The Tragedy of a Friendly Carabao

A day prior when the mosquito arrived, there was a carabao in a valley. This carabao was a friendly carabao, who helped the other animals in that valley. When the birds from the skies wished for a quick meal, the carabao allowed them to take bites off the ticks on his back. When the fish from the streams or the lakes wanted to go elsewhere, the carabao would carve with his hooves and horns a new water path to their destination. Whenever there was a dispute between bears and bob cats, the carabao would try to cease the conflict, and succeed. Whenever a beast was wounded or hunted down my Man, the carabao would be there to shoo the hunters aside. There were occasions where he helped Man too to plough their fields for rice, but only the noble ones. Always, the carabao would be there to lend assistance.

This carabao was a friendly carabao, and because of his amicable behaviour all the animals depended on him for almost everything. There would be no nests on trees if the carabao hadn’t searched for the twigs for the birds. There would be no grass for deer and elk if the carabao hadn’t readied the ground for propagation. This carabao was considered to be a keystone animal for the other species in that little valley.

A day prior when the mosquito arrived, that same carabao was quite tired of doing his work. The other beasts argued to him to continue helping him in their daily duties. He replied that he would aid them soon, perhaps tomorrow, after he had recovered some strength to resume his tasks. The animals let him be; the carabao rested in the night.

When the dawn rose, the carabao awakened to an odd sound. It sounded like those savage tools Man uses to cut off trees, yet this sawing sound was tiny and weak. The carabao looked to see a flying dot hovering above him. He assumed it to be a fly, but no; this was an insect he had never seen before.

“Good morn, little one,” greeted the carabao. “Who are you?”

“I am a mosquito,” replied the insect. “A good morn to you too.”

“Where do you come from? Never have I seen you in this valley.”

“See that mountain? Beyond that range there is a swamp. Do you know a swamp? No? Well, a swamp is like this valley, a flat place, but a swamp is always full of pools of water, where many plants that are not here grow. Beyond that mountain yonder, in that swamp, there lies my home.”

“Why have you come here, so far from your swamp?”

“My children are there in the waters as larvae, swimming in the mucus of the bog, one day to spring into the sky and become something like me. I have more eggs ready. Yet I need the blood of others for them to live. This is why I come here, mighty beast. I seek that little speck of life that would bring life to my offspring. Mighty beast, would you lend me your blood for my children to be born?”

“Why certainly! But tell me, how much blood do you seek?”

“A tiny pinch, just the size of Man’s fingertips.”

“Will there be agony as you take a pinch of life from me?”

“Not at all! See this needle of my nose? Coated upon it is a juice, which will help dull the pain you would feel. I will insert this through your skin, into you veins, and there I will suck the blood out. You will hardly feel anything, worry not.”

“Forgive me if I ask, but why have you not gone to other beasts such as I?”

“They would not let me have their blood, and many of them said that you would help me.”

“Hmm, well, a tiny speck of blood is not so harmful, so be my guest.”

So the mosquito took a pinch or a speck of blood from the big creature and flew away.

The carabao continued his tasks in that valley.

He rested in the night, and often woke up to assist the owls and the crickets.

Then in the morning, the carabao met the mosquito again, this time with another of its kind.

“Little mosquito,” the carabao spoke, also greeting the insect’s cousin or sister. “Why have you returned? Who is this with you?”

“This is my sister, mighty beast, and I bring her here so that she may also have your blood for her children. May she?”

“Why certainly! But what of your own children?”

“They now fly in swarms above the swamp lands, frolicking in glee.”

“Will they all survive there?”

“Not all, but enough. May she have your blood?”

“Will you also need my blood too?”

“Indeed, mighty beast. Just a pinch or a speck.”

“Hmm, since there are two of you, that would mean that you would take two pinches of blood from me. But two specks of blood is not so harmful, so be my guest.”

So the two mosquitos took their gifts and departed.

More duties were accomplished by the carabao.

Day darkened, and night owned the valley.

Things dreamed in sleep.

Then the carabao was awakened by that sound which Man’s weapons often make when desecrating trees. But the sound was greater, as if a thousand buzzing things hung like singing clouds above his head.

“Why, there are so many of you!” exclaimed the carabao in shock.

“Only a dozen,” the mosquito who led the entourage stated, the first mosquito the carabao had met. “May we have some more blood?”

“You have many friends indeed, little one, with many children.”

“We only need a pinch or a speck of it.”

