There once crawled out of a pond a little, tiny Mosquito. He had only just been born. But as soon as his wings had grown large enough, he began to fly about and wonder at all that was around him. And the larger his wings grew, the larger his heart grew also. And the larger his heart grew, the more it filled with Love.
“But where does Love come from,” he said to himself as he buzzed about the forest glade, “and with whom shall I share it?”
In the center of the glade there stood a Cow eating grass. On a flower sat a Honey-bee resting her wings. And a Bush Warbler could be heard singing songs from a tree nearby.
The Mosquito trembled all over with joy. “It certainly is a wonderful world!” he sighed and went up to the Honey-bee. “Good morning!” he said. “Why, aren’t you lovely? Indeed, you seem to be the loveliest creature in the pond.”
“In the pond!” cried the Honey-bee quite angrily. “I am afraid that I know nothing about such dirty, smelly places.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Mosquito in a timid voice. “I hope that I haven’t offended you. But were you really not born in the pond?”
“Certainly not!” snapped the Honey-bee. “To be sure, you may have been born in that stink-hole, but I was born in an apiary, like a respectable creature, and was raised by a governess.” And she raised her pointed stinger in the air.
“That is not a thing to be proud of,” snickered the Bush Warbler from his place in the tree. “After all, who isn’t raised by a governess these days? Really, you are a person of little importance, whereas I belong to the higher orders, for I was born on a country estate in Java. Of course, it is summer-time there, so I am only here on a sojourn. As to my education, I can assure you that my parents spared absolutely no expense in hiring the finest poets to serve as my teachers. So there is really no comparing us at all.”
“Hmph!” snorted the Cow. “What trivial persons you are! Tell me, can either of you say that you were born in an actual house? Well, I can. And what is more, I am told that there were three human beings in attendance for the occasion.”
The little Mosquito was quite taken aback. “But regardless of where we are born,” he remarked, “surely we can agree that our hearts are one and the same.”
“Dear no!” cried the Honey-bee. “For if we are born in different places, then it stands to reason that we ought to have different hearts.”
“But I thought that we belonged to a common family,” said the Mosquito.
“A common what!” cried the Honey-bee. “Why, that would doubtless be an honor for you. But for me, it would be an imposition.”
“How so?” asked the Mosquito. “Love is Love, is it not? Surely it is the same for everyone. Take me and the Cow. Though she may be big and I be small, I love her no less than she loves me.” And he flew away from the Honey-bee and alighted on the Cow’s neck.
“Shoo, fly!” shouted the Cow in an angry manner; and thrashing her ear, she struck the Mosquito hard on his little spindly legs.
The Mosquito fell to the ground.
“Did that hurt much?” said the Cow. “Perhaps it will teach you to know your position, and to keep your opinions to yourself!”
The poor Mosquito winced. The world seemed to him to be a cruel place. “How strange,” he murmured as he rubbed his legs. “Here I am thinking that we all belong to a common family, yet nobody will give me the time of day. Indeed, they all act as though I were taking up space. Oh, who could have created such a ridiculous world!”
“It was doubtless created by the old Bee-keeper,” said the Honey-bee proudly. “He is very bright and clever, after all.”
“The Milkmaid is also clever,” said the Cow. “Indeed, she knows just how much hay I require for my diet, and she never forgets to feed my calves either. So I wouldn’t be surprised if it were in fact she who created the world.”
“Then you must be very ignorant!” laughed the Bush Warbler. “Pray, have neither of you read the Classics? Don’t you know that the world was created by God?”
“God?” said the Mosquito, sitting upright and forgetting all about the pain in his legs. “Who is ‘God,’ and where does he live?”
“According to the poets, he lives in the sky,” answered the Bush Warbler.
“Well, you are a poet, are you not?” said the Honey-bee. “Have you seen him?”
But the Bush Warbler shook his head. “I have not,” he sighed. “But surely my cousin the Skylark has. He can fly much higher than myself. Ah, here he is now!”
And the Skylark flew down.
“What excellent timing!” said the Honey-bee. “Skylark, I hear that you are quite knowledgeable about the heavens. May I presume, then, that you have met God? Surely he resembles the old Bee-keeper, does he not?”
“You mean to say the Milkmaid,” said the Cow.
But the Skylark laughed outright.
“In all my years spent flying about the heavens,” he said, “never have I seen anything that so much as resembled a bee-keeper or a milkmaid. I have seen eagles, though, and hawks. Perhaps one of those is God.”
“My good cousin,” interjected the Bush Warbler, “I fear that you are somewhat mistaken, for eagles and hawks are, like any one of us, merely God’s creations. And as everybody knows, God cannot be his own creation.”
“Well really!” said a Fly who was passing through the grove. “How arrogant you all sound. I will have you know that I am a research assistant at yonder observatory, where every night I sit on the bald pate of the Chief Astronomer and gaze at the heavens through his mighty telescope, yet never have I confirmed the existence of God. Naturally, I have tried to look for him under the microscope as well, but he was not there. And so I have come to the conclusion that God is simply too small or too distant to be seen. That is to say, his existence is of little importance to our world. Now if you will excuse me, I am on my way to the observatory kitchen, where I intend to engage myself in putting such thoughts to paper.”
“I cannot accept your thesis,” remarked the Skylark, who was greatly agitated by the Fly’s arrogant demeanor. “For while your research is rooted in science, and your argument based on facts, I am inclined to support the theory put forth by the venerable Master Crane, who devoted a considerable effort to exploring the mysteries of God, and who even spent his younger years at the Pyramids studying hieroglyphics. As he explained it to me once when we were flying out to my family estate, the search for God begins not in the observatory or the laboratory, but in a place of worship, such as a temple or a church.”
