The three were resting when an eerie stillness crept upon them from the east. The river calmed as though pressed by a large and powerful hand; it swept past them quickly, the current dizzying in its velocity, its surface no longer tongued by white water. It deepened past green to black, sucking all sound from the air. The wind died, the roaring of the river became a whisper, until they heard nothing but their own breathing and the solemn creak of firs and cedars shifting uncomfortably in the unearthly hush. They moved back from the river as darkness fell, seeking the harsh solidity of the trees' shelter.
"Night comes early in these parts," Matthew said. Derin laughed nervously and pressed his back against the trunk of a fir. The air was grainy, as though it had taken the density of night, its muted weight. In that silence, each of them thought of the owl and the power of darkness. Derin looked up, expecting to see a vast black wingspread descend to them, talons tensed.
He felt a surge of fear, and on his wrist a blue vein pulsed. He closed his eyes and tried to calm the racing of his heart. Vera crouched low between the two of them, her ears flattened against her head. She growled deep in her throat and her tail bristled. Her breathing, like Matthew's, was quick and shallow. As the darkness had come, so the day returned to them, moving from the east. First the wind's sighing resumed in the upper branches of the trees, and waves reared upon the river's surface. And then the grey light surrounded them, casting ashes on their faces.
"What was it?" Derin asked.
"I don't know," Matthew said. "I've never seen anything like it." They looked at Vera, half-expecting her to understand what had happened, but she shrugged and stared at the sky. "I thought we'd come to the end," she said. "I never expected to be grateful for this thin light. It only goes to show how little time is left. We should push on."
* * *
As Vera had said, there was swamp on this side too. It stretched before them as they picked up their packs and headed west. Ice and water, moss-covered hillocks, the grooved trunks of cedars passed around them as in a dream. Derin had the feeling they'd gotten nowhere, but the river's thunder receded until its sound disappeared into the icy water. The fox, who was leading, turned, and Derin almost tripped over her. "It won't be long," she reassured them. "Don't worry."
Matthew whistled strange fragmentary pieces of a song Derin hadn't heard before. A few notes rose into the air and hung stranded, waiting for others which never came. He seemed preoccupied, half-dazed, and the boy wondered if the wound on the satyr's forehead were more serious than it looked. Derin kept up with the fox, who wasted no time threading a passage through the water, but the satyr lagged behind. He dragged his hooves, splashing water before him, and the constant noise began to wear on the boy's nerves.
He stopped and faced the satyr, waiting for him to catch up. "Are you all right, Matthew?" he asked, but Matthew didn't answer, splashed right past him, whistling.
Derin took two quick steps, caught the satyr by the shoulder, and spun him around. "I asked if you were all right," he said. Matthew shrugged free. "I'm fine," he said. "Just thinking."
Derin let him walk second, and he followed through the swamp, watching the rhythmic swing of the satyr's shoulders, listening to the occasional haunting notes without form or pattern. As he pulled his feet free of the mud, little whirlpools rushed to fill the emptiness. He thought of the say before, the declivity of silence he'd lain in. He glanced over his shoulder, suddenly afraid they were being followed, but he could see only the stately monotonous recession of cedars.
He heard the fox call back to him and Matthew, telling them they were almost out of the swamp, and he began to notice the change. The water lapped below his knees, the mud had given way to something more solid, and ahead, dimly, the boy could see the air brighten. It was like coming to the end of a long evening. In the swamp the light was stolen by the cedars and water, but where the water ended, the grey light they'd become accustomed to resumed.
Derin was beginning to breathe more easily, anxious to escape the walled-in closeness of the swamp, when he saw the eyes. They peered at him from a thicket of pepperbush some distance to the left. He grunted, as though he'd been struck in the stomach, and stopped short. They disappeared. He stood where he was, scarcely breathing, his arms arrested in midswing, and stared at the thicket, sure he'd imagined them. But they blinked at him once more, what seemed to him hundreds of gleaming eyes, read as coral, as amanitas, and then he heard a soft swishing, water rippling, as the frogs swam away.
He yelled to Vera and Matthew, now climbing the steady slope out of the swamp, and began to run, thrashing through the water, drenching himself again.
He fled from the water, past the two who stood waiting, and Matthew reached out and grabbed him, almost wrenching him off the ground.
"Wait," the satyr said. "Hold on."
