The Canary flew low out the cavern, followed by a cloud of dust and a coughing Blue Knight. It flew to the south, past the palm trees and hills where, past the skyscarpers and roads where, past the rivers and fields of corn, of sunflowers and of fruit trees. The yellow bird rested for a while atop a cypress to catch its thought.
The Canary, whose raison d’etre was to test the vital signs, flew through the world and became progressively upset and angry. The impulse to lie on the ground with its claws curled up in the air was almost overwhelming, but a strong sense of duty drove it on past the meltings and the senseless smokestacks.
It dived into the sea, where the fish watched, open mouthed, and cast an eye upon the ocean swell. It rose as high as its lungs could breathe where the misty clouds are born in slow turmoils.
Where shall I find a health gauge for the whole world, thought the Canary, I cannot continue my search and evaluation project ad nauseam until I perish. At some juncture I must sit down and deliver my report.
At that time, the Canary sat atop a jumble of loose rock in the Himherlayas. A well-established range of tectonic expressions just north of the India continent. A tiny voice came to the canary from somewhere within the cairn.
I can help, said the voice.
Speak, said the Canary, and I shall listen.
I am a Snail, one of the smallest of my genus. I have lived my entire within this rocky place. And yet I can sense, with my sensitive foot, all the contents of the winds of the world which pass this way and leave their residue and flavour upon my stones.
I taste the state of the arctic ice, the sea level in Mauritius, the temperature of the tundra and the size of the pinecones in the Taiga Forest. For me the flavour of the deserts are too sour, but a hint of coral reef can sweeten. I sometimes consider the mists that come to me from the Andean glaciers and the city smoke of Bejing. Too caustic are the bitter winds of war and the tears of those in need are aching sweet.
I can taste the changes that are here and foretell the consequence. I can taste the interplay of the powers as they shift upon the balances of justice. Intoxicating are the breezes that ruffle the vines of southern France and indulgent is the flavour of the airs that make their way through the olive groves of Greece.
A pungent taste carries from the plains of Africa, where the migrating herds throw up great swirls of dust and the paddy fields of Asia have their own distinct tang.
So, should you need some serious number crunching stats for your report, I’m your snail. I could prepare a spread sheet or a folded sheet, scribble some figures on the back of some recyclable packaging or ping you over a zap file.
I could deliver it by zmail or strap it to the leg of a pigeon postman. Run it up the flagpole, or pin it on the universal notice board. I could put it up in lights or graffiti it on the windows of a train.
Where is the universal notice board? asked the Canary.
Next to the principals office in the long, long corridor with other doors but no windows. There are always teenagers there who put things in lockers and slam the doors. Most of the time they are mean to each other and then make friends.
Can everyone see the universal notice board?
Yes, but occasionally it gets covered over by an unnecessarily large poster advertising a dance which has always happened the evening before.
Then that is what I shall do, said the Canary, send me all the information in binary on a flashcard and I will pin it on the universal notice board for all to see.
Thank you,
Don’t mention it.
The Guardians of the Cave 