A soft sound blossomed on the top of the Spiral Peak. It was a choir song, voices layered and rich. The words were unrecognizable, sung in a language long-since lost to this world. But the melody was gorgeous, the harmonies exquisite, and the tone of the voices perfectly complimentary. Suddenly, where moments before there had been nothing, an angel shimmered into being on the mountaintop.
As his form solidified, his white robes morphed and shrunk. In moments, he wore a simple suit. In one hand he held a six pack. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a few moments to himself. Choir practice was essentially mandatory, so he kept just enough of his divine tether open to hear their songs faintly in the background.
He found a rock flat enough to act as a seat, and eased himself down with a sigh. A six pack appeared on the rock next to him. He pulled a can loose from the plastic loops and dug his finger into the tab. For a moment, he held the position. The choir song hit a quick crescendo, and he snapped the beer open at the opportune moment to punctuate the end of the third movement. He took a long drag of the citrusy ambrosia and smiled.
When he’d first started taking recesses on the Spiral Peak, he’d felt guilty. Angels are supposed to be creatures of God and content to fulfill their duties without fail. In his defense, he had been and done that. But after a few eons, the life of an angel had grown stale.
Life in heaven was good. For one thing, there was a refrigerator that had a limitless supply of six packs, and everyone was free to take one at their leisure. He took another big gulp to honor that luxury. Also, the choir music really was beautiful. Practice had moved on, a take on a contemporary French pop song, and despite the mild source material the angels made it sound glorious.
Still, he was not entirely satisfied. There were things he envied about life on earth, things he wanted to feel but knew he never could: the way sports fans felt when their team won a championship, the electric charge of a first kiss, the burst of warmth that parents felt when they watched their daughter take her first steps. As an angel, he knew the idea behind those feelings, but he couldn’t actually feel any of it.
Instead, he helped usher the dead into heaven. He gave tours to the newly arrived, showing everyone the public baths where they could soak with Rita Hayworth, the chocolate cigar lounge and, of course, the fridge of never-ending beer. And it was fine. A perfectly satisfactory existence for an angel.
He was sure that was why he felt guilty every time he snuck off. It was precisely the sort of life designed for an angel. Polishing off the beer, he broke into the second and wondered when he’d stopped being entirely satisfied with his existence. It might have been after that thing with Sammy Davis Jr, a stegosaurus and that giant block of cheese made with milk from Mrs. O’Leary’s cow. That had not been a high point, certainly.
Far below, something stirred in the partially frozen river. The angel sipped his beer and watched a little line of motion form on the surface. It grew, a disturbance in the shape of a V as something swam upstream just below the surface.
“Something can swim in water that cold?” the angel asked aloud to himself.
The creature eased its way upstream, winding around rocks, staying always in the deepest part of the water. Soon, it approached the waterfalls. The angel leaned forward a little, eager to see the beast unveiled.
A head broke the surface. It was a brilliant white, waterproof fur matted to a curved, elegant skull. It moved its head left and right, examining the waterfall before it. It swam closer and picked out a spot between the two main bodies of the falls. Two webbed paws emerged from the water and the creature hoisted itself out of the water.
A white otter. Much larger than the angel thought otters had a right to grow. And while he was not an expert in earthly fauna, he did not think otters normally had bright white fur. But part of the angel package was pristine vision and an echo of heaven’s omniscience. It was, without a doubt, a giant, white otter.
The angel could not help but wonder what brought the otter to this removed locale. For his part, he came to find some time to himself. It was peaceful here, and it gave him a chance to look over a plain but beautiful landscape. On clear nights, the sky was packed so densely with stars it was more light than dark. There was nowhere in heaven that made him feel like this place made him feel.
Absently, he wondered if something similar brought the otter here. As his second beer ran dry, the otter made some sort of decision. With methodical care, it began feeling for footholds on the cold, wet rocks. Slowly, paw by paw, it began to climb up the waterfall.
Why would it go that way? Otters were not bound to the water. He could have easily climbed out on the low bank and trotted up and around the waterfall. That would have been the easier path, conserved energy he might desperately need to fend off the cold.
And the angel realized that perhaps it had chosen to go up the waterfall because it could. It was testing itself, and there maybe was no practical reason to do it. It just wanted to find out if he could it take the hard way up. All at once, the angel realized he hadn’t been sneaking off to get some time to himself. He came to seek something else. Something more.
Inspiration.
Heaven was infinite, and he could easily be alone there. But he’d come down, to this place, because he wanted somewhere… restricted. If he was being honest with himself, he was bored. Life in heaven was too simple, and everything had a purpose and a place and square pegs could easily be made to fit round holes. He didn’t want everything to just work all the time.
Leaning forward, the angel watched in rapt fascination. The otter padded up the waterfall with great care. He tapped his paws here and there, testing the grip, and he only moved when he was certain it was secure. The higher the otter climbed, the more confident it became. It covered the final stretch with breathless agility, launching itself over the lip of the waterfall. It splashed back into the water at the top, and the angel imagined he could hear a chirp of triumph even from this far away.
Inspiration. He wanted to climb something just to see if he could. To sing higher than an F6. He didn’t want an easy life handed to him. He would miss the infinite beer fridge. But it was worth it.
The choir music in the background swelled again, and the angel broke out in a big smile. He popped open another beer and relaxed as much as the rock would allow. Far below, the otter swam upstream, soon moving around a bend in the river and out of sight. The angel bid him a silent thanks and farewell.
The Tall Tale Year 