A Mosquito Folktale. June 29, 2011 14:42

While quietly weeding the quackgrass out of the potato patch in the garden last evening, I happened to overhear a conversation going on somewhere in the kale and orache. From what I understood from the little voices beneath the cover of the leaves, it seems that the mosquitoes have quite interesting folktales about me.

It seems that they see me as being something similar to an evil dragon that lives in its lair guarding its treasure. The way the story tells it, the mosquitoes are gentle and peaceful creatures that wish for nothing but cool evenings at the end of long hot days and fish-free puddles in which to raise their babies.

Life could be idilic and fruitful for the leisure loving mosquito tribes if it wasn't for the Monster that lives in the castle with his evil minions. Everyday he terrorizes them by stomping through the long grass and crushing their villages where they luxuriate in the lazy mornings, making light hearted banter in their winey mosquito voices. He seems to take some sadistic pleasure in ruthlessly seeking out their little watery nurseries and up ending them, heartlessly casting their babies to their doom. In a state of desperation the great mosquito matriarchs held council and decided that raiding parties to the Monster's lair was the only solution. But the mission is a perilous one. The fortress is defended by massive grills with holes too small to squeeze through. Through these the irresistibly delicious scent of the monster's treasure wafts, tormenting them in their hunger. There are secret passages known to only a few but these treacherous paths are laden with dangers of their own. The traitorous spiders who've become servants of the Monster, lay their sticky traps here and many good mosquitoes have fallen victim to them in the prime of their lives. Once inside, as the tales are told, the scent of the treasure is so rich and overwhelming that only the most disciplined can resist falling into a state of intoxication and blundering straight toward the Monster where he crushes them with cruel delight. His fiendish sentries, those alert beasts with the impenetrable fur, are sure to snap the careless out of the air. And perhaps most fearsome of all is the talking winged velociraptor that the Monster keeps in a cage. When he's feeling particularly savage he laughs maniacally and with a blood curdling clang opens the beasts door so that it can swoop out laying waste to the goodly band of happy little skeeters. But the Monster is slow and stupid and because God is a mosquito and loves those fair ones that he's made in his own image, he distracts the Monster just long enough for the heroes to snatch up a good bellyful of treasure. Yes, apparently many suspenseful tales are told of the Monster and of the brave ones who have out witted him and returned to their mosquito clans in glory. Pupae the whole garden over float at the surface of their nurseries raptly listening to these tales of daring and adventure all the while dreaming that one day they'll be the heroes of future legend. And to think that I always considered them to be the monsters.