Early on Friday morning, much too early for this writer’s brain to be awake, Uncle waves the group of singalongs goodbye and sets off up the path into High Mountain. His walking stick in hand and his Writer’s H’Mong Bamboo hat perched atop his head, notebook, and pencils readied.

Today, the hat from Zyvox, the cream soda afficionado Nibiru librarian and Uncle’s interplanetary agent, hums with an otherworldly energy, its copper wires and crushed meteorite fragments glinting in the sunlight. It’s actually distracting — the hum from the hat, but Uncle seems to be immersed in its vibrations. I follow in silence.

As Uncle climbs higher, a procession of jungle people join him on the walk, each eager to share their stories and wisdom ideas they thought about since they last chatted with him.

A most pleasant group of diverse forest people, and some of them evidently dressed for weekend joy. For, as I had learned from the Wayist animals, “You work to make a living, then you live to make a life. Next week, you do it again.”

Of a sudden, a high shrill and very angry squeal rings out! An insecure-gendered bush cat squealed and jumped high in fright. Turns around, and with a terrible mean look on her face, slaps BillyBob Warthog, a vicious clap, through the face. People laughed so much. He had stuck his moist, cold snout in bush cat’s butt.

Warthog grins from ear to ear. Obviously not the first time he pulled that stunt with the cat.

As we hiked along, White Coon, a facetious, teenager raccoon with excellent taste in wardrobe, came up to saunter alongside Uncle, as he lead the entourage up the mountain. After a few steps, she looks up at him and asks, “What’s up with the hat today, Uncle?”

Uncle hesitates for a moment, then says, “Why do you ask? Is it different today?”

“Yup,” she says. “So what’s up with it?”

Uncle smiles, “Perhaps it’s the weather making it extra noisy?”

“Why…?” asks Black Coon teasingly, White Coon’s brother, who came up to walk on my side, obviously working with her on whatever is happening.

The entourage in the back now shushing one another. Evidently, waiting to hear the answer.

“Why…?” “is the weather making it more noisy?” asks Black Coon again, a smug grin on his face. He glances back to the group and winks at his sister.

Something was going down. It was plain for all to see. The rest of the entourage hushed down, anticipating Uncle’s answer. I watched Uncle’s face. He shot me a glance; smiled, mischief in his eyes. He knew it was a game, yet another setup. Seemed like it was a hollow-ridden game to him, but he played along. He let them wait it out, making them work for it.

White Coon asks again, little devils in her eyes, “So, Uncle. What’s up with the hat and the weather then?”

Uncle clears his throat, turns around and proclaims loudly, so all will hear, “It must be Climate Change!”

At that, what they all had been waiting for, those very words. The entourage exploded from the pent-up tension, in total hilarity.

Evidently, it was really very funny, that joke. Amusement spouted forth like fireworks in the night sky. They burst out in a cacophonous chorus of laughter, accompanied by rolling, tummy holding, knee-slapping, chirping, meowing, screeching, barking, howling, and whistling. Even the large old trees trembled in their mirth.

When the noise finally subsided and we could speak, I turned to Uncle while walking up the path, asking, perplexed, “Uncle, it’s almost as if nature and the forest people find our concerns about the Climate Change emergency amusing?”

Uncle’s mischievous smile revealed a glint of wickedness in his eyes as he says, “Just wait until you hear their thoughts on 2SLGBTQI+plus, and ‘cow farts’.”

A jolt of surprise shot through me, leaving me momentarily stunned. “Are they familiar with all of that?”

Uncle nodded stoically, his eyes flipping up to the tree branches above. “It’s the crows, mostly. Animals are keen observers, and rush here to share the latest gossip.”

“Do they think we are stupid?” I ask.

Uncle gave me a look I couldn’t place. It’s either that look of, ‘you have to ask!’ or that look of ‘what d’ya think’. He says, “N’ope… They don’t think that. They know it and they’re very vocal about it. They know about every one of the 50-or-so climate catastrophe end of the world doomsday religion predictions preached by slow politicians and bought scientists over the years.”

Then, he got all serious, like I have not seen him before. “These people, all over the world, have been observing us, and living as victims of human stupidity for millennia. It’s not a matter of reasoning about it. To them, it’s a biological, empirical, systemic fact, our stupidity. Humans are a blight on the face of the planet. Never, just don’t get them started on that. It’s very disruptive in the jungle when they recount millions of examples of the cruelty and destruction, lies, deceit, the stupidity, and ignorance. These poor people … they suffered so much.”

I thought about that for a while, and find myself saying something stupid: “Uncle, at least we are now setting worldwide standards to curb freedom of speech, because some people weaponise words and hurt others.” I bit my tongue. Was I about to lose all credibility with Uncle? I don’t want that.

