This is home, but the smells are different. No one’s been here for a very long time. They must all be out traveling. Maybe they decided to stay away longer than usual. My boy is upset, and I understand why, because it’s so unfamiliar. The smells are wrong, I know my boy, but don’t cry.
Everyone smells relaxed now. That last nomad trip was harder than any we had before. My boy pushed me to fly farther and faster than I ever have in my life, but I trust it was for a good reason. The man who brews tea and feeds me the leaves is nice. I don’t exactly like that human horn he plays, but it does remind me a little bit of the bellows other bison. My last mate was sweet. I wonder what my next one will be like.
I don’t understand how he can be sad when everyone else is so happy. We don’t seem to be in danger anymore. What’s wrong with my boy?
It doesn’t matter. He’s allowed to be like this. He is still a calf. He won’t smell completely like an adult for at least several more years, I think. The adolescents of the Temple and the adults all smelled slightly different than the aggressive, testosterone-laden people in other places. But I can still tell the difference.
Humans grow a lot slower than bison.
But even as he’s nearing adulthood, he’s still crying a lot more than the older boys did at the Temple.
And I’m beginning to worry.
I’ve never seen a human before. Well, that’s not exactly true. I’ve seen one from far off. I know their scent. And the other lemurs seemed to be scared of them. But we lemurs have always stuck around the small scattering of hidden bison for safety. From predators. So when a human showed up, with bison smell pouring off of him, I was naturally put at ease. Maybe he sticks by bison to avoid predators too! Just like me!
He gave me a piece of fruit, sweet and juicy and slightly different from the ones around here.
I fly up to his shoulder because it’s like standing on a tree. Better vantage point to be alert. If you get fruit from the ground, it’s better to take it back up to the branches. Even with the bison nearby, I still feel the itch. Usually we lemurs pass off guard duty to each other a few at a time. And none of the kids here seem to be very aware of their surroundings. Like the baby lemurs of my troupe.
One of them smells a bit like an adult. He’s getting there. But I guess it’s my job to look after them for a while. What if the bison wanders away from them?
I wonder where the adults of their troupe are. Did they get eaten?
I fell asleep in the boy’s lap. This bison has a dead tree on his back. So weird. It’s round and flat and when he makes sudden dips or twists, they hold onto the sides. I prefer snuggling into his fur. I can always open my wings to glide if need be.
I’m not sure where we are, but I’m sure the boy will bring me back to my troupe soon.
It’s been six sunsets I think, since he took me away. I don’t know what to do. I miss my mate and my babies and all my friends. I don’t know how to get back there, and when I frantically wave my arm in the direction behind the bison, no one knows what I’m trying to get across.
I am frantic for another six sunsets, and then despondent for two. The kids seem preoccupied with their own troubles. I tuck my tail around my feet and whimper. The bison comes to nuzzle me, and he makes me feel safer even than the other bison did.
I can’t leave them. What if I stay lost?
These babies obviously don’t know how lemurs work. Or maybe they just wanted me in their troupe. I guess it doesn’t matter. I love the boy, and the girl isn’t bad either. The semi-adult I’m a little more cautious of. He acts like a predator a little.
My bison. He’s my bison now. After so many times comforting me, I feel a little like a baby myself.
This is maybe the fourth time we’ve been attacked. Does no one know how to do a lookout around here? Are humans predators? Those ones smell funny. Maybe they’re not human? They smell like when the semi-adult uses the warm-but-don’t-touch on his prey.
I like the warm. But I like the bison warm better.
I can’t stay here. This is terrible. More than three times a moon cycle we are attacked. I’m a nervous wreck. I want to go home. Home, where it was peaceful. Home, where you were alerted of a predator by a predictable noise and you weren’t scared all the time.
But the bison figures it out. He makes this kind of whuff sound when he wants me to come to him, and eventually started making it whenever there might be trouble. I was nervous that he might knock me over and trample tiny old me if I got too worn out to fly and got too close while he was stressed too, but he insists for me to come.
He’s my boy now. He might be a lot bigger than me, but I’ll be the best surrogate I can.
We’re back. I smell all my old troupe, except for two. We’re several mountains away, further than I’d been before, but I know it. It’s unmistakable. I take off at top speed and my boy laughs.
I cry out for them, and the converge on me. They sniff me all over, and nuzzle me, and check me for bugs. Getting petted by humans is great, don’t get me wrong- but tiny furry fingers are what I remember as a baby so it’s just by default better.
I don’t return to my boy.
He tries to entice me with my favorite foods, but I still don’t come.
He frowns and reaches his hands out for me, but I bare my teeth and puff out my fur.
You can’t take me from my home again.
The bison is very suddenly not my friend.
He barrels forward and roars at me, a sound that reverberates off hard stone cliffs and rips at my large sensitive ears, sending the other lemurs scattering.
The bison rounds behind me, and shoves me forward towards our boy.
“No, Appa,” my little boy says sternly, and the ten ton beheamoth takes a step back, chastened.
I know “No,” and I know each of our names.
He takes a dainty step towards me, and rests a hand on my head.
He makes some more sounds.
He doesn’t say my name, but scratches my head.
“Come,” he says to the bison, and the huge airbender obediently dips his head. The horned animal takes one more forlorn look at me before they leave.
It’s two more moon cycles before they return.
I’ve missed them terribly.
This time, I am rushing forward the minute I catch their scent from far away.
A few other lemurs follow me, curious, but that doesn’t matter. My boy is back! My boy, I’m sorry! I needed to stay here, but I want to be with you, too!
He can tell I’m distressed. For the next four sunsets I am flitting between him and my troupe. He makes sounds with the others of his own troupe.
He leaves for almost another moon cycle.
Then he returns with more lemurs. I don’t know where they came from. He releases them all, and there is chaos within the lemur troupes as they reorganize, and some split up, Some of the lemurs like the newcomers, but the new ones seem very attached to the humans, and don’t know how to forage. Eventually I settle in with a few other lemurs, both familiar and new, and my boy.
Now I can be with my kind, and also with my boy.
It’s been a while since then. Everything’s better now, right?
But my boy is still crying so much. I don’t know why. I only know that the bison and I will always try to make it better.