The Skylark then turned his attention to the Mosquito. “As for you, my budding free-thinker, I would advise that you keep a healthy distance from both academia and mythology. Indeed, it would be better for you to search for truth on your own, for discourse and superstition make it exceedingly difficult for one to know anything at all.” And flapping his wings, he blew a cloud of dust in the Fly’s direction.
“Verily,” said the Fly as he dodged the dust and tried to appear open-minded when he was really up against a wall. “Moreover, it is fortunate that there are many temples nearby, and should you wish to begin your fieldwork at once, I would be more than happy to accompany you as a guide—that is, had I not already consented to attend an academic conference at the observatory later today. The conference is to be followed by a banquet, and who else but I am fit to check the food for poison? Indeed, in this great nation of ours, our academics are afforded the utmost respect, and it would be sorely amiss to serve food to such highly esteemed guests without first checking it for poison. Ahem—”; and clearing his throat, he proceeded to recite, word for word, something that he had heard the Chief Astronomer say many times before: “But do not think that we at the observatory are unwilling to accommodate you as you embark upon the commendable path of independent research. Only we regret to inform you that as we are engaged in research of our own, we will be unable to offer you our full support. Nevertheless, we wish you luck with all your scholarly endeavors.”
The Mosquito thanked the Fly, and bidding the others farewell, he set off in the direction of the nearest temple.
When he arrived at the temple, he found it to be deserted. “Where is everyone?” he said. “I hope that they haven’t all left on vacation.”
Then he saw a Sparrow defecating on the statue of a bodhisattva.
“I was told that God lives here,” said the Mosquito. “Do you know if he is in?”
“God?” answered the Sparrow. “Do you mean the Buddha? I am afraid that you have missed him. He entered into Nirvana twenty-five thousand years ago, and has not been back since. But perhaps you mean the Christian God. If so, you will have to go to a church to find him.”
So the Mosquito flew to the nearest church, where a Congregation happened to be gathered for mass. Large wax candles burned along the white walls and before gilded icons; and every time the Deacon swung the censer, a sweet-smelling incense filled the air. The Priest was dressed in a heavily embroidered gown of golden thread, and together with the Congregation was chanting impassioned pleas to heaven.
The Mosquito alighted on one of the pews and looked round. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the tabernacle. “That must be where God is,” he murmured to himself, and stole right up to it and entered in.
And what did he see?
He saw nothing—save for an old blind Spider spinning her web in the dusty air.
The Mosquito gasped and flew out of the tabernacle as fast as his wings could carry him. Outside, the Priest and the Congregation continued their impassioned pleas. Faces that once seemed to express the earnestness of devout prayer now seemed the very picture of madness. Unable to contain himself, the Mosquito cried out: “The tabernacle is empty! There is no God!”
Just then a group of flies who were dancing on one of the stained-glass windows of the church turned round.
“Did you hear that?” exclaimed one. “He says that the tabernacle is empty.”
“Well, what did he expect?” said another. “It always has been.”
“Dear me!” said a third. “Who is that raving lunatic, after all?”
“Only a young scholar—working on some independent research project, no doubt.”
“Well, he won’t get anywhere by shouting, will he?”
“Young scholars today are really very immature. Why, they are always trying to pass off common knowledge as their own great discoveries.”
The Mosquito let out another cry: “The tabernacle is empty! There is no God!”
But nobody minded. The Congregation and the Priest merely continued their fervent call and response, repeating it again and again.
Suddenly the Mosquito felt as though his whole body were on fire. So desperate was he to make himself heard that at last he leapt onto the Priest’s forehead, and screamed: “The tabernacle is empty! There is no God!”
“Damned atheist!” shouted the Priest, and he crushed the Mosquito with his big hand, thus ending the life of the most loving creature there ever was.
Some time later, in the barn of the observatory, the Chicken was gossiping with her friends the Duck and the Shepherd Dog.
“Have you heard?” said the Chicken. “The world was created by the old Bee-keeper!”
“I have heard it,” answered the Duck. “They say that the Milkmaid helped him.”
“Well,” said the Chicken, “if what they say is true, then surely the old woman who takes care of us played some part in the matter also.”
“And the boy,” said the Dog. “We mustn’t forget the boy.”
“I am not so sure,” said the Duck, who always liked to have the last word. “For it is also said that the world was created by God, and so compelling is the argument that many a scholar and benevolent creature has left hearth and home because of it.”
“Was there not a little Mosquito who did just that?” whispered a Horse to his neighbor.
“There certainly was,” answered a Pig. “And after much study, he concluded that God does not reside within the church. Why, he even told the Priest that his tabernacle was empty, and—bam!—that was the end for him.”
“Priests are all the same!” cried a big Minorca with a bright red comb on his head. “Best them in an argument and they will have you thrown in jail, or killed even. They are the worst!”
“I know another,” said a Cow, and for a while nobody spoke.
“Will God ever be found?” asked a little Chick at last, and the Dog who was desperately trying to scratch at the fleas on his neck, sat upright.
“My dear child,” he said gently, “have I not told you the story of my great-great-great grandfather, who served Momotarō on his journey to the Island of the Ogres? Well, it is said that Momotarō brought back from the island a treasure that is known as the Cloak of Invisibility. And if Momotarō could get his hands on a such a wonderous item, I cannot see why God could not do so himself. And if he has, then I am afraid that we are playing a game of hide-and-go-seek that we cannot win. Indeed, God will not be found. That much is clear. And the fact that man is willing to argue otherwise only goes to show how stupid he is.”
“Here, here!” cried a voice, and all the creatures in the barnyard cheered.
“Has man always been this way?” said the Chicken to the Duck.
“I am afraid so,” she answered. “It is in his genes, after all.” And she let out a sigh.
