WYLD: Book Two

By Cabe Lindsay

Crows, rabbit holes, and Fawn LaRose lead the way home in wild Wyoming. A mystical and whimsical journey of little people with great spirit continues in WYLD: Book Two. Fawn is a second-year student at The School of Human Interaction with Animals (SHIWA). Her journey with skinny dipping, spelunking, and shape-shifting is unlike any you'

• Language: English
• Publisher: ARISE Video Studio
• Release date: Nov 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781087903385

Cabe Lindsay

Cabe Lindsay, M.A., is a prolific artist and media specialist. He is the owner and director of Arise Video Studio, located in Austin, Texas. Whether he is working long hours behind the camera, or making cartoons and laughing behind the scenes, his joy is apparent in his work. His philosophy is to focus on the brilliance and beauty in this world, as that's where the magic happens. Mr. Lindsay is an accomplished storyteller, with numerous works in fine art, children's literature, young adult fiction, non-fiction, music, and film. See cabelindsay.com.

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Book Two

Cabe Lindsay

Acknowledgments

I dedicate this book to my creative influences, beginning with my dad, mom, and brother. My warm embrace extends to all the artists who bless this world with brilliance and beauty they bring through their singing, painting, writing, dancing... respecting the creative spirit.

Chapter 1

Little People Perspectives

From a distance, everybunny is little. Most of my friends live in faraway places, making them small in my memory map. I see Paisley most often, ’cause she’s a tennis player whose team visits my town on game days. I like watching her play. She likes seeing me watching her. Nada visits on occasional concert performances with his dad, who leads a bluegrass band. I like listening up close when Nada plays the fiddle. He likes dancing with me from a distance. Allegra meets me at a rock climbing rendezvous at Devils Tower—the solidified core of an ancient volcano. We don’t get a chance to talk, though, ’cause rock climbing is a solo mission. All of us like each other a lot, but we’re not a lot alike.

Heron is my bestie, even though I see him least—that’s why he’s physically tiny to me at times. In my special interior rapport, though, he is larger-than-life, ’cause I miss him so much he grows out of proportion. I call him twice a week, and he returns my call once a month. It’s an 8:1 call-and-response ratio that accurately summarizes our communication pattern, ’cause I’m a talker and he’s a listener.

On a special occasion, I arrange a conference call with my uncle, who is a self-proclaimed expert on a hot topic: little people, a.k.a. intraterrestrial beings. Uncle Bear speaks matter-of-factly about the little people, who he calls Nirumbee, which is the name given by the Crow tribe. According to Uncle Bear, the Crow treated Nirumbee with respect, referring to them as the owners of the earth. By comparison, though, the little people are called Nimerigar in Shoshone folklore, meaning: tiny people eaters—cannibals. Historians blew off these folktales until some gold miners blew open a cave near Casper, Wyoming, where they discovered a mummy preserved in ice. He was a 65-year-old man, frozen in a 6-inch tall seated position, estimated to stand at 14 inches.

I wish there was more information available about mysterious beings such as these, but the otherworldly subjects are often lost or forgotten, I notice. I wonder why. I guess it’s ’cause our collective consciousness focuses on the human experience, and everything else is less important in our culture. But this apparent disregard for the magic and the mystery in life isn’t the case in Iceland, home of the Huldufólk—hidden people. These are the elves who can make themselves visible at will, while living in a parallel world. Their presence is documented and celebrated still to this day.

Beholding the Great Unknown is my greatest known joy in life. And the best news ever is the fact that there are endless possibilities to explore. I’m thankful to have an ideal learning environment in The School of Human Interaction with Animals (SHIWA). I just wish it was all-year-long. I’m hopeful to find further proof of the little people, whether they be elves, gnomes, fairies, cannibals… Intraterrestrial beings are surely out there, in those vast cavernous underworlds, hiding out of sight from us surface dwellers with our human-centric ego trips. Maybe I am the little people’s only ally. They speak to me, and sing. For them, I’m all ears.

