Kirill, the Squirrel

Here begins the story of Kirill the squirrel.

Kirill lived in a tree amongst the banks of a stream that trickled down a hill beside the house where Boris lived. Boris was the boy who lived in the cottage in a small village amidst a myriad of villages. Green were the rolling hills, on the banks of the stream where the trees sang when the wind played their tunes and music filled the air. Kirill although small, had the power to see beyond the village and into the lives and loves of families outside his realm. I say realm as Kirill felt like he was King and, in a way, he was as he lived a king’s life, free and powerful with a view to the world before him. The tree was his home, his food, and his luxury.

Boris noticed Kirill every day and everyday he would leave a strawberry or two, and perhaps some cheese for Kirill to eat. Kirill watched Boris leave him this food and very soon the two formed a friendship, from a distance where conversation was not required, but a mutual understanding of love and respect.

One very fine day when the sky was blue and the air warm, the winds began to play their tunes and the leaves of the trees began to sing. The acorns of the trees bounced to the ground in an even rhythm. Kirill and his family started to emerge from their slumber from the heart of their home and descend to the green carpet that hugged the roots of the tree. One by one the acorns were gathered at the foot of the tree, ready for the winter months to come. The family in an organized fashion, collected the acorns one by one up the tree in a storage shelf beside one of the branches. Humming they harmonized with the wind and the leaves, and it was not long before the tree would be full of food enough to carry the family through the winter months.

Boris was walking home from school one day and as usual he walked the village road, crossed the open fields and through the forest crossing the stream at the shallow end where the smooth stones took the role of a little bridge close to home. On the way he passed Kirill’s home and in their usual manner he acknowledged Kirill as Kirill did him and he went on his merry way.

Boris hummed to the tunes of the wind harmonizing with the sounds around him, He felt love of nature, love of the fauna and flora, he breathed in the perfume of the air around him and felt such oneness and peace, it was magical.

Approaching the cottage as he did every day. Boris recognized unevenness in the music he was partaking in, the rhythm was interrupted by the pitched tones of voices, wailing in fact and the sounds were coming from his home, the very cottage he was now approaching. At that moment time stood still and the music silenced, the trees stopped swaying and playing their tunes, the wind stopped blowing and the soft perfume of the forest evaporated from the air as time froze.

Slowly when the air around Boris began to move the sounds returned to a soft hum, every moment the volume crescendos to a higher pitch until the unavoidable recognition of wailing women permeated his very being, and with a discerning ear the sound of his mother’s scream stabbed right into his chest. Still frozen to the ground, panic overwhelmed him, and the cry of his own voice escaped his lips. The scurried rustling beneath Boris’s feet startled him to look down into the chocolate brown eyes of Kirill who interrupted from his winter chores felt the distress of his human friend so made his presence known. Boris was not alone.

The two sets of eyes lingered, locked in a silent conversation, one side soothing, the other seeking knowledge and feeling fear, of what he knew was not good news.

The scream of his mother confirmed that she was alive, so that left his brothers or as Boris felt the truth in the pit of his stomach, he knew is father was not coming home again. The god-awful war had made sure of that. Kneeling to the ground before him, he felt the soft pelt of Kirill touch his skin and the two continued to sit in silence for a while longer.

After what seemed a very long time, the sounds of footsteps and voices were heard behind him, he turned to see the shocked face of his aunt and uncle, Boris, his aunt moaned and stooped to grab, him. Kirill ran to his family so that this family could share in their grief.

The next few days were a blur, the facts irrelevant, Boris’s father was never coming home again, and his mother was left with four boys to bring up on her own.

Every moment he could escape from the cottage Boris would escape by the stream to sit at the bottom of the acorn tree, and he would be joined by Kirill where they would sit and listen to natures symphony play out her tune.

