C2. Virgil Jango Skyy

Three monks lifted Virgil Blue from their wheelchair onto the podium, where they sat cross-legged. The silver mask’s bird-beak barely moved with the ancient monk’s long breath. Under the mask and navy robes Faith saw not a single inch of skin. The suggestion of folded hands in their sleeves was her only clue someone sat beneath the cloth.

True to their introduction, Virgil Blue remained silent. A murmur crept through the crowd. In the front rows the congregation crossed their legs and focused on the Blue Virgil.

Faith shrugged. “That’s a cool mask. BeatBax would like it, she loves birds.”

“Quiet,” said her uncle. He squinted into the mask’s buggy eyes. “Are you getting this, Faith?”

“Huh?” Faith saw his glassy stare. He was lost, now, in the bird’s eyes. A hush blanketed the lecture hall as the silver mask entranced the audience. Faith sighed and clasped her hands on her knee. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

Her uncle tried to shush her with a raised finger, but just stared at the Blue Virgil.

Faith rocked in her chair. “I’ll wait for you outside. I wanna look at the trees.”


Outside the lecture hall Faith kicked off her shoes and bounded to a fence by the cliff. From the fence she enjoyed the forest spread below her. Clouds cast drifting shadows on the treetops. Trees and clouds alike bent to the breeze.

Behind her the lecture hall doors opened again. The elderly sky-clad monk pointed the spotted end of his cane to the summits of the Bighorn Mountains. “These peaks aren’t half bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.” Faith wasn’t sure how to react, so she watched him amble to the fence. He saw through the mountains to a horizon only he could detect.

“I’m sorry I left your teacher’s lecture,” she said.

“It’s alright. Virgil Blue is an acquired taste.” The monk brushed his robes. “My name is Virgil Skyy. You may call me Jango.”

“Jango?” Faith smiled and curled white-blonde hair around her finger. “My friend Jilli has a cat named Django.”

“There are no coincidences. Such simultaneity is a message from the Mountain,” said Virgil Jango Skyy. “A similar message brought us here today. We live on the Islands of Sheridan. A trip to Sheridan, Wyoming was inevitable.”

Faith nodded but turned away. She watched a deer bounce over rivers and rocks. “I don’t want to burst your bubble but there are lots of Sheridans. It’s a common city name, like Springfield.”

“Wyoming’s Sheridan has the highest elevation. Indeed, these mountains represent an admirable effort.” He stuck his cane in the grass. “But Virgil Blue’s monastery is on the main island of Sheridan and I swear, it’s twice the height. You can’t see its peak.”

“Is that where the birds live?” Faith leaned on the fence and fished the brochure from her purse. She showed him the photo of the little flightless birds. “They’re adorable!”

Jango shivered and stuck a finger in his mouth.

Faith hid the brochure. “Is something wrong?”

“Those fledglings are sacred,” he said. “Their photography is forbidden. It’s not your fault; you did not take the picture, and it is superstition in any case. But when tourists visit our islands we remind them to photograph anything but the birds.”

“Gosh, sorry. I just have this friend who loves birds. Why are they sacred?”

Jango’s lips found a sideways smile. “In Sheridan we tell a story. The Biggest Bird birthed the islands and the clouds and taught her people to use island herbs.”

“I like stories.” Faith smiled. “Tell me a story!”

“Do you think I came here to teach you the secrets of reality through metaphor?” He bent his cane at her. “That’s an Orientalist perspective, if you ask me. You want the monk treatment, be a monk.”

“Sheesh, alright,” said Faith. “I’m sorry, Jangster.”

Jango shook his head and turned to the forest. “Young lady, is your name, by chance, Faith Featherway?”

“Um. Yes.” Faith checked her blouse for a name-tag. “How did you know?”

“Look.” He pointed his cane over the fence at a white fox skulking a mountainside.

Faith almost hurled herself off the cliff. “Oh my gosh! It has cute little whiskers!”

“You’ve got better eyes than I do, Ms. Featherway.” Jango laughed. He had two black irises but one’s pupil held gray plaque. “You won’t believe me, but we’ve met once before. You wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm?” Faith tilted her head at him without looking from the fox. “No, I don’t remember.”

“I owe you a favor.” Jango shook an object from his sleeve into his hand. “This should make us even. You won’t believe how I got it through customs.”

“Oh! I always wanted to try one of these.” Faith took the cricket and spun it in her fingers. The wings were tightly twisted around the body. The stem on its abdomen acted as a natural filter. “A guy at my school sells these things, but his don’t look nearly as nice.”

Virgil Skyy pursed his lips. “On Sheridan crickets are revered as a link to the Mountain meant only for the islands. I hesitated even to bring one for you. But if this man educates people of the Mountain, so be it.” He shook his other sleeve and a green lighter fell into his hand. “Please, allow me the first puff. Cricket-eyes can overwhelm the uninitiated.”

Faith watched him put the stem in his mouth and light the ten beady eyes on fire. He breathed a cloud over the forest and passed the insect back to her. “You know, you speak awesome English for a native to an isolated South Pacific island.”

“I live on the Islands of Sheridan but I was born in Kansas City.” Virgil Jango Skyy guided her inhalation with his hands like he was helping her parallel park. “I didn’t begin studying with Virgil Blue until my mid-thirties. Back then you couldn’t get bug-sticks in America. Virgil Blue taught me to smoke them in person.”

“Whoa!” Faith coughed a cloud over the fence. After hacking and spitting she passed the cricket back. “You mean Virgil Blue smokes, too? I figured they were like a thousand years old.”

“Older. Virgil Blue is a title stretching back to the Biggest Bird. Today’s Virgil Blue is almost two hundred years old. Only the Blue Virgil is holy enough to prepare centipede, which practiced laypeople consume to join the congregation.”

She watched him finish the cricket and tap the ash in a trashcan. “I’d never smoke centipede. Too many legs, so creepy! Maybe someday.”

“I don’t suppose your friend with the sunglasses sells centipedes, too?”

“He says he wants to, but I wouldn’t call him a friend.”

Jango nodded. “It’s always a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Featherway. I hear Virgil Blue concluding their silent lesson, so I must retrieve them from the podium.” He passed her a red card-stock pamphlet. “I’m sure you and your friends will find this pamphlet enlightening.”

She took the pamphlet. On the front a hand-drawn flightless bird bigger than an ostrich sheltered fist-sized fledglings with its wings. Inside was taped a plastic baggie of brown powder like coffee grounds. “What’s this?”

Virgil Jango Skyy was gone.

Written in pen beside the baggie: ‘Powdered centipede isn’t so creepy, is it. A brief introduction to Sheridan, Ms. Featherway—Virgils Skyy and Blue.’

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