The stench was
horrendous, as was the cold. Then there was the heat, enough to melt us into a
watery puddle like the sap of aphids. But we hung on, not bent nor broken, for
twenty months in that dark, oozing swamp. None of us thought we were going to
make it. Nor was there anyone we could ask about why we had been abandoned there.
We wouldn’t have known who to ask, anyway, even if we had mouths to ask with.
But just when we were about to give up hope, that emotion that only presents
itself under the most futile of guises, hope appeared. Something strong and
flexible swallowed us all, and when we had come to we were inside the creature’s
bowels. The first thing we did was to shed our cilia and grow new skin that
would absorb nutrients easily. Nobody had told us to. We were simply compelled
to do by some mysterious power.
The snail was
paying dearly for its first post-hibernation binge. The rich dung it had
consumed must have been contaminated. It was feeling liverish, its insides
queasily upset. It slowed down its feeding and all other movements, but to no
avail.
It was a better place
than before, that was for sure. It was dark, so there was no need for fear, and
while not ideally so it was warm and moist enough. Made happy by small mercies,
we decided to go through a cycle of benevolent transformations rather than
self-harm or harm our brethren. Miracidium, sporocyst, redia, cercaria…
Complicated names were attached to us. But were all those names really meant
for us? We could not be sure, confused as we were by the multitudes of selves
that poured out of ourselves. Who were we, we that were I, and I that were we? Perhaps
we were gazing at the sky through a straw.
Hampering as our
multiplied state was, however, we found a certain comfort in numbers. The most
obvious benefit was our long tails. Nobody knew what the tails were for, but we
were thankful for them. And our gratitude was not in vain, for the tails helped
us in our next adventure. With the tenacity of grinding an ax down into a
needle, we whipped our fragile tails back and forth. Finally we broke through. We
passed from the spring in the bowels to the lungs. It was a long and arduous
journey and we lost a few brothers, but we made it in the end. Had we not
already been through a situation where our hopes had gone from the merely
hopeful to reality, we would have had a hard time making it.
After four
months of suffering from the same symptoms, the snail nearly asphyxiated itself
coughing up phlegm. Whatever it was that had been plaguing it was finally gone.
Exhausted, the snail lay limp for a while, more dead than alive. The phlegm it
had coughed up was teeming with countless tiny organisms, but the snail with
its poor eyesight did not see them. Relieved that its discomfort was over, the
snail slowly lurched off, leaving behind a world of things it had no interest
in exploring.
Outside, we were
greeted by fresh air. The sun shared its rays equally with all living things,
whether they lived a day or a hundred years. We allowed ourselves to forget for
a moment the harsh reality that lurked around the corner. The world was a peaceful
place.
Reality would not wait
for us, however, and we were soon sucked into an even narrower and darker place
than before. There was even less room and the stench was worse than ever. But
somehow we were reassured that we were going where we had to go. There was
peace in surrendering to the mysterious power that was leading us so far.
The ant slurped
up the sticky stuff without thinking. The white foam was sweeter than anything
it had ever tasted. So foreign was this sensation of bliss, the ant even forgot
to report to its superiors. For the first time in a long time, it felt
completely nourished. Its mouth was filled with the smell of snail, a
concentrated source of protein. Eating the snail itself and taking some back to
the nest would have been better, but it could not have managed that by itself. The
ant satisfied itself with the fact that the foam it was eating tasted almost
exactly like snail. The world was a better place when one appreciated the
attainable over the remote.
Soon, however, it
became obvious that we would have to move on to another place. We did not know
much about revolution or progress, but electing a leader seemed about the same
thing to us. Like an awl poking out of a pocket, he stood out without trying,
and we naturally gravitated towards him. Confident in himself, he made a worthy
leader. We gave him all the credit for us having arrived safely in the new
place, entrusted him with control of everything, and went off to seek an
appropriate place to recuperate from the toll the journey had taken on our
health. Two months, minimum. The leader would have to tame our new host within
that time.
It was not an easy
task. Our leader focused on conveying his thoughts to the host so he might
control it at will. It was rough going, more so than any form of ancient
asceticism. From his place close to the host’s head, the leader trembled from
the effort of controlling the creature. We were in a harsh place. Not nearly
enough food, and not enough space, either. As we grew hungrier, doubt began to
gnaw at our minds. Why must we move on to another place? Would we be free of
this hunger and thirst there? And would we finally be at peace, free of
niggling cares? All of this was wearing us down, driving us to distraction.
