One day Phonweard would meet PhonDreme. She would be his match. Phondreme would carry within her breast the other half of PhonWeard’s heart. Her heart would actually connect to her mind, while his only touched his stomach, so she would think and feel, all at once. Late in their life together Phonweard would learn to think about his feelings rather than just act on them, but that would be later, much later and after many adventures.
Phonweard lived a long time, in this life and that life, before he met Phondreme. In fact, no one could actually count the lives he lived before he tasted self-awareness. For most of his lives Phonweard took all his feelings and thoughts from others, mixed them with his own hope for happiness and returned them to their originator.
“You make me feel…different…not good…but better,” an old man told him one day on a high mountain in Asia. “I wish you were better, or more, so you could make me feel good, not just better.”
Phonweard smiled and flew off, testing his bright wings, for he was a bird, then, he remembered. He was a winged being built just right for flight but he could not make others fly, if they were not built for the wind and air. Phonweard could make them wish to fly but he could not actually make them more than they were in body and mind.
Phonweard did his best work, he thought/felt/acted with those who had souls. He liked a rock he met and hung around with the rock for what seemed a long time. The rock really grew in happiness while Phonweard stayed with him, for he was a guy rock, not at all like the girl rocks who mostly lay serenely in the valleys, content to roll down the mountainside one time, never rising, until the valleys became the mountains, then content to be on the top for awhile, until the mountains became valleys again.
“I’m a witness to the durable evil of humankind,” the rock told Phonweard one month in their third year together. He did not speak again for a few years or so, and never told Phonweard his name. They were good friends, just the same.
Phonweard would not call him Rock, or Stony. Since the rock did not tell his name to anyone, Phonweard just called him Friend and left the rest alone. Phonweard did not behave like a bluejay he and Friend knew for a couple of years. The bluejay, who had no business up so high, bothered Friend constantly.
“I want to know your name,” Bluejay would insist. “We cannot really be friends if I don’t know your name. I love you, brother, I love you and love you, but you hurt me all the time. You don’t love me like I love you, because you will not tell me your name, never, not ever. I can’t be important to you. I love you, I love you, you are my brother, I love you. You must not love me. I want to do so many things with you. We could travel. I can carry you with me, let me just carry you, but I can’t carry you places if I don’t have a word for you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Tell me your name.”
Friend never replied to Bluejay, who could not have carried Friend anywhere, anyway. Bluejay did not know how much of Friend there was below the ground, all the way down to Earthcore. Even if Bluejay meant he would carry around the part of Friend he could see, he was wrong.
Sometime, Bluejay died, still not knowing Friend’s name, or even Phonweard’s name, though Phonweard often tried to tell him. Bluejay was very busy, always asking Friend his name, never even calling him Friend, like Phonweard did, or even recognizing that Phonweard, who sat on Friend’s back this whole time, was the way to Friend’s heart.
“I miss that old Bluejay,” Friend said, one day, after Bluejay had been dead for a decade. “He was annoying with all his talk.”
And, then, Phonweard and Friend never talked of Bluejay again.