A Death in Maine, Fantasy & Wonder

This past week I visited Acadia National Park with my friend from school, Claire, whom I met when we were freshman year roommates. The park was beautiful, with its granite cliffs slipping into the sea like giants dipping their feet, and its bedrock pushing through the thin topsoil like a knee sticking through ripped jeans. And, while I didn’t see too much wildlife, I did see two bald eagles, an eastern phoebe, a tiny little crab, and a handful of turkeys. It’s that last animal I want to discuss, and which made me think about the necessity of wonder, and fantasy's role in sparking it. 

On the first day of our trip, Claire and I went out for a run. After sitting in the car for hours upon hours, we needed to stretch our legs. We ran one direction, then a dog chased me, so we ran in the other. Claire returned to our apartment, but I wanted to get another mile in. I ran down the road that we had driven through, where we had seen a gaggle of turkeys earlier. That same gaggle was still there, standing in the middle of the road beside a dark shape. When I got nearer, the turkeys fled into the woods, leaving behind the lump in the middle of the road, which I could now see was one of the turkeys. In the hour we’d been there, someone had hit and killed one of them. I scanned it to see if it was still alive, and when it didn’t move, I ran on. 

Now, I’m no stranger to roadkill. There’s plenty of it where I’m from. Yet, when I ran past the dead turkey for a second time, I noticed that an old woman had stopped to move the turkey to the side of the road. I stopped again, wanting to check that it wasn’t alive. (Not that I’d know what to do if it were.) Its neck was bent backwards, its body broken. There wasn’t any way the poor creature would survive even if it hadn’t died yet—then it blinked. 

I really didn’t know what to do. Kill it? I had nothing on me, and couldn’t scrounge up more than a rock or a stick. Besides, was being clumsily bludgeoned to death better than bleeding out? I can’t imagine it is. So, with the turkey blinking after me, I muttered a short prayer and decided to run home.

Right then, as I turned to run away, a truck flew past me, going far too fast on that country road.

The next day, when Claire and I returned from hiking, there was a moth fluttering inside of the small cabin we were staying in. Doing what moths do, it followed the artificial light into our cabin and got trapped inside. It was a beautiful, nutmeg brown moth with soft wings and antennae that resembled leaves. I told Claire to wait a minute while I tried to shoo it out. She replied with, “We’re probably going to have to kill it.” We didn’t. I got it outside. 

All this is to say that I am continuously surprised by how little we care for the small creatures that populate our world. I spent years working at a nature education center, witnessing how kids peered into streams hoping to see “fishies” or ran up to me to show me the crayfish they had caught (and where it had pinched them). There was certainly an element of violence in the way that the kids chased wildlife and caught it with their hands, but there remained a deep respect and admiration for the animals they caught. They still had wonder. 

Do you ever think about where our wonder goes? Where do we lose childhood wonder, the very thing that had us, at six, staring into the forest and imagining the fairies that might live there? Or at a butterfly, convinced there was nothing more beautiful? I’m not sure, but I do know that fantasy stories preserve that wonder for older audiences. That’s one of the reasons I’m so drawn to this genre. It allows me to reconnect with that thirst for magic and adventure that lives within our inner child, but it also gives me ground to try and spark wonder in my readers. 

And wonder that doesn’t just stick to dragons and fairies and mermaids, but also the miraculous creatures that we are lucky enough to live alongside. Before my friend said we should kill the moth, I was admiring her curling antennae and soft, brown wings. Have you ever looked at a moth up close? Or a butterfly? Or any insect? They’re a bit terrifying, to be sure, but also absolutely fascinating in their absurdity. 

But it’s not just bugs! When we hiked through the forest, I imagined what it must be like to be a tree, a behemoth that can live for hundreds of years. At the beach, I marveled at the millions upon millions of years that had carved the landscape around us. We are so lucky to be alive in this world—a world that only has a 1-in-700-quintillion chance of existing—and we spend so little time truly appreciating the wonder of its existence. 

When I was a little kid, and one of the last to still believe in Santa Claus, I made a promise to myself. I promised that I wouldn’t become like the other grownups, who stopped believing in magic. Unfortunately, I did break that promise. I’ve since (bitterly) accepted that Santa Claus isn't real, and that I’m never going to meet an actual mermaid. Yet, I do still marvel at the fantastical beauty of our world——at the turkeys and the bugs, the trees and the mountains—and I think little Kari would be proud of that. 

P.S. Did you know that scientists are currently debating whether plants might have some basic form of consciousness? And that others are decoding the language of sperm whales, so we might one day get to converse with them? In my mind, speaking to whales is just as amazing as discovering mermaids.