Blooming Buds

 

Megan Hendry

 

19 September 2001

 

 

         It was a fine day for sports, with a clear blue sky and barely a ripple of a breeze to disturb the treetops.

         More specifically, it was a terrific day for Tree Bagging.

         Buckla Skivvyot sat on the highest, ancient limb of a kana boa tree.  That tree had, through time, planning, and the skillful ingenuity involving the ancient art of the tree molding (or bending and shaping of tree branches to form shapes of designs) had formed what looked like a series of slides, loops, and ramps.

         Buckla sighed with happiness.  He was an odd looking creature—black furred, tall, lean and lithe.  He had a wide fuzzy face with stripes over each eye and a large wrinkle fold underneath that reached from the top of his short muzzle to his lower eyelid.  It made him look quite jolly.  His ears were short and round, with white tips.  He had masses of fur on his head and neck, which he tied back into a ponytail at the nape except for a large tuft at the front that was his bangs.   There was also a long lock of fur behind his left cheek that had been wrapped in red and orange twine—at the end of this dangled a small gold medallion.

         His foot paws, like his fore paws, had large, curved claws to help him climb.  But what he didn’t have on his fore paws was a large retractable claw at the inside of each ankle.  This claw could be stored at the top of his heel for easy walking, or pulled down so that the curved point faced towards the ground to aid his claws in scaling trees.  His species were called Siriri.

         Buckla smiled again as a fresh zephyr rushed past him.

         Tree Bagging is a sport played on very tall, sturdy, ancient trees.  It’s a lot like skate boarding or snowboarding except that there’s no board and no snow.  What you do have are the baggs, which are like leather shoes that have holes for your toes, and heel dewclaw to stick out.  There laces you tighten around your ankle and the bagg.  Last, but most importantly, is the sewn on pocket at the bottom. 

         Inside the pocket is tallow mixed with sand, for those who are advanced Tree Baggers.  For intermediates, there is tallow mixed with cork shavings—and for those who are just beginning to learn the sport, there is bees wax with shredded wood fibers.  There are small punctures in the bottom the pocket to let small amounts of the tallow or bees wax through to keep the bottoms of the bags slick.  Also, the bags are oiled to keep them supple and stretchy.

         Once you have the bags on, you get up on a tree that has been tree molded and Tree Bagg (or skate) to a chosen finishing point!  In a tournament, you get extra points for doing tricks.  It is a fast, dangerous, exciting sport.

         Buckla thought vaguely at the back of his mind that his face might break if it were possible for him to grin any harder.  Today was the day that the tournament was scheduled to take place and the whole Siriri tribe was giddy.  Tree Bagging had been invented and continued to be played vigorously by the Siriris.  The game had been invented generations ago and had been a tremendous success ever since.  Between his chores and training, Buckla spent every available moment practicing his form (or chosen combination of twists, turns, tricks and grand finish).

         He’d been practicing for months.  He’d oiled and refilled his baggs with tallow and sand.  Now at the day of the tournament, he was a ready as he could possibly be.

         Buckla smiled as he saw the younger kits, which didn’t have baggs, tie leaves to the bottoms of their footpads and practice on some of the lower limbs of the tree he was sitting on.  They were safe enough.  They had nets secured under the branches to catch the young ones in case they fell. 

         All of the little kits reminded him of little buds, waiting to open and show the brilliant beauty of the flower that was inside.  Some creatures, he realized, never opened at all.  Some had opened to their fullest extent already.  Still others, he pondered, had opened just half way, but continued to progress. 

         “But where am I?”  Buckla thought,  “Am I at the opening stage?”

         THWOCK!  THWOCK!  THWOCK!

         The sound of a Siriri banging on a hollow long brought Buckla back to present.