Uncle stopped in his tracks and turned to look me in the eye, leaning on his walking stick with both hands in front of him, surveying whether I really believed what I had just said. Holding that gaze into my soul, he says, “That’s nice. The emotional pain the ‘words’ inflict, you want to save people from; a great virtue… you think. But, all the while, they use words to instruct the bombing of cities, to justify crimes, for courts to dismiss violent and awful crimes, words of lies to ruin people’s lives, words of propaganda to organize violent coups, words to usurp the governments of others and ruin people’s lives and shatter their futures, words to lie to the public, and words that falsify reports how the toxins in food and seeds make people and the environment sick, killing billions of organisms and species every week. Words that lie on the destructive effects of medicines and the quality of food. Words of their God in holy scriptures they twist whichever way they want, words of their God promising genocide of nations he doesn’t like; censoring words about the evils of government workers, and of the history of the most-cruel, most destructive species to ever have lived on this planet. Silencing the words of the peaceable and amplifying the words of the malintencionada. Animals and nature see through humans on all that hypocrisy, but humans choose to not, or are too stupid to do.”

He turned and walked. Leaving me shaken, ashamed for having tried to defend my really, really ignorant species. Ashamed for not owning my own mind.

A few yards later, my mind still reeling at the scolding, Uncle stops and turns around to add, “Look at my work. You make my words create inside you. You do it, not my words. That way, words transport people to spaces they already hold in their soul and spirit. If they hold stupid spaces, they go there. If they hold magic or spiritual spaces, they go there. If they have self-control and own their own mind, they ignore stupid words and choose the food they feed their soul. Words take people to spaces they never before could reach, but now they do. There are many words out there, its like rain so prolific. Depending on the receiver’s mind, words transform and inspire for good or evil. Look at our work. It’s the receiver of the word who is either the problem, the philosopher, the magician, or beautician. Words are edible to the soul, its nutrition for one, toxin for another, nonsense for some, wisdom for the other. Humans make of words what they can and want… Come, let’s go make some words.”

I dropped back in line, allowing Uncle some space to alleviate the burden I had placed on his heart.

I thought about some characters in the books I grew up with. All kind people, good people. And realized they surrounded me. They are the people of the forest and mountain, rivers, and skies. Here, all around me.

There’s the Children of the Rainbow, water droplets, and Ridley, the raindrop who didn’t like to get wet. Ridley shared his tale of overcoming his fears and learning to embrace his true gaseous nature, learning about reincarnation and the cycle of life. There’s the Souly tribe of caterpillars who learn about the Butterfly Path, aspiring to become wise and beautifully winged spiritees.

Then there’s the only imagined unreal, which moves us to places. Like the Mouthspinner Fish living in the mountain stream, a peculiar aquatic creature with a propeller-like appendage in its mouth, which allows it to zoom through the water at breakneck speeds, and crashing into the riverbed, its only way of slowing down, then spouting bubbles filled with landlubber profanities. Awful to be around when a bubble unexpectantly surfaces and a sudden profanity is expleted all over your tranquil meditative moment in nature. Uncle, with his gentle touch and understanding of the fish’s plight, has become a trusted confidant and translator for these misunderstood creatures.

As we reach Uncle’s favorite meditation spot, a moss-covered boulder overlooking the Pinkytoes River Valley, a flurry of colorful butterflies greets him, each carrying a message from the far reaches of the continents. The butterflies, ancient spirits of transformation, whisper secrets of metamorphosis and the eternal cycle of life into Uncle’s ears, messages they want soul-beings to hear. He listens attentively, absorbing their wisdom and weaving it into his stories, which he sends out into the world through the mystic aether.

I was simply observing Uncle, as always. I watch him work and try to never insert my person into his life. However, he sent three butterflies or very small birds to come hover around me. They were exquisitely beautiful, delicately painted in shades of light pastel greens with different colored accents. Later, I learned they are Oleander Hawk-Moths. After a minute or two, Uncle turned to say, “Go with them. They will take you to Gnarlo. He lives in the neighborhood. He will help you understand.” Uncle turned back to continue his work.

Taking my satchel and notebook, I followed the moths leading the way into the forest, leading me not along a path, but their knowing of where to fly — straight through the bush. I had to bundu-bash through thickets and bramble-like branches, trip over dead wood and slip on moss, trying my best to follow. It was not far, about two human miles to the neighborhood where Mr. Gnarlo lives, they said. But it’s far, or hard, if you walk the route that moths fly.

Fortunately, after a while, they must have seen I was beat and looking worse for wear. They stopped under a large tree.

Grateful for the break, I sat my shaking knees down to get a breather and inspect the cuts and bruises. I became aware the three moths were perched, watching me rather intently from a nearby branch. And that was when I noticed the tree. “Oh, my goodness, what a beautiful species!” I thought.

