The Legend of Don Conrado

It was in this manner that he started his excursion: he wandered, at first, but as the day progressed, he found more and more of a certain purpose to his stride. The reader may thus conjecture that perhaps the overall mood that Don Conrado harboured on this morning had begun to lift, in proportion to the level of exposure to the sun, and the subsequent production of calcitriol, which flowed steadily into several of his deprived bodily organs.

Yet, how could this be the case? For, believe it or not, our legendary Don's middle name was: Shadow; and thus, gloom and doom were both his goons and his stooges. And, with such a foreboding connotation to his name, our Don the Shadow-Conrados’ foes no doubt lurked closely at his heels; perhaps nearer to him than even his own shadow ever dared to tread. Be that as it may, whether he was on a quest, or a mission (with or without his shadow stepping along in stride), and whether in the rain or in the shine, he would do his part, notwithstanding, and create a whole new world beyond a mere account of his adventures (or misfortunes); which, he intended to share within these very pages, for the benefit and good of all future prosterity that could be deemed suitable and worthy of this difficult but noble task. This would, without a doubt, serve to credit him as the architect and the blueprint — one and the same! — holding the keys of instruction for a better, grander, more harmonious, and sivilized* world of the future.

All the while, this knight of the eclipse — or of vanishing light — grinned rather subtly to himself, as he imagined the voracious number of readers, who, presently this very moment, perhaps, were utilizing the awesome power of ChatGPT — and thus naively relinquishing their unique power of creativeness, in the place of convenience and algorithm — not entirely unlike that of a dependent drug addict in search of his next big hit. And though he, himself, had often been described as the black-sheep amongst the herd (ignored, isolated, and even betrayed), as is characteristic of some knights in all the great lore, he marched on, resolute in his step and in the righteousness of his chosen way. With the parchment in hand, and with the purple sash of his robe taut at his waist, this don would make no such robotic gaffes, but hold his own — and hold it well — whether he was regarded to be a fool or a wise man, from this point onwards. Until alas, on this very leisurely of strolls, he encountered, yet again, this very morning, the same unfortunate squirrel from before — such was his luck and the very will of the Fates.

Directly up ahead, and along the path where he now strolled, he fixed his gaze — and through the branches of an overhanging tree, he saw the plight of the squirrel yet again, as if its earlier tumble out of the tree and onto the paved road had not been adequate to hasten its abrupt extinction from the gene pool. So he neared this new tree, in his line of sight, and noted the squirrel, eastern gray, much like his shadow, struggling in some vain attempt to free itself, with its tail, on this occasion, knotted in the fork of two inflexible tertiary branches. It was undoubtedly the most unlucky of squirrels to ever have lived!

Naturally, and in keeping with the code of chivalry, our don was not entirely opposed to assisting in the rescue of this unfortunate rodent. For should he spare its life, he conjectured, this would certainly gain the favour and satisfaction of the gods, and thus permit him safe passage through this present underworld, of a sort, where balance and harmony with nature (going forward into his mission) were deemed essential to the cosmic order. And as he stood, now, and pondered a way to release the afflicted squirrel from its newly found predicament, he happened to spot its friend, or mate, sitting immediately adjacent to this problematic branch, and who appeared to have already attempted to aid this afflicted one, by chewing, roughly a third of the way directly through it.

Indeed, the chew markings were visible from where he stood, on the sidewalk, and now next to the tree. And though this friend didn't quite succeed in his or her efforts, it had, for the most part, endeavoured on an otherwise noble mission, so he thought. Upon further inspection, however, the work of this squirrel would've afforded little advantage, for, had this branch shed its weight at this precise point (where it had been thus gnawed), surely its release and recoil would serve only to pinch even more so upon the poor tail of its unfortunate prisoner. On the contrary, he figured — to be sure he'd free the squirrel in question as humainly as possible, and with its dignity still somewhat intact — he would have to grab the branch from somewhere above his very own head, and pull down several feet; and thus widen the angle in the fork, whence the tail was caught.

To ascertain the correct branch, he followed the stem from the freshly chewed markings to a bundle of leaves and extended his hand up for them. And upon doing so, and grasping a firm hold of this bundle, he next pulled down, with sufficient force, whereupon this branch began bending like a bow. Observing this attempt, the squirrel in distress threw a brief fit, as if it had just been electrified by Zeus himself, before it wilfully tore its tail free, leaving a plume of hair behind as a consequence. Not surprisingly, the squirrel, now free of its entanglement, promptly vanished, without so much as a thank you for his efforts. Though he somehow knew, in extending his awareness and searching through the dark side of the Force, that this would not be the last time that he would see this squirrel again.

He continue along this beaten path, which turned, twisted and careened, on and on — over a vast number of zebra crossings (where many an imp was at the ready, behind the steering wheel of some transport, to plow right through him full-tilt) — before having finally rested, at a point along the fork of two great rivers — only about a yard or two from his very own eagle's nest. Yet, in his recollection, he had ventured quite far and wide, in space and time, and so he was well spent (as you could probably imagine), and could thus use some rest. This eagle was coming! Like armies moving into formation across the cosmos, he felt it — the Force awakening. All the same, Don Conrado reckoned that he had seen many a land animal along his journey of the fourth corner of this world. And so he pulled the bronze flask from the hidden breast pocket of his royal robe, and with an air of upbeat satisfaction, he took a swig of the finest water in all this wild and untamed land spread out before him, as if to celebrate the venture into the unknown and his untethered victory.

And now, making his way over to the edge of the river (having exhausted himself from this journey), he lay himself down, flat upon his back, with his head slightly inclined upon a small mound of turf, and looked up at the stars until his eyelids began to tire. It grew dark at this time. Indeed, thoughts of his mission were fading as his mind shut down and the gentle breeze from Favonius blew through and rustled the ferns nearby. Even the hares, sleeping upon the grass in the big open field, did not stir. And the ducks with their bills buried in their back feathers were still floating, peacefully, in a pond that reflected the early morning moon of Luna like a mirror.

Then suddenly an owl came from the horizon and swooped down directly overhead of him, and then circled where he lay, like the owl of Minerva, before settling down on the spire of a gazebo behind him. The gazebo, located across the field and overlooking the pond with the sleeping ducks, was always lit at night, almost as if it were a sort of lighthouse. And he began to doze off to the sound of this owl’s occasional hoots, as if it were perched right atop the shoulder of Minerva, and thus able to pierce directly through to the truth beyond the shadows.

Then unexpectedly, the water from the river lapped over a rock near the bank where he lay and splashed upon his legs and feet. It was as cold, if not colder, than the wraith that had startled him from his bed earlier this morning. And he thought about the portal and the song of the woodlark, and the ancient mythological realms that converged here at this confluence, when a vision of the Scylla of old (wrapping her tentacles around his ankles) suddenly surfaced here and now, out of the centuries past. And after dragging him into the depths of this very river, wouldn’t let him go, but held him submerged until the river's cold water succeeded in altering his reality; and taking his thoughts and memories from this present world, and diluting them into the Lethe.

That is, until his closed eyelids perceived a rather strange glow of light, and he peeled them open once again (just wide enough) to catch a glimpse of its source. Only, this time, he did not see stars in the heavens, but Aurora piercing through the water, with the break of dawn. Then came a beam of light more powerful than the unconquered sun — it was as if something other than Sol was passing by in a chariot, and the concentration of light in succession lifted him directly from water’s depths, and levitated him above the current. He gasped as he had just been swept off the edge of the earth like driftwood and taken into another dimension.

*Twain, Mark. Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. Edited by Thomas Cooley, W. W. Norton & Company, 2021.