I
Autumn had returned, and with it came the cold. Soon winter would tighten its grip, and the chill would become unbearable. Tarú, the mosquito, crouched on the thatched roof of a house he hated – yet now, it offered him a sliver of warmth. It was time to leave this country. The country of Miyù, the man.
Early the next morning, Tarú began his long journey back to his own country. This season’s adventure was over. He glided down the knitted bamboo wall, across the front veranda, and slipped into the narrow lane. A few early risers were already heading to their fields. The humans of this land never stopped working.
As Tarú flew out of the village, he glanced back. “I will return,” he thought.
The first rays of the sun pierced the thick mist, touching the drying stubble of harvested rice. Tarú reached the valley’s edge. Flying higher, above the pines, he couldn’t help but admire the meandering streams and the tantalising paths leading into the woods. A wave of envy passed through him. Miyù had built such an orderly life.
Above the pine groves, Tarú saw the familiar resting place: Nyatù, on the mountain’s ridge. A waft of cold air greeted him. There sat Tapiñ, the ice, squatting on a stone. They had been allies for as long as memory allowed, united in their eternal struggle against Miyù. Their strategy was that Tarú would attack Miyù in summer, Tapiñ in winter. Twice a year they met at Nyatù – autumn and spring. On those occasions, they greeted each other and exchanged words.
“Hello, my friend,” Tapiñ called out. “Good to see you.”
“And you,” Tarú replied, his voice heavy.
“You don’t look happy. How was your expedition?”
“As usual,” Tarú said. “I tried my best, but Miyù prevailed again.”
“Don’t lose heart,” Tapiñ urged. “Tell me everything.”
“As we planned, I shadowed him since spring – into the fields, into the forest. But the moment I reached his skin, his palm swatted down. Even the hum of my wings alarms him. He’s too quick. And the Bee works for him, filling his granaries while I starve at his door.”
“But he must rest,” Tapiñ said.
“He does. But even in sleep, he wraps himself in thick layers. My spear – my proboscis – is too short. He’s too clever.”
“However clever,” Tapiñ said, “I’ll finish him this winter.”
“I couldn’t defeat him with my spear, nor with all my venom,” Tarú said. “You are formless, without a weapon. I fear you may not do much.”
“I’ll wait outside his house and bite him with my chilly sting. I’ll strike at the village well, numb his limbs in the fields, freeze him in the forest. He won’t escape.”
“I wish you luck,” Tarú said. “May you succeed where I failed.”
They bade farewell, agreeing to meet again next season. Tarú flew toward the warm forests. Tapiñ drifted toward the country of Miyù.
II
It was spring again. Tarú, the mosquito, was looking forward to it. No sooner did he feel the first waft of warm wind than he set out for the country of Miyù, the man. Through thick vegetation, past the chirping birds and humming bees, ignoring crouching leopards and barking deer, he flew toward the hills. He did not pause to admire the opening buds of spring on the flowering trees or the fresh leaves sprouting from their branches.
At Nyatù, he settled on a dry twig and gazed toward the plateau, waiting. A puff of cold air stirred, and sure enough, Tapiñ floated in on the northern wind.
“Good to see you, my friend,” Tarú called out.
“And you.” Tapiñ did not look happy.
“How was your adventure?”
“Tough as always. Miyù is as clever as ever.”
“Tell me.”
“At home, he kept me away with an ever-glowing hearth fire. He slept under thick quilts. Outside, he stayed covered in clothes I cannot pierce. In the fields and forest, his constant movement kept him warm.”
“Don’t lose heart,” Tarú said. “This time, I’ll finish him.”
“Good luck, my friend.”
And as always, they parted, promising to meet again next season.
That summer Tarú found Miyù walking the rice terraces with a tank strapped to his back, sweeping a pale mist over the green. Another evening, a sharp-smelling coil smouldered in the corner of his house. The mist stung Tarú’s wings, and the smoke made him dizzy. He fell, picked himself up, and flew on. “A new weapon,” he thought. “He is learning from me.”
III
Centuries passed. The age-old struggle between Miyù and the Tarú-Tapiñ alliance ground on. The valley’s thatched roofs gave way to tin. The lanes were paved, and lamps burned in them all night.
One autumn, Tapiñ hesitated. Going to the country of Miyù had grown more uncomfortable each year. The high peaks felt cosier. He did not ask himself why the snow lay thinner there. Still, he had to keep his word.
As he approached the hills surrounding the country of Miyù, the autumn leaves were still green. He wondered if he had arrived early. Then he heard Tarú, the mosquito, whine. Tarú looked happy.
“Did you defeat him?”
“No,” Tarú replied.
“Then why are you so happy?”
Tarú’s smile turned mysterious. “There is a reason, my friend. Come, look.”
They went down together to the edge of the village. On the sill of Miyù’s window lay a drift of dead bees, small as husks. Beyond the house, where the terraces ran down toward the stream, no frogs sang. Only the beat of a pump sounded, and the soil was pale and hard as a cooking pot.
“As I told you,” Tarú said, “Miyù took to spraying poison all around his home – to kill me. At first, I thought I was finished in his country. I was terrified. But I learned to endure the poisons. And now, my friend, those very poisons are killing the Bee. Miyù’s own ally.”
“Hmm,” Tapiñ mused. “Killing an ally is good, but not enough.”
“Enough, my friend. Without Bee, no pollination. Without pollination, no plants, no food. No food, no Miyù.”
“I see,” Tapiñ said, still unimpressed.
“Then look at the soil. To grow more food, Miyù adds artificial nutrients. He poisons the earth to kill weeds, and the poisons kill all the small creatures in it too. Killing the small creatures means killing the soil itself, the very ground on which he lives.”
Tapiñ said nothing. In the yard, a boy coughed and kept coughing.
“The soil will grow thick with toxins,” Tarú whispered. “Miyù will drink them, eat them, breathe them. Strange diseases – ones he cannot name – will gnaw at him from within. That, my friend, will be his nemesis.”
“Hahahaha!”
“Hahahaha!” Tarú laughed his whining laugh. “Miyù has created artificial allies that help him destroy his natural ones – the plants and animals of sky, land, and water. They are being exterminated slowly.”
“He is doing to himself what we have tried to do since the beginning of time,” Tapiñ said, gleeful.
“The end of Miyù is coming.”
“I have no business going to his country anymore,” Tapiñ said. “Miyù has made artificial hot air that weakens me. The same fires that run his machines have thickened the sky. I’m returning to the highest peaks.”
“Me too,” Tarú said. “Let us leave him alone to die a slow death.”
“And when he is gone?” Tapiñ asked.
“When he is gone, the country will be ours.”
“And what will you drink?”
Tarú opened his mouth, and the whine in his throat faltered. He said nothing.
They parted – Tarú southward, Tapiñ northward into the mountains – both laughing.
“Hahahaha!”
“Hahahaha!”
Their laughter echoed through the blue hills surrounding the country of Miyù, thinner each time it came back.
Miyù, lying on his porch and sipping rice beer, heard a strange sound from the hills.
“It’s nearly winter, yet still so warm,” he thought, gazing toward the ridges. “Strange weather.” He could not remember when he had last been bitten. He could not remember the last frost.
He did not shiver. He did not smile.
And the hills, for once, were silent.