The thought had hardly left my, whatever it is called where thoughts leave from to be broadcasted, when a very deep voice inside me says, “Yes. I know.”

The voice was not from my brain. I heard it inside.

I was about to go on a what-the-hell is that! spin in my head when the voice sounded again, “Why did you come? What do you want?”

I was about to ask, who are you? When the deep bellow of an unfriendly voice says, “I am Gnarlo. Mister Gnarlo to you. What the hell’s it with you? You walk into my home and ask, ‘Who are you?’ Good Lord Krishna and angels, who is this idiot?”

The moths obviously heard it. They tried to look innocent, shrugging as if to say, “…don’t know the idiot from a bar of soap.”

I collected myself. I’m a veteran of Nihnuta living now… I can do this… I thought, it’s like Mr. Gnarlo reads my mind?

Gnarlo says into my insides, even more angrily, “Read? I will NOT read that book! I HEAR you! For Buddha’s sake! Say now why you came. Who the hell ARE you?”

Okay. Got it, now…

I formed a thought, “Mr. Gnarlo, Uncle sent me. He said you will help me understand. Thank you for allowing me here. Oh. I am from Canada and my name is…”

Mr. Gnarlo interrupts, boorishly, “From Canada! Oh. You must be Trudeau then, the prime minister who cannot count and that’s why you don’t understand CO2. You want wisdom about that?”

Once again, I was caught off guard. Not only about the hospitality but the level of information that nature has about what people do. I made a thought, “Sir, my name is Mister Jean du Plessis. Oh, and sir. Trudeau said he has problems with small numbers. Only small numbers don’t make sense to him. It’s not that he cannot count.”

Mr. Gnarlo bellows in my insides. It even hurts my diaphragm. “Oh! For Lord Jesus sake, all numbers are small. Less than 10 numbers in total. 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9. It’s all small. 35 billion, is small. Its a 3 and a 5 with the word ‘billion’ in there. Its small, and it has 9 (which is a small number) zeros, which are small. All bloody numbers are small numbers for heaven’s sake!”

“Sir, I apologize. Maybe I caught you at a bad time. I can come back…”

Mr Gnarlo belched into my insides, “Bad time? Bad time! Oh, Peter, Paul and Bodhidarma! You don’t know what a bad time is for someone 420 years your senior! Don’t you be telling me if my time is good or bad! So, if your throne-man, his British-ass Majesty of the island of fragments and flesh-eating-virus politicians now-falling-apart once-united kingdom of the Brits, sends misses Jean on behalf of Canada, what the bloody hell does misses Jean do, and why should I talk to her?”

“Sir, I am just a guest of Uncle, in Nihnuta. I am a writer, researching a story. That’s all.”

“A darned writer! Oh, my Mother Theresa! A writer…. They sent a bloody writer… Well then, write this and give it to Justin to read. No, no. Sit him down … and read it to him. I speak in small numbers. For the sake of Gura Maharishi and all that was holy before human scientists started lying about how we plants live and what we need! Write this!”

I was more than a little shaken up, nevertheless I had my pen ready, poised….

“Are you ready miss Jean?” barked Gnarlo.

“Yes sir.”

“Why the blazes don’t you say so, then?” barked Gnarlo.

“I forgot to think it, sir.”

Gnarlo didn’t take kindly, “Oh my Treegod, I’ve had enough. They sent me an imbecile who ‘forgets to think’. Forgets to think … for crying our martyrs’ blood through my eyes!”

Gnarlo continues in his impatient exposition: “Write this now! We have a global CO2 crisis. Due to humans genociding us, causing deforestation, plant abuse and desertification, bloody malevolent idiots, there’s not enough CO2. CO2 is food for plants. We need more food and more plants. More plants mean more clouds, cooler days, and more rain, then more plants, more animals, and more people can be sustained. The planet can sustain ten times as many people as now, just replant the forests that you idiots killed. It’s called e-col-o-gee. Big word for you, but an important word. Ask your kids to explain it to you.”

“Are you writing?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Why don’t you say so, idiot!”

“Now write this. I’m not talking about your science, which is so idiotic and always on sale for a deal. I’m talking about my breathing, and having to watch forest people all around me struggle to breathe and flourish, because of so little CO2. But now, let’s talk your science numbers. You’re Canadian, after all, so i’ll say small numbers and speak slowly. Every Canadian creates 15 tons of CO2 every year. That’s not my small number, it’s your religion’s own number. So, your sin is 15. And you must either pay sin tax to your pope and confess your sins, or have someone else, like me for example, eat your sins and flourish and fix the planet. So, how many trees do each Canadian idiot need to eat their sins? 570 Tees. And now I’m talking about trees alone, not talking about grass and fields and plankton, which do more. 570 trees per Canadian idiot. How many trees in Canada, Eh? How many? Even now that forests are suffering from deforestation, there are 320 Billion of us. And how many do you need to serve your religion’s sins, 19 billion of us. You are 1,600% ’net zero,’ as your religion calls it. But you mother’s womb disappointment religion still want to decrease the CO2 more. Why? Because you want to kill the planet? Vegans are killing the planet. Because of your fairyfly brain lunacy we all doomed to suffer as we approach extinction because of your religion of plant abuse. Are you striving to engineer an ice age, kill of everything, again? Okay… Piss off now. I’m so done with you and your kind.”

