How often on a hellish hot, doleful day, the forest would be soothed by the wind's balmy breath. But now the wind has a different role to play: that of holocaust's merciless angel of death. This wailing wind is no bringer of balm with which to ease the forest's agonies but instead is the dread harbinger of harm: those fierce fairies that tease and torture trees. Nature's ignoble tree fellers, appointed to a task so base, so dire, like rank, malignant cancers climb the ranks of leaves, reaching ever higher. Wicked tongues of fire lick the forest's wicks: firs lit as though they were a birthday cake's candles. The wind just deepens further the forest's fix as it huffs and it puffs to try snuff out the vandals. What a silly mistake! Not at all very clever! Now the fairies will bake more vigorously than ever. For the wind, blowing like a giant bellows, just serves to invoke the forest-fire folk. And in turn, from the belching forest billows forth a filthy cloak of suffocating smoke. The wind brings no joyful sigh of relief to the forest on this doleful day but instead brings a joyless cry of grief as the forest drowns in a sea of grey. From the overwhelming evidence it would appear as though the fairies and the wind are in collusion to bring the proud forest and its residents, I fear, to a rather dismally premature conclusion. Each of the Bellow's billowing gusts of air is greeted with a flurry of excitement by flames that feverishly flicker and flare as they are aroused by the wind's incitement. Gleefully flitting to and fro, they perform a devilish dance in perfect time to he wayward wind's flow-fluctuations and, like diabolic ballerinas, they pirouette and prance to the roaring, crackling music of mutilation. They welcome the wooing of the wind with leaps of delight and engage in a rather licentious affair. Unable to contain themselves, the fervent flames take flight as burning tree-debris tears free into the air. Like a highly contagious and uncontrollable disease, spreading relentlessly further and further, the frolicking forest-fire fairies infect healthy trees as they ride the wind and fly from fir to fir. One by one, the reverend conifers are consumed by irreverent cones of fire. Sadistically the vital sap of the firs is bled by these blood-red raging spires. Crackling leaves twist and writhe in the wrath that they incur as trees are caught in the searing scythe of the infernal harvester. The firs are adorned with fiery, flickering lights and glitter and glow like electric Christmas trees. What a spectacular sight as swarms of spiteful sprites revel in the forest-fire festivities! But this is no occasion for wild celebration - not for the humiliated firs at least. Forced to attend their own funeral and cremation, they lament long-standing fellows now deceased. But for those fiendish fairies it is cause for elation as they partake of the delicious forest-feast. Devouring everything in its path, this conflagration swallows the forest like a ravenous beast. The fairies, like a malicious gang of thieves, pillage this verdurous village with utter disregard and relieve the trees of all their precious leaves, leaving these sacred stores of life-force sapped and charred. How black the blood-red fairies are! How dark is the glare of their life-consuming tongues! How black the evil fairies char! Like nicotine tar clogging Mother Nature's lungs. With the wind behind, they become a full-blown blaze and bite like blights into the forest's lofty members. Swiftly these raging sprites ravage the trees and raze them to a carpet of feeble, dying embers. Like a plague of plundering rats, they swiftly spread, nibbling and gnawing at the forest's fine fir-fare. To the directions of a pied-piper, they're lead unwittingly by the wailing wind into a snare. Saving for last those piquant parts that they most favour, they hastily guzzle down the dry and tasteless twigs and then proceed to slowly savour the fine flavour of the tender and deliciously succulent sprigs. Without constraint, the fairies partake of the forest-fete. Sparing nothing, the gluttons scoff, defecating smoke. But they too will be humbled for they'll share the forest's fate as they are stifled in their own waste, and cough and choke.......to death! They are an illness for which death is the only cure. For these fiends will die if the forest dies. Inflicting suffering that the firs cannot endure, they are the architects of their own demise. With their orgy, they have squandered their ill-gotten gains, like the parasite that foolishly kills its host. With no fuel left to feed it, the fire soon wanes till at that's left is a glimmering red ghost. Now the celebrations are a thing of the past. No longer do the coniferous candles glow. This birthday turns out to be the fairies first and last, for no longer does the fateful forest-fire grow. Of humble origin, the fairies were born of the tinder. Yet, borne on the wind, they proudly soared in flight. Now, humbled once again, they are buried under the cinder. But they do not surrender without a fight. For, despite their sad fate that steadily approaches, the stubborn die-hards, the more virulent strains, like a hideous horde of scavenging cockroaches, viciously rape the forest's sorry remains. It's pathetic indeed to watch the famished fairies forage in desperation amongst the forest's ashes. Even after bringing the proud forest to its knees, they still have the gall to loot these last remaining stashes. Both forest and fire are in their final death-throes, straining against the suffocating smoke-filled air. This is the bitter end for the forest and its foes, but at least it's also the end of this nightmare. But, before a new forest's dawn, must come the old forest's doom. All these tribulations are in fact just labour pains. For, with the cinder-rich soil as the warm, nurturing womb, a new forest shall be born when once again it rains. |