The Reasons We Write

        The writer detached himself.  He let his mind wander somewhere above his head, looking down.  Fingers hovered over the type writer.  The immense gravity of inspiration would eventually pull each digit down to the keys.  He sat still, closed his eyes and listened to the silence.  The writer waited.  He looked down on himself and watched as the darkness began to crawl over him.  He felt it seeping through his eyes and wrapping tight around his arms.  It poured down his throat, he felt the smothering suffocation of darkness.  The inspiration consumed him.

Neil came to life; he felt the words leap from his fingers to the page.  The rafters around him dissolved, twisted and reformed, like fluid; then hardening in to something corporeal, a branch.  A leaf fell about the writer’s hand, forcing his eyes open, breaking his meditative state and he watched as yet more leaves sprouted from branches left and right.  The lamp on his desk began to levitate and flicker as the electricity became candle and flame, the lamp shade became a box of glass hanging itself on nearby branch by an ornate bronzed handle.  The writer felt the cold give way to a gentle warmth, a humid and hot wetness that clung between the trees around him.  The sound of rain accompanied the humidity.  The darkness was broken occasionally as the sun and rain attempted to sneak down between the leafy canopies.  He felt a spot of heat over his eyes and was forced to squint as the sun caught him off guard.  Sharply, he pulled back and heard the gentle cracks of foliage crumbling under foot.  A twitter from a distance and the writer spun around to catch a glimpse of a winged creature, only the size of his fist, flitting about him.  It came to rest upon his shoulder, now clothed in a white cotton shirt.

“Hello.”  The writer spoke softly.  The bird returned his gaze and Neil thought he could see curiosity in its eyes.  Wings, Neil thought would not be big enough to lift the creature, lay to its side.  A bird of paradise, with seemingly every colour in the rainbow steeling some part of the bird’s body; shadowed in black with a blue underbelly, a golden mask, wings tipped in fire.  It stared a moment longer.  The tiny thing took a step towards the writers face and pecked at his jaw. Neil Startled.  The bird took back to the air.

Neil reached to a branch and swung around as he tried to gain a better view of the fleeting bird.  The bird knew the trees too well and was far too quick for the old writer.  Wary of his step, Neil progressed. He was in a dangerous place.  A magical place.  A place man’s presence was not to be.  A smile lined his face as he thought about this. 

The hollow call of the gibbon turned the writer’s gaze and, in the distance, a fleet of birds escaped the canopy.  The writer quietly, still watching his feet, pushed through the jungle.  He searched for the gentle glow of his candle.  A rustle behind him.  Something was pushing between the trees.  The call of birds stopped and once again Neil saw the majesty of the multi-coloured creature, only momentarily, before it flew off, out of harm’s way.  Branches cracked.  Neil turned his head.  Whatever was stalking the rainforest that day, was not far behind.  He stalled.  He wasn’t sure whether it was curiosity or fear, but he could not move his feet.  He could not take his eyes away from that soft black leonine shape in the trees.  His chest heaved, his breathing unrelenting, his arms quivering.  Neil reached up to a branch.  The shadow pounced.

Neil pulled himself behind the tree.  his eyes caught sight of the panther’s muscular shoulders flying past, forelegs outstretched and claws revealed.  The creature slid as it landed and turned its head, hunger in its eyes.  He scrambled up the tree.  The creature's jaw closed and the unrelenting scowl turned in to something a kin to a smile.  It paced, backwards and forwards.

A few minutes passed in this way.  Neil hauling himself from branch to branch, never seeming to get any higher, the panther taking every move in to his stride.  The panther’s eyes, transfixed on his every move, never blinking.  The cat sat on its hind.  And watched.  And waited.  Neil was lost, he didn’t know what to do.  This high up the canopy the branches were getting wetter and he knew a panther could climb.  It was only a matter of time.  For the moment though it was a standstill.

“Dad!” Neil let out a sigh and climbed out the rafters.  The attic was dark apart from the writer’s lamp.

“I’ll be down in a minute!” but before he could get down a small head popped up through the hatch and James climbed up.

“You know you shouldn’t be up here!”

“I was looking for Cheshire!”  The black cat still had his eyes transfixed on Neil, and he still looked hungry.  Neil’s smile came back.

“Cheshire? Ohhhh,” Neil leant over by James and stared at the cat, “You mean Che Shah, the wild cat, king of the rainforest, the black panther.”

The boy chuckled and punched his Dad on the arm, Neil wondered how many more years he might have left, where James still laughed and didn’t just look at him with the typical disdain of a teenager.  “Che Shah hasn’t been fed!”

“Well in that case he’s hungry! Quickly up that tree.”  Neil lifted James up on to a rafter and grabbed a barmah hat to stick on the boys head.  That’s why he loved the attic, so many memories.  "You'll need that!  It's always raining in the amazon."

“Quiet son,” both of them had their eyes locked in gaze with the Panther, some 20 feet below.  “I should have brought the rifle.”

