The girl and her dog went out looking for water. Their
walking made very little noise and from their footprints arose subtle wafts
that said: ‘thirst, thirst.’
A kindly sloth came ambling through the forest, smelled the
thirsty footsteps, and caterwauled directions to the nearest clearwater stream.
“Right at the largest blackberry bush!
Left at the tree that looks like a broken leg!” Other sloths could have
understood him, but to the girl and her dog it came out: “Raawrr aorhgh aorhgh.”
The girl and her dog were happy folk, and had a natural
interest in things. If they came across a butterfly or a snake’s eggs, they
would pause and observe with enchantment. This pausing hadn’t been a problem before, but soon they
began to notice that whenever they felt enchantment, their thirst intensified.
This became most evident when they encountered an oddly
glossy mushroom, shaped like an ear. They bent down to examine its minute hairs
and beautiful gloss. But oh! This made the thirst unbearable. They turned away
from the mushroom and their thirst subsided.
The dog whined.
Life went on like this--that is to say, miserably. They did not die because they
sometimes found water. But it was always in insufficient amounts: quantities
that would have barely taken the edge off the thirst of a hummingbird.
Over time, to survive, their eyes became dim to the world. Rarely, only rarely, their vision was snatched by a shimmering caterpillar or the majesty of the stars. But whenever this happened, their shared tongue would swell and dry
up like a salted slug.
Yes, they shared a tongue, but it’s of no importance really.
The only importance is that of lost hope, and of the futile caterwauling of the sloth.