It was in one of these moments that the unlikely pair started to understand each other even more profoundly than they could have imagined. For Boris heard a voice which whispered encouragement, “my good friend even this time shall pass, I will sit with you as long as it takes, do not fear”, and again, “my good friend, even this time shall pass, do not fear any longer”. Boris turned abruptly to find the owner of the words just spoken, yet no one stood behind him, he turned to each side and once again, no person stood there, and then there he heard again, “who are you looking for my friend. It is I. I am sitting beside you and will continue to do so for as long as I am needed.” The chocolate eyes of Kirill met his and Boris jumped and ran as fast as he could, his grief had turned him mad, they always said that he was a dreamer, but he must have hit rock bottom, it was time to awaken, his mother needed help, no more secret squirrel meetings, things needed to change.

Boris found his mother in the kitchen, carrying the heavy logs, that he was supposed to have chopped several days before, she turned to look at him, her eyes deep in sorrow, glistened as she whispered, “you look so much like him”, then turned from him and continued with her laborious task.

Here mum let me, as he tried to take the heavy big log out of her arms, her face just said, no and she looked away again, continuing as she had for as long as Boris could remember the laborious tasks of the household. Outside he found another pile of wood and grabbed the axe fiercely and with all the strength that he could muster, let if fall on the wood below, and again, slowly methodically, raised that axe above his shoulder and then let it fall heavily below him, and the pattern repeated for I don’t know how long, but not until Boris fell to his knees as he had no strength to do any more. This pain he welcomed more than the grief he carried in his chest.

The following day, Boris was awakened by the call of the rooster, but his limbs too heavy, to move out of bed was stuck underneath the blankets. With his eyes closed he tried to identify the sounds he heard outside. The twittering of birds the sounds of a motor, the horse and cart rumbling over the pebbled track in front of the cottage, the beating wings of a moth somewhere in his room, and the inevitable the sound of his name, being called to breakfast by his brothers. With eyes still closed and head still heavy, Boris dragged his lead limbs out of bed and crawled to the kitchen. The smell of hot bread tickled his nostrils, and the quiet silence of four brothers echoed while they slowly ate, their eyes locking in brief moments, longing to understand how they could escape the heavy sighs of their mother as she succumbed to grief. Tom was the first to finish, and the only one with a job so ran out of the kitchen before even swallowing his last bite. The remaining three with stolen glances trying to outdo each other so as not to be left to do the cleaning up. Their mother left the kitchen to work outside where the fields left her to herself.

Being the last to the table, Boris was last to finish. He swept the remaining crusts and crumbs into his handkerchief, for the safe keeping of his chocolate eyed friend.

Once the last crumb was swept and the last dish was put away, Boris leapt outside to tend to the sheep so that he could go to school. His satchel on his back and handkerchief in his pocket, he whistled his way to the stream to meet his friend. Kirill bounded to the young boy, who was looking brighter than his previous day where the toll of grief hung like a cloud around him. Boris knelt and opened his handkerchief so that he could share the mornings breakfast with his friend. Baby Kirill’s bounded down the tree to share in the feast and soon Boris was surrounded by the family of King Kirill the Squirrel

“So how are you my friend, asked Kirill”, Boris again stunned that he may be listening to the voice of a squirrel questioned “Can I really hear you”. “Of course, you can” said Kirill “I was speaking to you before, but it is only recently that you have started to listen”. Boris was confused.” Am I going mad”? he asked, “no” said Kirill you are really starting to listen beyond your own thoughts and into the hearts and minds of others. Every living thing is connected by love. Love is a powerful thing and with-it miracles can occur. Not everyone can recognize this. You will be able to hear the pain and suffering of other's and share in their joy, you are a special boy Boris, I will teach you to help your mum and hear your dad”. “But my dad is no longer alive” he cried. “No, as long as you remember him, your father will be alive for you.”

On the way to school Boris thought about Kirill’s words and thought about how he could talk to his father while not alive…. It was impossible he thought, it just wasn’t going to work.

The school day passed slowly and often Boris was caught staring out of the window rather than his book. The teacher yelled out several times, but he kept hearing Kirill’s words the possibility of speaking to his father. His friends could not snap him out of his forlorn state and rather than playing with them at lunch time he sat away from them thinking up ways of how he could help his mum.