“Dad! You can’t kill Cheshire.”

“Che Shah, son.”  They both laughed.

The cat stood.  Everything was quiet.  All that could be heard was the gentle patter of rain.  Che Shah took a half step forward; its lean physique poised like a statue.  The majestic creature lowered himself head down, eyes up.  Power built in his hind and he leapt in to the air.  The two adventurers twisted around the tree as the Panther landed on a near-by branch.  It was feet away from James.

“Dad!”

“Hush! Climb over this way.” The boy didn’t take much persuading, fear lit his face.  James reached to his father and the older adventurer, caught him and lowered him down the tree. He whispered, “Get to safety.”

Che Shah pounced forward, catching Neil on the arm and knocking him back.  He clung to the branch.  Hanging backwards, with the world upside down, Neil watched the predator turn tail towards his son.

He cried out “James.”

The Panther found his target and pinned the young boy to the ground.  Che shah snarled, ready to devour his prey.  Neil leapt in to action.  He swung down from his branch, took up the closest thing he could find to hand and swung it.  A log caught the panthers main and startled it away.  It turned to face the adventurers and its cold gaze met Neil’s fierce stare.

The Panther new it was out matched, and slowly with only his pride bruised, he stalked off.

“Dad, we need to feed Cheshire!” The boy looked at his father and Neil suspected he was having much more fun than the 8 year old.

“Alright, but remember” Neil had found in his hands not the branch of a tree but one of his old light-sabres, “I am your father, James.”

Neil swung it around a couple of times and James reached for his own.  The two battled.

High above the core of the death star, balancing from beam to beam.  Jedi versus Sith, good versus evil, Father versus Son.  Neil stepped this way and James stepped that.  Both of them watching their footwork, leaping across great distances.  Each trying to gain the advantage, James was strong with the force, even for one his age.  He was training with the Jedi academy and had escaped Anakin’s evil slaughter.  Darth Neil was none other than Sidious’s own secret apprentice, training for years in the shadow of failures such as, Darth Maul he had waited for his chance and now, with Anakin’s rise he knew he must act quickly to take his rightful place at the side of Lord Sidious.  The only thing between the Darth Neil and his success was this child, although he could sense the greatness the young Jedi was destined for.

"Young James, Join me!" Darth Neil lowered his light-sabre and offered his hand.

"Never!" The young Jedi darted forward.

Darth Neil swung low and the Jedi leapt over it, onto another rafter.  Neil used the force and pushed, James almost lost his footing.  The Jedi stepped to another beam to balance himself and swung at the Evil Sith lord, The swing was strong and true, but Darth Neil was expecting such a blow and brought his light-sabre up to meet.  A clash of light-sabres exploded and the crackling of the combining energy lit up the room.  

"Jedi!"  He paused for breath, trying not to let the young boy see.  "Don't you know you cannot win."

"Old man! Good always wins."

The two danced like this for seemingly hours; each swing successfully blocked, parried or dodged.  The pair were almost perfectly matched.  Then, James swung low, catching his Father’s ankle.  The Dark Lord fell to one knee and the young Jedi raised his light-sabre high above his head.

"Any last words?" The young Jedi readied himself.

"Not today."  The Dark Lord, with what little strength he had left, raised his light-sabre and pushed.  The Jedi swayed on his beam, the force too much for him.  The Jedi fell.

James fell.  Off the beam, through the ceiling.  Neil scrambled forward arm out stretched to catch his boy.  Too little, too late.  He peered through the hole in the insulation.  He couldn’t make out the shape.  The coffee table below was shattered, James wasn’t making any noise.  Neil felt as though somebody had punched him in the chest, all the oxygen had left his lungs.  The pressure behind his eyes built and his vision blurred.  His hands shook as his knuckles whitened.  He gripped the rafter over his head. 

He was downstairs, he wasn’t sure how.  The body twisted.  This wasn’t his son.  It didn’t look like his son. It didn't feel like his son.  Still Neil couldn't find the air to speak, to say his name.  He only mouthed ‘James’.

Behind him came a voice, female.  She had words.  James was in Neil’s arms; the light-sabre fell from his hands.  The coffee table left its mark.  Neil’s face was wet.  That voice was still next to him, he wasn’t sure what it was saying.  Hands pulled on his shoulders.  He couldn’t blink away the tears.  He stared at James’ face unable to make out his features through the torrent in his eyes.

Sirens.

“Sir,” the voice was strong but sympathetic, it was distant.  Neil had to let go he wasn't sure how to.  He felt as cold as the doll in his arms.  He released it and fell backwards, away from his son.  He stumbled as he tried to stand up.  A woman tried to catch him.  She needed to hold him as much as he needed to be held.  He pushed her off.

The writer watched, incapable of feeling.  His eyes had dried and he could see again.  Neil could only watch as they pulled a sheet over the young Jedi’s face.