The local library showcases Speculative Fiction: books in the subgenres of science fiction, superhero fiction, utopian and dystopian fiction… along with horror and fantasy. Each of these genres includes some mention of little people, indicating their recognition in folklore and mythology worldwide—these are the influences that inspire the stories. I find myself empathizing with the little people, putting myself into their little shoes, imagining their little lives.

I think my fascination with little people is rooted in the animal fantasy books, where we readers take flight as birds, or we scurry underground as mice. My favorite storytellers look outside of the ordinary life experience, delving into the supernatural. For example, I love Cosmicomics, by Italo Calvino, whose stories take readers to places in the cosmos where there are no humans, no aliens, just god-like beings who are relatable by their desires, passions, and attempts to leave their mark on the universe. These are the tales where we play galactic games of marbles with planets, and we leap between the stars.

I live to imagine. Books are godsends for outside-the-box thinkers like me who resist the ordinary patterns of life, screaming, "Cockadoodledoo!" like a rooster, waking people up. I find myself obsessing over fairy tales, with their fantastic heroes, damsels, and villains. In a way, I may relate most with the wicked ones—wolves, dragons, and vampires, with their canines and claws, going against the grain of the mainstream. I know how to hop into my furry, four-legged cottontail state, leaping down my rabbit holes.

I can’t be wild at heart and kept in a cage. I break out. And if I can’t break through, I break down. But books open me up. They bring me outside the norm, lighting me up mentally and creatively. When I first read One Hundred Years of Solitude, by Gabriel García Márquez, I cried for the girl who is so beautiful everyone dies upon seeing her, and I laughed for the man who lives far longer than he should. Life is strange, tragic, and magic, just as it is written in this book. The genre of literature we call Magical Realism is a lot like Psychedelic Rock music: mind-altering, artful, and medicative.

Fawn! my mom calls across the house, are you zoning out again? Ugh. I just want some space to think. Come play a board game with us. I don’t wanna play. I wanna think. You can be black. This is an attempt to compromise on her end, knowing that black is my favorite color, but my brothers say black is a boy’s color, so they make me be pink. I’ll take you for ice cream afterwards. Fine, mom, I’ll play your time-sucking game, if it helps you feel better about yourself.

In this household, I’m the little person. ’Cause I’m the one who’s different. I am the lightweight among the heavyweights, and I’m the underdog among overachievers—that makes me an unlikely winner, but not necessarily a loser. I’m the wily oddball among the level-headed. That makes me a trickster—a white wolf in a black sheep’s clothing.

Chapter 2

Vertical Thinking

I just want my jetpack, so I can go up to God. Heck, I’ll even scuba dive down to the Great Mystery. Either way, there are no roads for a vertical thinker. There are only open spaces. I wonder if I am the only one who wonders what else is out there—up there and down there? Is anyone watching me up there, or feeling me down there, or listening in here? Who are the voices that speak inside, influencing me? Am in control of the radio switch, changing reception between the channels, tuning in or out? I just wanna tune up.

The strangest part of normalcy, to me, is the horizontal thinking. I think most people just wanna rush forward, staying on the level plane, moving left, right, front, and back. People in my neighborhood drive fast in their cars, leaving long skidmarks when they dodge me on my beach cruiser, soaking up the Sun. These same neighbors try to outrun the rainstorms, hiding under umbrellas, hurrying into their houses while I’m out in the puddles, splashing and dancing.

My inspiration comes from nature, which is vertically-inclined and also symbiotic. Trees root down in order to branch up, giving gifts to the animal kingdom. Beavers and squirrels regulate the tree cycles, along with birds and bees, benefiting the plant kingdom. Meanwhile, among the fungus, the mycelial network works wonders in secrecy, tirelessly, thanklessly, creating medicines and revitalizing soils, to benefit other kingdoms. In my history lessons, I see that people’s kingdoms routinely destroy other kingdoms.

