Story: Calmer Karma by Katy Wimhurst

This story was found under a treasure chest at the back of the local post office last week after close on Thursday. It was guarded by a number of snapping turtles and a small rose bush. In the end we all had a soda.

calmerkarma

 

 

 

 

 

Calmer Karma

Katy Wimhurst

  

 

 

A wolf’s eyes normally gleam cold and sharp, like a metallic moon. But these days Killer’s eyes seemed to hold a reflection of an open sky.

 

“But you’re a wolf for chrissake, Killer,” said Volverang, leader of the notorious Belzamine wolf-pack.

 

Killer turned his snout slowly towards Volverang. “So?” he said.

 

“So you’re carnivore incarnate, woodland assassin, merciless fang. And that, Killer, simply doesn’t square with being a Buddhist.”

 

Killer sat down on his haunches and cocked his head to one side. “But I no longer crave violence. I want to be compassionate. I seek to pierce to the heart of existence.”

 

“You should be more concerned with piercing to the heart of a rabbit,” said Volverang, saliva rolling off his tongue. “This is getting serious, Killer. You were my protégé, the cruellest, most cunning wolf of all. But now, because of this Buddhist wotchamecallit, you’re causing consternation in the pack. Some of the young wolves are even starting to ask questions. We wolves hunt, feed, have sex, sleep. We don’t ask questions and we certainly don’t waffle on about existence.”

 

Killer looked calmly at Volverang, but said nothing. The older wolf paced up and down in front of him, paws pounding the ground. “How did you learn about this Buddhist crap anyway?” asked Volverang. He stopped to pick at some rabbit fluff, caught around one claw.

 

Killer spoke quietly. “From a human hermit who lives by the river. One day I went on a hunt, hoping to eat his chickens, but somehow, mysteriously even, we ended up conversing about the noble truths of Buddhism. That’s when I began to change. I now follow a path of loving kindness.”

 

Volverang gestured brusquely with his muzzle to a forest trail. “Well, you can also follow that path, which takes you well away from here. We lupines should show loyalty to our own kind, not to ‘kindness’. I have no choice but to banish you.”

 

“So be it.”

 

Killer strolled calmly through the forest, stopping now and again to practice the meditations he had learned from the human hermit. Pure awareness of the “now” was the real essence of Buddhism, he reflected. He took in the “nowness” of the woodland around him. His eyes focused on the pine trees stretching skywards, their bark powdered an orangey hue; his ears recognised the arias of blackbirds; his nostrils sniffed the heady blossom of hawthorn; and he felt the soft wind nuzzling his fur.

 

At some time, Killer came to the edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to a meadow in which rabbits grazed. Aha, he thought. Here was a chance for some serious karmic cleansing. In his life as Killer-the-cruel, he had surely notched up enough bad karma to be reincarnated as, at best, a tapeworm.

 

Killer walked cautiously towards the rabbits, but was surprised they didn’t back away. Nor did their eyes glaze over with the black enamel of fear. Instead, the rabbits sat up, studying him intently.

 

Killer lowered his muzzle humbly. “Good day to you, rabbits. I know I’m a wolf, the scourge of you. But now I’m also a Buddhist. I’ve come to try and atone, to apologise profusely if I’ve ever eaten any of your, er, close relatives.”

 

The rabbits hopped closer, with expressions that were strangely familiar to a wolf. One rabbit spoke: “We too have been influenced by the philosophical changes that have inexplicably afflicted this region. We’re no longer fluffy pacifists. We’ve embraced the nihilistic ideas of a human philosopher called Georges Bataille, who encourages orgiastic outbreaks of violence.”

 

Another rabbit snarled, “So be afraid, wolf. Be very afraid.”

 

The rabbits encircled Killer. And the last thing he saw was a militia of fur, floppy ears, teeth and claws, advancing, chanting, “Kill him! Kill him!”

 

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Katy Wimhurst lives in the exciting flatlands of Essex, UK. In her spare time, she pens fiction and non-fiction and has been published in various ezines/magazines. She might have studied for a doctorate in Mexican Surrealism after training initially as a social anthropologist. She might also have worked in publishing.