Old Goat

 

As life would have it, even the very creatures of nature must have their occasional disputes.  And even the best of friends do not always see eye to eye.

So it was with two of God’s creatures of the mountains and hills, one day -- Precipious, the venerable old mountain goat, his crusty exterior belying the soft and gentle spirit beneath, and Symmantria, the silvery bejeweled Kohoe salmon;  sleek, supple, graceful.

I tell you this story, not as a gossipmonger, eager to pass on tales told to me, but from first-hand knowledge, and with the abiding respect that I hold for each of my dear friends in this account.

Like most goats are  wont to do, Precipious had his definite opinions, and seldom hesitated to state them emphatically.  Of course, his aggressive approach created the aura of “I know, and I’m not open to other opinions.”  However, truth be told, he eagerly accepted the viewpoints of others, chewed on them awhile, and sometimes spit them out, sometimes swallowed.

Symmantria, though, was more subtle.  Gliding through the vast expanses of ocean, and the miles of creek and riverbed that were the lifeblood of these mountains, she had seen much, absorbed most.  Constantly craving new morsels of ideas, she remained in awe of the world, her mouth opening and closing rhythmically as she savoured and digested the world around her.  The world in which she was immersed was a veritable cornucopia of experiences for her.  Yet, she, too, held strong views on most matters.

For all their differences, Precipious and Symmantria had forever been fast friends.  Twice each day, old Precipious would wend his way across broken rock, down jagged cliffs, through treacherous boulder beds to meet his soulmate at the mountain stream’s edge.  Morning and night, day after day, never tiring of her company, he travelled the spartan and ancient pathways.

For her part, Symmantria knew she would navigate the most death-daring falls, upstream the entire way, to share her moments with Precipious.

But two more differing personalities could not be found.  It then was inevitable that this day would come.  Precipious gnawed at a bitter salsifry clinging to the rock outcrop near the river’s edge, spitting it out, and griping instantly.

“Seems all this useless creek can grow is garbage,” he muttered.  “Give me the tender edelweiss of my beloved mountaintop, any day.”

For Symmantria this was sacrilege.  Not one for attacking others’ beliefs, she danced and wiggled around the insult.

“My beautiful waterway provides the most lovely of blooms.  Why, just down a ways from here, where deep pools of blue lay, grow the most exquisite water lilies, by the thousands.  I don’t believe I have ever seen you venture that way.”

Perhaps a not quite subtle enough dig at Precipious ‘s reluctance to explore the fresh young world in the valley.

“Every second that passes, my beautiful stream carries fresh, new moisture to nourish all the living things who choose to dwell in her care.”

“What do you know of the beauty that lays beyond these muddy banks?” Precipious retorted.  “Just last night, as I worked my way here, I had to stop dozens of times to admire the magnificence of the world around me.  Granite and feldspar so crimson I felt the heat radiate from it.  Mica so black, I thought it must contain all the darkest nights ever created.  Quartz so pure, I tasted it to see if it were ice.  That’s beauty.  And it’s dwelled in these mountains for eons longer than your weak little watercourse.

Why, every time it thunders up in my mountains, your beloved brook quakes and cries until its banks overflow with tears.  How naïve can one riverbed be, to fear the thunder?”

“Yes,” offered Symmantria.  “But look how young, beautiful and lively my river is.  Always changing, always fresh and sparkling with excitement.  And your old rocks, what can they provide?”

She was warming to the argument, forgetting her tender diplomacies.

“Certainly those ugly stones have been around forever. But what pleasures do they have?  Antiquated, rigid, out of touch with today.  And when they are angered, they roll and rumble their way through anything in their path, never caring for the sensitivities of others.  Has age helped them any?”

Such insults could not be ignored.

“When the icy winds blow, what of your fragile stream?  Frozen.  No courage to face the strength of the wind.  Why, my mountaintop opens up caverns and cliffs for me to shelter myself.  Those “old rocks” stand there bravely, daring the wind to try to touch me.  That’s courage.”

It was too much for Symmantria.  With a flash of her fin, a twist of her tail, she darted downstream over the gurgling rapids, to recover from the hurtful comments of her friend.  Muttering to herself, she sought out a quiet eddy in the rapids.  Here, she angrily whacked at the pebbles and stones in her way. 

“Rock, stone, pebble.  What do I care for them?” 

Whack followed whack.  Soon, the tiny rapids were barren of any debris.  A strange silence enveloped the brook.  No longer did it bubble and sing.  Too late, she realized the error.  The pebbles, polished round and smooth by her rivulet of water,  had been the reason for the songs of her beloved watery network.

And with that realization came another.  “Why, without sand and stone, my tiny babies would never have found the safe haven they needed to grow, safely, to adulthood.”  And then another.  You know, in the lee of just about every boulder, I can count on finding a tasty morsel of food being held there for me.  Perhaps Precipious was right.”

And she turned to swim with all her energy, back upstream.  “Poor Precipious.  I must apologize.”

Precipious, angry beyond reason, was hoarse from his bellowing at Symmantria.  His throat was dry and parched.  To soothe himself, he bent to the creek to swallow mouthful after mouthful of fresh, clear water.

“I never realized how delicious this stream water tastes,” he thought.  Quickly, he pushed such weak thoughts aside, and turned to the lush grasses waving at him along the banks.  “How tasty and tender the grasses grow here,” he acknowledged.

An ache rose inside him.  “I didn’t know just how important this brook was to me.  Why, if it weren’t for its graciousness and youthful energy, it would never have been able to carry my lovely Symmantria to meet with me each day.

With that, he, too, moved downstream to find his friend, and apologize.

Now, don’t you just love happy endings?  As I told you at the start, this isn’t idle gossip, and I didn’t make it up.  I know. I was there.

For that matter, I still am, for you see, I am that craggy old mountain of rocks of which they spoke.

And, I am particularly fond of telling you how right both Precipious and Symmantria were about that beautiful young brook that they praised.  For you see, also, she too is still here, coursing through my miles of mountain veins, filling each day with her song, and youthful vigour.

And, I hope, she will remain with me always, in spite of any differences we may have.

 

Youth and age.  They each offer something special, and any differences don’t matter.