His steps are short. They are long. He jumps. He crawls. He sniffs the buzz in the air. The scents wafting in the air. The love in the million molecules he can feel pass by him. He stops and touches the little dew hanging off the lush green all around him. He springs and he crouches. He is a creature of Mother Earth. A self-appointed guardian. He prances and waltz. The lake’s transparent surface ripples in it’s wake. The birds fly. They chirp and tweet and fly away like one for another morning. Their endless joy. He stops and hops and follows the little hare in his way. He breaks a branch and bites a twig. The sweet, decadent taste filling the cavern of his mouth. He watches as the raindrops fall, some crashing, some pit-pattering, some hitting him right on the face. He leaps over fallen, rotten trunks of trees. His eyes follow the insects marching in and out of it. He picks up one - a red and plumpy one. He inspects it with one eye, looking at with fondness and love. He gingerly puts it back in it’s place and laughs, tossing his head back. He nods in understanding as the red beetle thanks him for sparing it’s life and looking after their motherland. He is a god to them. He shakes his head happily and bounds away. He inhales the sweet smell of wet ground. Petrichor. He rolls over the only patch of brown in the otherwise green flood. He soaks up the happiness radiating from all around him. He can hear the birds, the tigers, the panthers, the deer, the peacocks and his other terrestrial friends enjoying the first rain. The light, cool breeze caressing him. He frolicked around occasionally slipping and tripping on his limbs and falling. His deep rumble of laughter, the only sound disturbing the quiet of the dusk.

 

He watches the sun go down behind the far away clearing and the night becomes clearer and sharp. His eyelids fall shut.

 

 

>>> 

 

 

If it were not for the fact that he was lost, he would have appreciated the scenic beauty around him but, as it was, he was lost. He had lost sight of every single member who had come along with him on the trip. He had been roaming for god knows how many hours. He was sure he had circled around the same place thrice. He was sweating, his clothes sticking to him in places. He had tripped on who knows what and had fallen. He was covered in mud and was still able to taste it in his mouth. He had shouted himself hoarse but, there was no rescue team to his aid. He had left trails behind him. Yet, no one found him except for himself. He saw his own footsteps impressioned into the wet ground. He even matched the foot size. It was exact! It was him. However, all the trail that he had put so much effort into had disappeared just like the red jacket he had dropped at a very strategic point for his fellow travellers to discover. Was he doomed? Min Yoongi was not going to let himself die in the forest because he got lost! As soon as he got back, he would kill Namjoon. It was the worst idea ever. He could have been sleeping right now having some juice. And, yet, here he was rotting in the mids of the woods and no one knew where he was.

 

They had been travelling in a bus. They were going hiking from Chang’an, a village in a valley. Their journey had already been delayed because of the petrol stock which had not been sufficient and they had to go buy more. They had been in Xonasen the night before. Chang’an was a day away if they followed the roads. However, the driver was a local guide and knew the place very well. There was a shortcut, he said, through the forests of Dadakishlag. An overnight bus journey and they would be near the foots of Mt. Bianliang even before the hot sun rays reached the earth surface, he had said. Yoongi had been one of the first persons to agree. He had always wanted to travel but, his parents had never allowed. He was the eldest in his generation and the next in line (after his brother) to be their Clan Leader. He had responsibilities. He could not leave.

 

Yoongi had been six years old, an age where impressions could be made life-lasting for someone, when he first heard the name Dadakishlag. There was an old man in their city who claimed he had come from far. That he had seen great many things he could never imagine. Always tasked with something, Yoongi only ever had once chance of meeting him. He had been coming back from the market, buying a toy for his little cousin and impress his mother. The Old Man stopped him and asked him what he wanted to do in life. Yoongi had snorted and said haughtily, like any pampered six year old would say, “be the Best Command to my Leader. Excuse me, sir, I am going home.”

 

“Do you not want to visit the rest of the world, my child?”, he had asked.

 

“No.”

 

“Then, come inside. I’ll show you a little something.”

 

“I have to go. Don’t have time.”

 

“It’ll take only a while, my son. Then, you are free to go.”

 

Upon entering his house, his round little eyes widened as he watched in amazement the decorated walls of the wooden house. They were painted green. Dark green. Forest green, the Uncle had whispered. It was so beautiful. It looked real. It even smelled like one. Not that young Master Yoongi had been anywhere out of his province but, he had brains and he knew how forests would smell like.

 

“You are a wonderful painter.” Let no one say he was not polite. A strange smell wafted from the inside of the house and his nose twitched.

 

“Ah? You can smell it? Wonderful, isn’t it? It soothes my nerves.” The Old Man went inside and had come back with a black, shining bowl in his hand. “Want to try some?” There was a brown liquid swirling in it and Yoongi’s eyes were fixed on the way light reflected off it into seven different colours. Fascinating. The scent, however, was strong and he quickly turned his head away.

 

“It smells yuck.” His face scrunched involuntarily. So much for politeness. Sigh.

 

The Old Man, however, looked far from offended. He laughed and pulled Yoongi’s arms and placed the bowl with the crystal clear.. broth in them.

 

“Tea.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“It’s a type of tea.”

 

Yoongi placed his lips at the rim of the cold bowl and sipped at the liquid cautiously. It was sweet and yet.. tangy? Soury. He sipped quite more than what he had planned. He shuffled over to where a really old looking table stood, one of it’s leg broken. He placed the bowl on it carefully and marvelled at the painted walls.

 

“It looks so real.” He gasped. It was all green and brown and blue sky.

 

The Old Man’s eyes were twinkling. “It is. Real.”

 

“Not possible.” He may be six but, he knew paintings and reality.

 

“It is not an imagination, I meant. This place is real.”

 

“Really?”

 

He touched the walls, moving his fingers against them slowly, feeling the uneven surface beneath his finger tips and he closed his eyes and inhaled the smell of the paint. In his mind, he could picture the forest; himself, running, his boots crunching the dead leaves underneath it. His eyes opened. There was a dark silhouette painted, right where he had stopped, which contrasted against the blue of the clearing.

 

“What is it?” It was no tree, he could tell.

 

The Old Man’s eyes shined in glee. “The secret of Dadakishlag.”