School finally over, Boris ran home to see his friend, but disappointed to find he wasn’t by the tree. He went home and dropped his school bags, changed, tended the sheep and carrying a piece of bread, ran to the home of Kirill. Again, he could not see his chocolate friend, so he sat by the stream waiting and listening. He closed his eyed and quietened his thoughts and began to listen to the sounds around him. Slowly the sounds of nature’s music began to softly linger, and he could hear the charm of her magic. He could hear the water streaming over the pebbles and the wind whistling past the leaves, the birds chirping at each other and the frogs croaking in the background. Straining his ears, he tried to hear more, and was certain he could hear the woodpecker pecking on the tree in an even beat and when he stopped thinking all he heard was music.

“Hello, my friend” he could hear in the distance, and he turned to see Kirill and his family hopping towards him and off to their tree, Kirill dropped his winter food and came to sit by his friend. “You are learning to listen” Kirill remarked and sat by his friend in silence listening to the same music that his friend was hearing. “Can you teach me to speak to my dad?”, Boris asked Kirill. Kirill looked up to his friend and said I cannot teach you what you already know, It is something only you can know and do. “But you said that you would teach me” he cried, and with that Boris ran off disappointed and angry that his friend would not show him what he wanted to know.

Dinner was being served by the time he was home, and he met the eyes of his forlorn mother serving her four sons, while feeling so lonely. Boris felt her pain and her couldn’t eat. “Are you sick she asked, shaken by the thought that she might lose a son to fever, “no” whispered Boris, just not hungry, his brothers gabbing the opportunity for more food helped themselves to Boris’s share while Boris went outside to chop more wood for the stove.

Night was arriving much faster and so time seemed to pass faster still. Homework was completed by candlelight and then it was time for bed.

Boris’s night was restless, and he was tossing and turning in his bed unable to fall asleep. His father was haunting his mind and he couldn’t think clearly. Kirill’s words haunted him also” I cannot teach you what you already know”

The next morning Boris woke up early but still extremely tired. He followed the usual routine, breakfast, tending to the sheep and to school. This morning however he did not stop to greet his friend at the big acorn tree, embarrassed from his outburst yesterday, he did not want to face that memory, so he went to school following the path the other kids took and with the others kicked the communal soccer ball all the way to school.

The days past like this for the next few weeks and the days began to grow shorter and shorter, and the evenings cooler and cooler. And each day Boris was missing Kirill more and more. He promised himself that the next morning he would wake early and visit his friend to make amends for his behavior.

And true to his word, Boris awoke early and before the light touched the earth, he had completed his chores, eaten and bit of breakfast and the rest he wrapped in his handkerchief for his furry friend by the big acorn tree.

The chill of the air bit his skin, but he didn’t care, he needed to see his friend and he made his way to the big tree, calling out to his friend, but he was met with silence. “Kirill” he called and again “Kirill”. Still nothing. Boris listened intently for the slightest sounds. He closed his eyes and strained his ears. For the first time in a long time, Boris heard the sound of the creek bed, the water spilling over the pebbles, the leaves waving in the wind and the whistle of the wind’s music permeating the air. For what seemed like forever, Boris began to hear noises within the tree a sort of scratching and not to long after that the face of his furry friend with the chocolate eyes emerged from the trunk.

“Kirill” yelled Boris. “Yes” said Kirill, my family is sleeping, so can you keep it down please. “Sorry” replied Boris, but still over excited that he was seeing his friend for the first time in many weeks.

Kirill climbed down the tree and sat beside Boris shivering in the cold. “Can I offer you my jacket to keep you warm”? “Your lap should be just fine”, said Kirill as he made himself comfortable snuggling next to the warmth of Boris’s body.