“Sir, thank you very much. That is very informative. May I please ask one more question, sir?”

Mr. Gnarlo shook in temper, “Oh, for the sake of wailing barren wombs! Go ahead! Only one!”

“What about the forest fires, sir?”

“Oh no. For the sake of keening Catrina in my pozole! You’re not a tree, nor a forest, why do you think you can have an opinion on something you fairyfly-brained scientist-for-sale people study from an anthropocentric viewpoint only. So, what about forest fires? Because of too little CO2 and plankton deadzones from agriculture, deforestation genocide and cities without trees, parking lots without trees, solar panel wastelands, we are all suffering. We need forest fires. For many, many reasons. First, we hope the fires will fix the selective planting problem that humans create — it breaks the soil and the ecology, and makes for weak, weak, helicopter parented, expendably-sensitive useless trees with emotional-nanny needs. Second, we need the CO2 of the fires. Third, we need carbon in the soil from the ashes. Fourth, and now I’m still using small numbers, don’t get nervous. True mixed forests need the fires for seed germination, soil conditioning, pest control, and wholesomeness stimulation. It’s called ecology. And one more, trying to keep the numbers small for you, idiot. The fifth one, forest fires are a problem only for humans — because you bloody idiots want to live in the forest but you don’t become part of the family and don’t fit in with the ecology! Now … look up and tell me what you see.”

I looked up into the heavy branches, and high up there, several massive fruits hanging from mister Gnarlo’s beautifully twisted branches. Fruits like brown, spiked, jackfruit, only bigger, like watermelon size bigger.

“Yes, that’s right," says mister Gnarlo. “Spiked watermelon sized. If you don’t piss off right now, I shall donate your ass a few of my fruits, right to the head-part of you. Go. I have tree things to do; you have human things to do. And tell that silly old man I send my love. Go!”

I pissed off rapidly. When sufficiently out of reach, I turned around, and thought my heartfelt thank-you’s for the wisdom and for the time.

The moths and I were about twenty yards away when Mr. Gnarlo voiced in my chest, “Come back anytime you need more. Stupid Jean. What a stupid name that is for a man.”

I turned around, smiled, and waved. Mr. Gnarlo waved back.

Guided by my moth friends, we return to where Uncle works. Looking the worst for wear because I had to bash a fresh path on the way back because the moths hate me, I think. Uncle looked up and smiled. “Charming old fellow, isn’t he?”

I sat down and rummaged in my satchel for something to eat and drink. “Delightful, yes. A true gentleman. Well informed, eloquent and wise. Oh, and he sends his love.”

Uncle smiles, “Thanks. Will visit his neighborhood soon. Beautiful people, there, all of them.”

During the rest of the afternoon, Uncle taught me to do Avalokane Meditation, and he brushed up my skills on Karman Active Meditation.

We spent about an hour collecting all kinds of herbs and berries, as we always do when in the mountain. Uncle hands it over to the aunties. They make medicines and special goodies for fairs and parties with it. Everyone in Nihnuta seems to give and receive and share what excess they have, and trade.

I have tried to pay for things from day one, but never has anyone accepted a penny from me. They say, “Oh, your money’s no good here. Go on. Take it.”

While foraging for medicines I asked Uncle about that. He says, “It’s true. Your money is not good here. It’s paper and plastic. What can we do with paper and plastic? But, hey, we’ve got your back. One day you will make good.”

I was shocked into shameful silence for a long time, which suited Uncle, of course. It dawned upon me, I was homeless and penniless, in a foreign land, living off alms and people’s goodwill.

On the way back down to the village, I thanked Uncle. “I learned a lot today. Thank you, sir.”

“Yes,” he says, his usual curt response. He never says, “You’re welcome,” when you thank him. I wondered why Canadians and Americans do it.

The village below was so pretty. Cooking fires trailed smoke from chimneys. A few lights on in kitchens.

I ask, “Sir, are there other topics I should avoid with the jungle people?”

Uncle does his hmmm.., and says pensively, “I guess. But not only the jungle people, all people up and down the valley,” Uncle smiled, “Unless you mean to tell a joke, never, start a sentence with, ‘Scientists have found’, or ‘Scientists say’. If it’s not a joke you’re saying, you will lose respect. But if you have a good joke — do tell! Joke you may to your heart’s content!”