A Penisive, Humble Minded Thought

         Hermits were quite unique in many ways; perhaps not so commonly present, it seemed it did aid in the matter. Priests, monks- several did settle themselves aloft: devoting themselves only to their gods; they were hermits. There were lofty hermits who found themselves too good for conversation; hermits who dwelled in the woods and survived on merely that which they found; hermit crabs of course, odd little creatures that lived in old whelk shells within the ocean; and of course, coincidental hermits: the sort Marick was reduced to, for he was living in a cabin as he found it an ideal, quiet home to shroud himself.
         And perhaps he wasn’t a hermit at all, really: as he did converse often with his familiars. Nor was he devoting himself to God: he’d not the time for Church, as many did shun his presence, and so he knew nothing of the faerish religion, nor religion itself; though he did believe in some aspects of apparitionous presences.
         Moreover, he thought often as hermits did. Unique as they were, they had plenty of time on their hands for wondering things to which people whom weren’t living in solitude would not consider so nearly as well. Marick knew every flower in the Caelepher forest, every leaf, every bit of insect and frog. He even knew the only kitten in Dorean, and the fish along the streams. He knew what they preferred to consume, and what they preferred to do, whether they were to taint or to heal; and where to find them. But he also considered other things, or rather, questions he knew not to be answered; Why did the sun shine as it did? Why was it pleasant, and why did it burn his eyes except during the morning and evenings? Was it so he didn’t take it for granted? No, he didn’t take it for granted, he realized; he admired it, as well as the moon- the sky itself, the stars…. They were rather nice, he thought.
         Rebellious in his youth, he dared something contemporary for him. He would leave the gates of Dorean, despite the consistent rumour that shadows of yore would haunt those whom left the refuge without being in company during the commemorations near the shores of Fier Lake. He’d do so without any special occasion, merely on his own authority. Surely, he thought, there had to be good in being haunted by the old ghosts of yore: for long had he realized them, when they allowed him passage through the Caelepher in the firsts of his appearance.
         “Come along, do find me here!” called a voice. The youth was traversing silently through the bit of shrubberies, thinking of his hermitness when he found the most peculiar façade of a presence lying along the wheat grass.  He appeared about to be a thin, short woolly fellow, with frail, large grey eyes. He nearly mistook him to be a cat, for he had the ears of one, but as he neared it, he realized that he had little, long fingered hands and skinny arms and legs. He bore a large, bushy striped tail, moreover.
The youth blinked and furrowed his brow at him as he kneeled down beside him. “What are you?” he asked the little creature.
         “Ohh- oh, why, my name is Mr. Snuffiny,” he told the hermit, heaving as he laid there. Marick noticed a very disturbing gash set across his chest, and realized he wasn’t to live for very long. “Filian Snuffiny. I’m a Caehaeten Shly. Do you know what a Shly is?”
         “No, I’m afraid I do not,” Marick replied, “Err‘mm…how are you, Mr. Snuffiny?” he asked, awkwardly.
         “Ill as the cold wind, I am,” the shly said, “Ill as the frosted flower doomed before a winter’s end. I am so ill….and-and doomed.”
         “But you’re not doomed- I would not suppose.”
         “And why not?”
         Marick thought for a moment, as he expectedly did. He wanted to speak of something kind before he died, so he tried in good effort to do so: “Well,” he began, “I suppose life is full of doomed ends, but you mustn’t think of it as that. Merely a new path on the snub odd road we traverse,” he added then, with a bit of a nod, “It does not end. You’ll find a new sort of light, in any matter. And, of course, other concerns. I would suppose that if you desired enough, and fought enough for it, you could have the self worth we are all looking for- contentment as well, of course. Yet it won’t be found the way you’d prefer entirely until you’ve past, even if you would agree you’ve already gotten it.”
         “Death, you must mean- boy?”
         “Oh no, not death, Mr. Snuffiny! For a fellow to pass is to leave that which is visible to those whom have yet to. But death in itself, I find, is an annihilation of any bit of presence. You’ve not death, why, you’re going to exist as something far greater, as they say. Do you understand what I’m speaking of?”
         “Yes, I think I do,” breathed the small creature. “And, I…” he smiled then, looking away from the youth; his eyes set upon the sky, “I’m not so frightened of it, now. Boy, tell me who you are, before I die?”
         “Haha.. I’m Marick Caelepher.”
         “Hmm…thank you, Marick Caelepher; and bless you, good hermit,” he said.
         “You’re quite welcome,” Marick said softly. He remained there, for another long moment: and the small stranger drew his last breath.
         It wasn’t a thing Marick thought he could have avoided, but rather, something he was glad to be present when the Shly creature died. He stared silently down to him, wishing, though, deep within him that the little creature would draw in another breath of air to startle him that he was alive. Of course, it was not to be so, for his little body was indeed dead. I wonder what death truly means, the hermit thought.
He wondered of it for several minutes: why this had to happen. Whoever he was, he had lived for possible years, expecting nothing of this day; Marick had witnessed it end. It was an emotion he could not comprehend.
         Along his mind, he recalled, that Mr. Snuffiny’s last words had been, “Bless you, good hermit.” And how should he know that I am considered a hermit? It may have been that he had not expected anyone to be in the woods: perhaps he thought he was a hermit among the Caelepher in his own guessing. But there was also a probability, Marick thought, that the Caehaeten Shly was familiar with Dorean. Why else would he have been wondering around these trees?
         He didn’t ill worry of it.
         He smiled a little and stood up. He gathered fallen leaves and rosemary thistles, carefully covering the little body. He spared a little remorse, wondering what had become of the odd little thing, and wishing it hadn’t, of course;  it would have been quite fortunate to have saved him, had he stumbled upon him sooner.  He had at the least, been there to reassure him. Time was a snub undesirably fitful, he found; if Mr. Snuffiny realized that he had one day left to admire the light of the sun, certainly, he would indeed admire it.
         He sighed, trying not to be grim of it, for the creature had gone in good spirits. He then decided to return to his small supposed “edifice,”  in Dorean.