"They're back there," Derin gasped, his eyes wide. "Let go of me." He pulled his arm loose, but the look on the satyr's face kept him from running again.
"What did you see?" Matthew asked.
"The frogs. There were hundreds of them. Let's get out of here."
"Calm down," Matthew said. "Your mind's playing tricks on you."
"I'm not so sure," Vera said. "We're in the Outer Lands, remember. I expect we'll be reported. You didn't think we'd sneak up on the owl without his knowing, did you?"
"I didn't know what to expect," Matthew said.
"You saw hundreds of frogs?" Vera asked. "What did they do?"
"They were in a bush. I saw their eyes."
"They didn't follow you?"
"No," Derin said, calmer. "They swam off. To the south."
"There's nothing to do but keep going," the fox said. "We'll have to be careful."
The land beyond the swamp was low and marshy. Cattails, reeds, tall knife-edged grass grew from the ground. Derin walked between the others, and his eyes searched the reeds for the red eyes he was sure were watching them. They traveled more quickly now; even Vera was unnerved by the thoughts of animals out there recording their passage, unseen presences they could do nothing about. Matthew tried to whistle to break the tension, but he soon stopped. Low shrublike bushes, waist-high pines, manzanita, dotted the terrain. There were places for things to hide.
"What else lives here?" Derin asked, and Vera answered without breaking stride, speaking into the hollow air before her. "I told you before," she said. "Snakes and scorpions. Some weasels. I've seen a wild boar or two, though not in years. Up ahead, when the ground becomes desert, there are fewer animals. Sand squirrels mostly and a few other clans who have learned to get along without much water."
"Desert?" Matthew asked.
"The Plain of Desiccation," Vera said. "We'll be there all too soon."
* * *
I apologize for taking this long for completing a simple task of copying a few pages. If you want me to do this thing faster, just SAY it.
Showing posts with label rare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rare. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Satyrday, a Fable. Tuesday, parts 9, 10 & 11.
The fire blazed higher. Vera piled twigs and leaves from a fallen cedar, and strips of bark. Matthew knelt on the hummock, shaking the boy. Derin's arms hung backwards from his shoulders as if disjointed, and his legs bent at the knees and fell limply to the side. "Derin," he said harshly, and when the boy did not respond, the satyr cuffed his face. "You're not leaving me alone in this," he said. "Not after all this time."
He put the boy down and began to massage his chilled body. He worked up Derin's arms, beginning with the fingers, and then rubbed the boy's neck and chest. Vera took the earthenware pot from Matthew's knapsack, filled it with water from the swamp, and put it beside the fire to warm. When a faint mist drifted from the top, she brought it over to where the boy lay. Matthew rummaged in his pack for a piece of cloth and found the flask he had forgotten.
"Of course," he said. "Just the thing." He drenched the cloth in the warm water and wiped the boy's face. Then he lifted Derin's shoulders, tilted his head back, and gently opened his mouth. Derin's face had lost its blue tinge, and when Matthew put his ear to the boy's chest, he heard a steady heartbeat.
He poured a few drops from his flask into the boy's mouth. Derin's throat contracted, and the boy jerked forward, couching. The satyr hit him on the back until the coughing ceased. Derin sat up and wildly looked around him. He threw his arms in front of his face, knocking Matthew backwards.
"Get away!" he screamed. "Get away from me."
Matthew struggled back to his hooves. "Derin," he said. "It's me. Cut it out."
The boy's eyes were full of terror. "Stay away," Derin screamed. "Get out of here."
It's all right. Derin. Listen to me. They're gone. The frogs are gone."
The boy caught his breath and looked around him at the hummock, his arms still threshing the air. He calmed down by degrees, his head twisting until he was sure they were nowhere to be seen. The air stuck in his throat in little hiccoughs, until he covered his face with his hands and started to cry. "You did a job on this ankle," the satyr said. "You might have broken it." He pulled Derin's hands away and gathered the boy in his arms. Derin did not resist. He buried his face in Matthew's shoulder and sobbed. It had been years since the boy had allowed himself to be held, and Matthew felt the burden of all that time. His throat tightened. "You should have been more careful," he said gruffly. "You've got to take care of yourself."
"They came out of the water," Derin said. "I couldn't stop them. They were all around me."
"They didn't touch you," Matthew said.