In the LaRose household kingdom, I am the jester. With five brothers, I’m the second youngest kid and the only girl in my family, making me the butt of all the jokes. Yet, my brothers are the ones who light their farts on fire, which is only slightly less offensive than a buttercup—that’s when they catch a fart in their hand and open it in my face. I’ve been known to knock a soda on my brother’s lap for that nonsense.

Much of my life situation is good from afar, but far from good. To illustrate, my music teacher says I’m a strong singer, but hides me on the sidelines with the other sopranos, never giving me a solo to sing. I would be a straight-A student, if it wasn’t for P.E. class—physical education is for dummies who like to run in circles and play with their balls. Balls! What’s the big deal about balls? The balls I respect are fireballs, like the Sun and the embers—the closer we get to those flames, the quicker we burn. My friendships tend to end like that.

If there’s one thing I can say to summarize my experience as a 15-year-old gal, living in rural Wyoming, USA, planet Earth, Milky Way galaxy, it is this: I am a visitor among strangers here. My home, and my place of belonging are someplace else. Maybe my place is in the stars. Maybe I’m an alien. Who knows? As much as I try to fit in and find my place, I still feel lost. As much as I try to love, be lovable, and be loved, self-love is all I have, really. Maybe this will change in time, if I meet the right person and say the right things. Maybe I will earn the right to be in love, if the stars align and my heart is light enough to attract another heart to beat next to mine. I try.

In this world, fitting in means blending into our surroundings, like chameleons, so we camouflage ourselves. We wear our uniforms, to reflect our conformity, because otherwise, we risk standing out. And standing out is considered extreme, rebellious, or weird. I witness the whiteness and blackness of certain counterculture groups, for example, as a statement of their non-conformity, showing who they are and what they stand for. Beatniks, hipsters, and heavy metal fanatics wear all black. Purists, cultists, and Ku Klux Klansmen wear all white. Heck, I once saw a kid get locked inside his locker just because he wore a purple shirt, considered gay by the homophobe. That leaves only a gray area, for neutrality.

In the crayon box of life, we’re safest with the neutral tones, like the plain bare earth. But deep down, we know we need our green brushstrokes, aquamarine splashes, and red auroras. And for emphasis: black, dangit, black! Black was the first color, after all, and it’s the last color we see at night. We even see it in the day, in the shade, in the raven, in the bear... Black is everywhere. I’m taking the power black.

You’re acting like an animal, mom tells me. Were you born in a barn? she asks. She says I’m out there, in a negative way, just like she says I’m wild, in an effort to tame me down. But I was born to be out there. Wild is my birthright. In fact, that’s the part of Wyoming I relate with most. Wild animals surround us in Wyoming, whether or not we see. When they’re not out roaming in the open, they’re hidden in the shadows, where all colors return to black. One day, I wish to see a moose in the wild, just as much as I’d like to see a little person. I see signs I’m coming close. It’s wild out there. So am I.

With all of these thoughts in mind, I’m putting my focus into SHIWA. Being in nature it is the closest thing I know to home, and heaven on earth, and true academia. To me, it is the ideal learning environment ’cause it shows me my nature, drawing out the inner knowing. Yes! Education isn’t about putting information into a learner. Education is about drawing the wisdom out of a learner, so we can find and refine our talents, so we can bring our gifts into the worlds. The role of a teacher is to be a mirror, supporting students as they shine in their own ways, radiating the light from within.

Now, where’s that jetpack I’m waiting for?

Chapter 3

Boredom

One weekend, nearing the end of freshman year, my mom busses us to Heron’s hometown for my brother’s soccer tournament. She lets me hang with Heron, on the two conditions that: (1) I won’t get lost; and (2) I won’t burden anyone. Interestingly, I had to make that same promise at SHIWA last summer. Mom drops me off at Heron’s mom’s bookstore, Sunflower Books. It’s a booklover’s paradise with autographs,