoped, feeling already unstoppable, as he jumped down frond to frond until he reached the jungle floor, and then crawled cautiously toward the stepping stones. Blithely, as you or I might being him, in his claims of "…gone beyond and returned again." His reluctance of self name: a way to disarm his pantry avenued guests.

The tribesmen waited patiently as their chief cleaned his teeth meticulously with one of the tarantula fangs. A fang which had belonged to the largest spider in a mornings catch, A fine specimen of about 10 years in prime from a well stocked pantry, caught near the bank just beyond the stepping stones: Alerted by the scout, the others had watched its slow and cautious journey with silent mirth while their chief had crept with stealth from under a bush, his arms outstretched, hands moving unseen like a magician, and then deftly grabbed the spider by the thorax, folded back its eight legs and wrapped the spider in a leaf for transportation back to the camp site to light the already prepared fire….

‘What,’ the chief began haltingly raising his hands above his head, as if the taste of the large tarantula had put the very next words in his mouth, ‘What use is wisdom, if it brings no profit to the wise?’

Though it was not the nod they’d been waiting for, and no answer came as the men regarded him and then each other with bemused looks, relived by the belching which immediately followed the wise words of their chief, familiar sounds which gave them hope yet.

For a long moment the chief pondered with them on what he’d felt compelled to say, as if a student to his own words. Then after a frown and a wild whoop of infectious laughter in which they all joined, and only when their stitches were quite better, did he nod for them to begin eating their meal of roast tarantula omelet with native grunts and mewls of devilish pleasure.