         With a shake of his furred head, he pushed all thoughts of flowers, buds, and leaf skating kits to the back of his mind as he concentrated on the tournament.  Every new season the Siriris had a tournament, and the creature that had the best mix of balance, tricks and jumps won a small medallion about the size of the iris in your eye.  This was worn at the end of a fur-wrap, which was what Buckla was wearing on the end of his red and orange twine fur-wrap.  The medallion had the image of a paw print with a hind foot dewclaw superimposed over it.  The winner got silver and a blue twine fur wrap; second got gold and a red and orange twine fur wrap; third got bronze and a green, yellow, and turquoise twine fur wrap.

         Last year he won a second place medallion, which hung behind his left cheek.  This year . . . he was going to win first place.

         Buckla spied his friends at the starting point, warming up.  Smiling inwardly this time, he got up and from his lofty perch, he half jumped, half climbed down to the lower branch where the other contestants stood.

         “We were almost going to start without you!”  joked Tacc, a Siriri like Buckla, except that Tacc had let the fur on his head and neck fly every which way.  Tacc had three bronze medallions and two silver ones that hung down his back.  But even though Tacc was twenty-two to Buckla’s eighteen years, he considered Buckla to be his equal.

         “I think the tournament is about to begin,” Rikowe stated.  Rikowe was a quiet fellow who had gotten a long scar from his cheek to his ear from a whippy branch that had caught him while in the Tree Bagging tournament a year ago.

         “All creatures who wish to enter the Tree Bagging Tournament, come forward to the three roped off branch areas!”  the announcer’s voice boomed out loud.  “Only three contestants at a time, one to a roped judging area!  You’ll be judged by the tricks you do, the way you do them, and how fast you finish up!”

         Buckla was pleased to see that he, Tacc, and Rikowe were first together.  Slipping on his baggs and tying them, he ground down on the pockets at the bottom a little to squeeze out a little tallow for a fast start.

         “ON YOUR MARKS.  .  .  . GET SET.  .  .  . GO!!!”

         With a dip of a crimson flag as the signal, the three competitors shot off their starting points like arrows.  All at once though, as soon as Rikowe started, he suddenly doubled up and ended up tumbling down the wide tree ramp to come to rest in a dip at the bottom.

         Tacc shot on, oblivious to any problems but his own.  Buckla, however, did see and slowed down a little, undecided.  Was Rikowe faking injury?  No.  He wasn’t the kind of creature to pull a lie or a practical joke.  Rikowe must be in trouble, Buckla decided.

         Stopping completely, he bounded over to where Rikowe lay.  Buckla realized with great alarm that Rikowe was in great pain, for he was only half conscious and was softly groaning.  His eyes were dilated.  Buckla looked around with alarm.  They were so far down and off to the side  that  no one could see them.  Should he bring Rikowe up to where there was a doctor?  No.  If Rikowe was damaged internally, that would probably only make things worse.  But what if Rikowe rolled off the edge in his pain? 

         Buckla suddenly had an idea.  Ripping off his prized baggs, he tore the laces off.  Then, Buckla tied his laces to the bagg laces that were still on Rikowe’s paws.  Tying the lot off to the branch to keep Rikowe secure, Buckla bounded up and shouted for a doctor.  Pointing out where Rikowe lay, he went back down with the rescue crew to retrieve the wounded Siriri.

         Almost immediately after that, the jovial festivities ground to a halt.  The doctors took hours inside the emergency tent, and when they came out again, looking tired and sore, but happy, everyone breathed a little easier.  They explained what happened.   

         “Rikowe had appendicitis,”  the doctors said, “we almost didn’t get it out in time, and we have you to thank, young Buckla, for your speedy rescue.”

         “Ummm, may I go in and see him?” ask Buckla, slightly unused to so much attention at once.

         “Sure.  He owes you his life.  But don’t stay in too long—he needs his rest,” one of the doctors replied.

         Rikowe looked at Buckla through hazy eyes.  “Thanks, Buck.  Thought I was a goner out there.”

         “Hey, what are friends for?  You OK?”   Buckla asked.

         “Yeah, had stomach pains yesterday.   Didn’t think much of it though . . .”   Rikowe said as he drifted back off to sleep.

         “Maybe my bud is opening a little,”  thought Buckla, as he smiled to himself.