For the longest time the pair sat in silence and listened to their thoughts and their surrounding music. Boris desperately wanted to tell Kirill how sorry he was for betraying his most trusted friend, but before he even uttered a word, Kirill said, there is nothing to apologize for, you did what you had to do. Sometimes removing ourselves from a situation helps us see things a little clearer. The past is the past and the future is a blank canvas on which we design our dreams, hopes and passions. No matter what is thrown at you said Kirill it is your choice to react to it or catch it like a ball and use it as ammunition. Boris didn’t understand. It’s like this repeated Kirill. Pretend that life is a ball thrown hard at you, try to dodge it and it may pass you by, or it may hit you painfully in the chest, and the pain will linger for a while. An alternative is to watch for that ball coming to you and be ready to catch it with both hands and no matter how difficult it may seem to catch, just catch it, that way you have the control of throwing the ball in whatever direction you want. See the future you want and believe it is waiting there before you even reach that destination

The past was the past. Boris couldn’t comprehend that the past could just disappear in the past. The past is where his memories lay and where the face of his father remained. Letting go of the past was like letting go of his father. Visions of the evenings where fire, music and laughter tossed into the air. Neighbors would gather to their fields where music was played, singing was heard, and jokes were told. The young men would listen to the wisdom and humor of the wise and generations of stories were passed down. Boris remembers his grandfather usually being the star of the show, one of the shorter men in the village he often loved proving that he was the strongest, and many of the young men would rise to the challenge to wrestle this little wiry man, and as he often proved with great humor, he would also be the winner. His grandfather was renowned for bathing in the creek bed beside the house even on the coldest of mornings. The water there held magic he used the say and that was what gave him his strength. Boris remembers the warmth of his father’s arm around his waist those evenings sitting by the fire while the stories were told and the songs were sung. It wasn’t his face that he remembered so much as it was the nearness of his body and the weight of his arm. I am not going to forget that he promised himself.

Life as a ball, how can you throw it any way you want questioned Boris. Kirill hearing those words. "What do you want in your life, in your future?" "My dad", he replied. Kirill smiled. "You can always have your dad in your life, and he will be with you as long as you choose to believe that he will be, you know that he can only be with you in spirit, but that is more powerful now then him being with you in the flesh". Boris didn’t understand, his head hurt. “I must go to school he told Kirill and carried him to his tree out of the cold and trudged to school where the dim light lit the small path beneath is feet. It was lonely and quiet, and he could almost hear the beating of his own heart with every step he took.

Boris was the first to arrive at school that morning, so he entered the classroom and took out his book and started to write how he saw his future. He was a musician that composed music that people of all the neighboring villages came to hear, his music bought community and harmony. Dancing and singing were always around. He would see his mother smile again with grandchildren at her feet and his brothers all happily in love with families of their own. He began to look at his life even further beyond and saw himself living in a large house (like the ones in the American films) with a wife and children and somewhere amongst all that, his father would be watching and smiling.

The other students started walking in and he quickly closed his book, and deep down in the pit of his stomach he knew that if that was what he wanted for his future, it was possible.

The school day passes like any other, slowly, and painfully and the daydreams would have him stare out the window and search for the answers he was seeking.

Many months and years later when the school days passed, and the routine of work occupied Boris’s time. Kirill was no longer in his life, but his teachings remained with the now 16-year-old boy. The visions of his younger dreams had already manifested. The new neighbor was a music teacher and had recognized Boris’s love of music and committed to help him nurture his talents. The opportunity to leave his homeland and travel to Australia or Canada had presented itself. Boris applied to both countries and vowed that the first to respond would be his home. He practiced daily sitting in silence and calling in his father who often answered his questions. It felt like he was always there. The sounds of natures music inspired his own musical compositions, some of which had awarded Boris a scholarship to the prestigious Sydney conservatorium, which also helped him decide in which continent he would be living his future life. By now Boris was confident that he could set the course of his future. Boris had complete faith that what he imagined in his future he could achieve. When he was uncertain of which direction or what choices he should make, he would sit in silence and contemplation, calling upon the wisdom of the ages to steer him to his desired outcome. Now that he knew that his mother had found love again with his music teacher, he was comfortable to leave his home, knowing that one day she would join him in Australia.

Epilogue.

I write this on behalf of my father Boris whose life musical talents have had him travel to world and teach many aspiring students the magic of music. He continues to inspire me and my son with music and that we are the artists of our own destiny.