On the night of
a full moon, an ant uncharacteristically broke rank. As if in its sleep, it
crawled up a nearby blade of fresh, soft grass. The closer it reached the moon,
the greater the danger of exposure, but the ant seemed beyond such concerns. Its
strong mandibles clamped down on the blade of grass. And there it stood like a
statue until sunrise.
Our leader finally succeeded
in sending the host back to its colony. Too much exposure to direct sunlight
not only threatened to burn the creature, but to melt us as well. And should
the creature be discovered breaking rank, it would be torn to pieces. For us it
meant that life and death hung on a matter of seconds, a few millimeters. To
say that our nerves were on end was an understatement. As the saying goes, burnt
on hot soup, blow on cold salad. But we could not afford to take chances in
that situation. We were praying, somewhat contradictorily, that the creature
would lose its mind but not go too mad.
At nightfall,
the ant broke rank again to crawl up a blade of grass. A passing ant looked
around, sensing something odd, but failed to detect the rogue ant. The whispers
of the stars and moon and wind passed slowly. How it had come to be dangling on
a blade of grass, its body completely stiff, the ant had no recollection. The
details of the situation eluded it, much as the everyday details of life remain
forgettable for the most part. Was it really the ant itself that was dangling
on that blade of grass? Was it really its strong jaws that were holding onto
the blade? Everything was a haze.
As we could not let go
of the tiger’s tail that was already in our hands, we took a chance. Our leader
continued to occupy the host for a long time after the sunrise. The rest of the
colony, as dull as their lost comrade, appeared to be unaware that one of their
number had disappeared. They took no notice of the creature that had broken
rank, falling into formation like always.
It was getting hotter
and hotter. A number of us turned on the leader, their disappointment all the
greater for having expected great things from him. Betrayal always comes from
within. One of our brothers began crawling towards the leader from his spot not
too far away. He insisted that we had to move the creature away from the heat
at least for a short while. We didn’t want to kill the ox by trying to
straighten its horns, the traitor appealed to us. But even if the creature
moved away from the heat, it would not keep us from starving. We did not know
which side to support. The leader kept unfailingly calm. Follow me. We knew now
that those words were uttered without conviction. If anyone, it was himself the
leader was trying to convince, we thought.
In the end it came down
to a fight between the leader and the traitor that had challenged him. The rest
of us watched listlessly as they duked it out. Their fight was not so much
against each other, but against the immeasurable force that was crushing us
all. What was the use? We were teetering on the brink of no return. A match to
the death. But at that instant, we were suddenly sucked into a dark, cavernous
passage.
The careless
young ewe had committed the mistake of grazing grass before sunrise. She had
completely missed the tiny ant holding onto said grass for dear life, of
course. Not a shadow of self-recrimination ever crossed her mind, however, as
she savored the fragrance of the delectable herbs. She champed rapidly on as
much of the tender, sweet grass as possible before the other sheep woke from
their sleep. The early bird catches the worm! But perchance the early bird is
also prey for the early hunter. It was of no consequence to the ewe at that
point, by all means.
The place where we
found ourselves was like finally coming home again. Slippery and intimate, just
the way we liked it. We raised a glass in celebration, remembering days of
hardship now safely in the past. There was much feasting, drinking, and
dancing. Finally we began mating with ourselves, wiggling our newly leaf-shaped
bodies suggestively. All of us were hermaphrodites.
A glow of satisfaction
hung in the air as we lay back, sated. We had had a narrow escape from being
squashed to death and saw no reason not to celebrate. Our leader and the
traitor that had challenged him all became part of us again. No longer did we
fear the harsh reality lurking around the corner. That being said, however, we
could not free ourselves completely from a sense of melancholy at not knowing
who we were, where we came from, and where we were going.
We knew what we had to
do to resolve both our satisfaction and loss. There was no other way.
We had to lay eggs. Shuddering
all over, we caught sight of someone who had not been with us on our journey,
but resembled us in every way. Our eyes met and he was smiling, no matter that
he had no mouth or facial muscles to smile with. How could all of this be just coincidence?
He asked, holding our gaze. Without needing to be told, we knew that he had
given birth to us, and that he was another form of us that had never left that
place. That was it. Our scientific name was Fasciola
hepatica, also known as the common liver fluke. Twenty thousand eggs seethed
within us, ready to exit our bodies. Eggs that would go through everything that
we had and would perhaps come back to meet us again, their other selves.
We looked no more at
the one who had been us before us. Right now, the only thing of importance was
to see that the eggs made their way out safely. We were past recalling any
time, place, or event. We could only push with all our might. Ah, life! The
eggs hurried away from us every which way, without even saying goodbye. We
wept, for all that we had no eyes or tear ducts to weep with. We could not
think that all of this could possibly be just coincidence.