“Hmm, I have much blood in me still, and you are so tiny, and this request tiny too, so be my guest.”

So the mosquitos, a dozen so, obtained their treasures.

The carabao felt nothing indeed from this. No torment. No sense. Nothing.

He kept on working soon, fresh and sturdy.

He was praised and applauded for his efforts; he was given gratitude and the promise of more work.

Diurnal creatures hid in their lairs, and the nocturnal beasts awakened as stars and moon lit the sky.

The carabao dreamed in sleep.

Then a buzzing roar louder and hungrier than anything he had ever heard before greeted him in dawn’s first light.

They, two dozen or more of mothers who cared for their kids in the swamp beyond the mountain, had requested of the friendly carabao for his blood.

He had inquired of the volume.

They had replied that they each only needed a pinch or a speck, just the size of Man’s fingertips.

He agreed happily.

So they took more blood from him.

Light and darkness recycled in succession.

The carabao continued his tasks, feeling strangely tired.

There were more of them the next day, a hundred, perhaps the children of the ones the carabao had assisted days ago. They demanded of him a speck or a pinch of his life; they were rude and hasty in their orders. But he accepted their pleas, for this carabao was a friendly carabao.

The carabao as he worked his worth felt exhausted, feeble, lazy, and dreary. The bears and the bob cats commented on his peculiar behaviours. The fish and the birds noted how thin he appeared. Man itself noticed how slowly and meagrely the carabao razed the crops. He was just tired, that’s the problem. So tired…

He slept instantly, and no dream came to him, no nightmare haunted him. The carabao rested as the rains fell. Even as instances of light and the sudden crashes of the storm harassed all the creatures of the valley and the firmament, the carabao slept through the chaos.

Then more of them appeared, not in the morning, but in midnight, a hundred-fifty or more. Loud was their flight and raucous were their demands for life.

The carabao permitted them to insert their little needles into his rough flesh. All hundred-fifty of them took a pinch or a speck of blood, about the size of Man’s fingertips.

The carabao felt more tired than ever as he helped the animals in the valley. He could barely help them all in their daily duties. They complained, they begged, but what could they do? He was tired. So tired…

And day by day, more of them, first two hundred, then three hundred, then a thousand, would come to him for his blood, either when the sun shone down or when darkness claimed the sky.

“May we have some blood?” they would ask.

“Why certainly!” the carabao always answered.

“May we have more of your blood, mighty one?”

“Why certainly!”

“May we pierce your skin with our needles? You won’t feel a thing!”

“Why certainly.”

“May we use your blood to bring our children to this humble world?”

“Why…certainly…”

“May we have some more? Can you help us? Please?”

“…yes…”

He could no longer help the other animals, for he felt too tired to work. He could no longer continue his activities, for strength and stamina were almost gone from him. The other beasts, including Man, wondered where he had gone or why he was not there for them. Days after he had alienated himself some place obscure, unable to assist them in their daily chores, the ecosystem in the valley nearly collapsed. Chaos reigned absolute. Bodies of water stagnated and the fishes died down. Bears and bob cats were in perpetual war. There were too many birds for so few nests. Even Man began to starve.

But things mended themselves through the passage of time. Those in the valley continued to live their own lives without the carabao, difficult as it may be. Nature resumed on its course. The cycle, day and night, life and death, rolled on. But the carabao was still there, and he could still help in his little way…he could still help…he could still help…

Then one day, when there were half a million of mosquitos, they all asked in one voice for his blood.

The carabao did not reply.

Fifty thousand of them asked him again for that red matter of life.

He said nothing.

They insisted.

His eyes were closed, as if in slumber.

They inspected him, and concluded.

He had gone away now, never to return.

Fifty thousand landed on his flesh anyway, without permission, and noticed also that he still had some essence in him, but very little. They robbed every speck or pinch from him. They flew away, beyond the mountain, into their swamp, and there they bestowed their children life.

And the carabao continued to say nothing. He gave no reply and no complaint. His blood was all but spent, and soon his flesh too when the maggots came, and soon his bones too as time grinded it to meal.

The mosquitos had all but died as well, their swamp destroyed by earthquake or flood, or they had fled to other lands beyond their swamp, beyond the mountains, searching and begging.

The valley of Man and the animals had progressed. The old way had returned. Some things there and beyond were naturally selected to survive in the new world. The carabao was missed, and for a while he was remembered.

Nature resumed its course, and the cycle, of day and night, of life and death, rolled on.