Wild Goose Chase

OOnce upon a time there was a young girl named Tib. She lived with her parents and older sister, Melka, in a small cottage midway between the wide sea and an enchanted forest. At least Tib believed it was enchanted.

Melka, at sixteen, had grown old and grumpy. Tib, only eleven, was dark-skinned,
thin-boned, and, as her sister reminded her often, a bit of a fool. One day Tib
awoke to find her mother crying and her father pacing the floor.

“Where is my sister?” she asked.

“Melka has gone,” her mother wept.

“Gone where?”

“On a wild goose chase,” her father declared.

“It is not a wild goose chase,” Tib’s mother snapped. “She has gone to test
her wings Melka is grown now and must seek her own life.”

“But where has she gone?” Tib asked.

Her father snorted and turned away. Her mother answered, “Melka went to the sea.
I believe that she will find what she is looking for. I only hope that she recognizes it when she finds it.”

“What is she looking for?”

“A wild goose,” her father muttered. Her mother sighed and rolled her eyes.

That afternoon Tib sought out the village wise man. “Where do the wild geese lead?” she asked him.

“Ah, the wild geese, is it?” He stroked his chin and looked at Tib, first with one eye and
then with the other, as if he was a crow and she a worm. His voice took on the dreamy faraway
sound that he used for making his wise (but often confusing) pronouncements. “The wild geese lead to the Gates of Hope.”

The Gates of Hope. That sounded good, Tib thought. She waited for him to continue.
When he crossed his arms over his abundant belly, she realized that he would say no more.

“Is it far to the Gates of Hope?” she asked.

“Farther for some than for others,” he replied. “Only the bravest ever reach the gates.
It is surrounded by a garden where the vines of sorrow ensnare the unwary and the pit of envy is hidden beneath a bed of flowers.”

“And the wild geese? Can the wild geese lead you safely?”

“Ah,” the wise man said. “It is only by chasing the wild goose that one ever reaches the gates.”

She thought of the thousands of geese she watched each year as they passed overhead in ragged Vs,
their raspy voices splitting the air. Someone knocked at the wise man’s door.

“But which goose should I follow?” asked Tib.

The wise man opened his door to the miller and smiled as he pushed Tib outside. She dug
in her heels. “Which goose should I follow?” she demanded.

“The quiet one!” He shut the door in her face.

In the spring, Melka returned home with a serious young man who smelled of the sea and spoke little. Tib’s father
seemed pleased. “Melka has come to her senses and let go of that wild goose,” he said to Tib’s mother. “She will be
happier this way.” Her mother sighed. The rest of their words were drowned by the cacophony of the geese returning
from their winter home.

Melka only laughed when Tib asked her about the wild geese and the Gates of Hope. “I know nothing of any wild geese.
I went to find the sea,” Melka told her. When Tib begged her to say more, Melka got a strange look in her eyes.
She sighed a great, slow sigh. “It is as vast as the sky, as wet and salty as tears, deep and unknowable.
It drew me to it and frightened me away. I. . . .” Melka shook herself as if from a dream. “–I went to find
the sea and found instead a longing for home. Now I have the best of both.” She smiled at the approach of
her young man.Then the Gates of Hope must lie beyond the enchanted forest,” Tib said. But Melka did not answer.

All through the spring, the summer, and into the fall, Tib watched for the wild geese. At night she dreamed
of the enchanted forest, where enormous trees formed arches overhead. She stood before the Gates of Hope. They
were nearly as tall as the trees around them. A fine filigree of metalwork decorated the silver bars, with
sky-blue morning-glories intertwined. The gates stood slightly ajar, inviting her in. A hint of swirling
mist lay beyond. Tib always awoke before the gates swung fully open.

With the autumn came the geese. They flew so far above that Tib despaired of ever following them.
Until one afternoon, when she stumbled across a goose sleeping among the reeds of their pond. With its
head tucked beneath its wing, it looked like a featherbed for a queen–huge, soft and shimmering white.
Tib reached out a quivering hand and stroked the silken magic of the bird’s feathers.

The goose awoke, struggling to its feet. It made no sound, but backed away. Tib, startled by the sudden flurry, stepped back also. They stood staring at each other for one long minute before the goose turned and fled. Tib knew without knowing that this goose was the one.
The distant cry of the geese above drew an answering cry from the one on the ground. They were headed south for
the winter–south past the Gates of Hope?

“Wait!” Tib cried. “Please don’t go! Take me with you!” She leaped at the goose. Wrapping her arms
around its neck, Tib clung to its back, holding tight with her knees. She gasped as she felt the
goose take six jouncing steps before it rose into the air. For a moment, Tib thought she might
have left her stomach behind. Her head spun. The bird’s powerful wings caught the air and propelled
them forward as if swimming through the sky. A sound escaped from Tib that might have been a giggle
or a whimper. The earth was but a swirl below. The cool streaming air held the intoxicating taste of
the cider that Tib’s father kept hidden in the barn.

They circled once above the village. As her vision steadied, Tib saw a figure in the distance.
Was it Melka? She closed her eyes. Perhaps it was, but this was Tib’s own wild goose and she
would ride it all the way to the Gates of Hope. Melka had made her choice.

Staying on the back of the goose was the hardest thing Tib had ever done. She was nearly as
large as the bird and, pressed against its back, she could feel every rhythmic wave of muscle.
She held onto the slippery feathers all through the cold, windy night, warmed by the goose
beneath her. Slowly, the sky began to grow light. Slowly, Tib’s body seemed to merge with
the bird’s until their hearts beat the same rhythm and their breath came as one.

The sun rose off to the east and still Tib held fast. Her goose had taken its place at the tip of a
wavering wedge of geese. The sun curved above them and settled into the west. Tib’s head ached with the
noise all around her–the rush of the wind, the honking of the other geese. Were they never silent?
Her legs grew numb from gripping its feathered sides. Cold, wet clouds smothered them. The steady
motion lulled Tib, finally, to sleep.

Suddenly, the world cracked open around her. Tib and the goose keeled over. A gash of lightning
ripped apart the heavens: a thunderclap exploded in Tib’s ear. The goose swooped lower and lower,
beaten down by the storm, until Tib could see the ground below. Still, the bird dropped lower.
The winds buffeted them from side to side until, finally, the goose touched down on a bit of high
ground. Tib’s arms lost their grip. Her hands grabbed at its feathers, but she could not hold on.
She tumbled off the bird’s back. Then it was gone. Tib was stranded, alone, on a sodden, rocky mound far from anywhere.

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Wild Goose Chase by
Lisa Wright

© 1996