The Chronicles of Atticus Wrentavius Seneca Cornelius; or The Edenite

As recorded by his faithful friend and servant Mahalal’el the Wanderer 

Chapter 1 

“There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.”

–Alfred, Lord Tennyson 

Appalachian Mountains, North America, 1948  

I am about to tell a strange tale, of a strange bird, a wren to be quite exact and a rather curious and precocious young wren of exceptional intellect to be more exact.  However, intelligence is not always bound to wisdom and often arrogantly ignores her. This flaw would prove to bring our young wren into much trouble, for he had a penchant for learning things only in the most difficult ways possible. Perhaps you, my dear reader, understand what I mean. Nevertheless, we shall move on to his adventure.

It all began many years ago near a farm on the edge of a forest in rural Appalachia where strange events are said to take place, and the older folks believe in such occurrences even today. Atticus, as he is called, was a wren, as we have established, and like many a bird of his species, he was naturally curious, with no want of energy. However, Atticus was peculiar even for a wren. He questioned everything! Even that which was “not expedient” for a wren, as his learned father would caution him. His adventure begins with an argument in an oak tree deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

“Some who have ventured there have never returned! There are reports that some humans trap and eat birds or use them for their witchcraft and who knows what else! I should not have to add that these spells usually lead to torture and death!  Your Aunt Allie once glimpsed some poor creatures behind bars, awaiting an unknown doom. Poor, wretched creatures,” said Ailsa, Atticus’s mother.  “She tells me they looked positively dumb with fright.” As Ailsa spoke, she placed clean rushes on the floor emitting the fresh scent of mint and lavender.  She paused before imploring her restless son.

“Atticus, you are a bird of unusual intellect and a bold heart, but you must leave these humans to themselves!  They are a corrupt and wicked lot from times of old. The ancient laws aren’t for naught. They were compiled from the wisdom of the ages, born of much anguish and suffering. Birds, being tender-hearted and forgiving by nature, more noble than most creatures on earth, have suffered greatly. The Ancients saw fit to set these laws into place to protect us from the evil in this world.” Ailsa’s eyes were on fire as she spoke; nevertheless, Atticus remained stubborn.  

  “But Ma! In the legends of old, mankind walked with birdkind, as well as other woodlanders. I heard father speak of it once to one of those crotchety old owls.” Atticus then adopted a scholarly attitude and said, “See here, I have developed a theory that these laws simply began as seeds of superstition! Those seeds were planted in antiquity from some isolated and unfortunate events. They then grew into elaborate tales of witchcraft and torture! And I don’t mean to be contrary, but we all know birds that are corrupt and violent as well. And many do not know our language at all and stare in amazement when we speak to them! Perhaps humans run into the same problems with their own kind.”  

“Son, please refrain from calling the Elders crotchety old owls—firstly—and secondly, what you speak of was in an age that is no more, in a time we cannot fathom. The world has changed.” She paused her vigorous cleaning again and, as if considering the idea for the first time, she spoke again, her demeanor more wistful.

“Goodness knows I try not to reflect on such things too long. If I’m honest, I have doubts about the truth of the ancient tales of romance and heroism and friendships with mankind, seeing how dark the world has become. And how uncertain. I daresay we would not recognize the world of our ancestors. All that lore about how human and animalkind even conversed with one another. Can you imagine? It is a wonder how, considering we can barely converse with those of our own kind. It seems, well, physiologically impossible.”

Ailsa then added as an afterthought, “And you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on your father’s private discussions!”  She began to clean again with more vigor than necessary, which told Atticus she had concluded the conversation about the history of the world.   

Atticus decided to visit his best friend, Toby. Do you, reader, ever ask for advice from everyone you know until you receive the answer you want? Atticus was quite determined that someone, anyone, should agree with him. Toby was finishing up a repair for his mother when Atticus flew in. After the usual pleasantries, Atticus decided to risk revealing his true purpose. 

Toby answered, “Honestly, I believe the stories are pure moonshine. There’s not a lick of archaeological evidence that supports ‘em. I have long since ceased believing they are much more than fairy tales, good for fledglings’ bedtime stories. Some woodlanders find comfort in them, I reckon. That’s all well and good, but I’ve no use for ‘em m’self.” 

Toby then asked, “Did you read about that new legislation proposed by Parliament? Complete nonsense. Leave it to owls to create problems so they can be in charge of fixin’ ‘em.” 

Toby’s response should not have surprised Atticus, for his friend was not known to have a fine imagination and preferred to read only political opinion columns in The Woodlander Gazette. Atticus didn’t want to believe his friend enjoyed crafting arguments more than pursuing truth, but the thought had crossed his mind from time to time. Atticus decided to risk a counter argument.

“Having little or no material evidence neither proves nor disproves anything. Moreover, we are sitting here having a conversation. That alone is evidence that something very strange occurred in the distant past. Don’t you ever wonder about our origins, Toby?” Atticus asked this question with an air of a poet…or a fool, as his father often lamented.  

“Can’t say that I do, my friend. Now, what do ye say to a game of darts at the Eagle and Chick?” 

Atticus stared at Toby in visible dismay, to which Toby was immune, then surrendered and agreed to the darts.