"How did you know?" the boy said, wresting himself loose from Matthew's hold. "You weren't even here."
Vera, who had been watching everything, came forward. "Let's take care of his ankle," she said. "We've got to get back to the river."
"Who are you?" Derin asked in amazement. "Where did she come from?"
"Her name is Vera," Matthew said. "She's the reason I left you like that." He turned to the fox. "Can you get some wild sarsaparilla?" he asked.
Vera disappeared among the cedars. "She can turn herself into a nymph," Matthew said when she was gone. He shrugged his shoulders. "I ran after her."
* * *
By the time the fox returned, Matthew had told Derin all he knew of their strange companion. He made a poultice of warm water, wild sarsaparilla, and rotting cedar and put it on the boy's ankle, binding it with the cloth he'd used earlier. The boy winced, threw back his head. "So it hurts," the satyr said. "It's a bad sprain. You'll have to stay off it for a while. You're lucky it's not worse."
"Let me help," Vera said. "Just lie still." She sniffed Darin's ankle, took her tail and brushed it four times, rhythmically, over the boy's leg. She sniffed again, brushed her tail four more times, and then licked the ankle. "There," she said. "That should do it. How does it feel?"
"It doesn't," Derin said, amazed. "I don't feel a thing."
"Good," Vera said. "Then it worked. I deadened the pain to let the ankle heal. It's the least I can do." She looked at Matthew. "I led your friend on that wild chase. I thought I'd get the two of you through the swamp more quickly that way." She sighed. "Unfortunately, you can't always tell how things will turn out. Sometimes the best intentions. . . ."
"Well, thank you," Derin said.
"It was nothing. I'm a snow fox. I have the power of healing."
"And the power of transformation," Matthew said.
"Limited," the fox said. "Very limited."
"What about the real nymphs?" Matthew asked. "The ones who used to live in the meadowlands."
Vera smiled at him. "There were no real nymphs," she said.
"You're razzing me," Matthew said, laughing. "No wonder I never caught one. There were a lot of foxes, now that I think of it.
"Until the wind destroyed the clan," Vera said. "The wind the owl sent to bring the animals west. Many survived that night. But snow foxes are delicate creatures, sensitive and high-strung. The only ones who lived were those not taken by the wind. Eery snow fox in the whirlwind perished. And soon after that the ones who remained left the meadowlands to live in the upper regions of the mountains to the west. I think I'm the last one."
"The last of your clan?" Derin asked.
"Those things most beautiful perish first," Vera said proudly. "There are no unicorns left."
"But how did you know about us?" Matthew asked.
"I knew about the owl," she said simply, "and about the moon. It seemed only a matter of time before someone headed west to try to rescue her. I am wiser than I may appear. Snow foxes–if I might brag for a moment–are not ordinary creatures."
Derin looked at Vera, and she sighed and complied with his silent request. Before him stood a nymph, so radiant she dispelled the green gloom of the swamp. It was as though the sun had reappeared. The boy groaned, amazed. The nymph disappeared, and the fox was before them again. "I hope that did some good," she said. "It's a strain on me."
* * *
The fox gathered the knapsacks and gave them to the boy. Matthew bend down and Derin hobbled over and climbed on the satyr's back. It grew noticeably darker as they sloshed west, the fox cutting a single sliver in the water's skin, the satyr stumbling behind. "Slow down," he called. "I'm not as aspired as I was before."
Under Derin's hands, the satyr's shoulders rippled like the water below him. He was remembering the brief image of the nymph which had burned into his mind. He was lost in her radiance, in the memory of his fall, the frogs and their silent pulsing throats, aware now of a pull to the west toward the owl; it was as though he'd been hypnoyized, and was being drawn more tightly into a net.
As they struggled through the swamp, night came, clamping down around them like the lid of a box. The Satyr had to rest occasionally. During one of these stops, he untied the cloth around Derin's ankle and reapplied the poultice. The swelling had gone down, and Derin's foot had regained the color of living flesh, but an ugly bruise spread from the ankle and discolored the boy's instep.
The fox never spoke. She seemed intent in getting out of the swamp. She knew her way, even in the dark, as easily as Derin knew the way to Matthew's granite overhang, and they both agreed her presence was a rare stroke of luck.
Derin was beginning to nod when he heard a noise which brought him fully awake. It was like to roaring of a wind gathering far off. But there was no wind. The air was still and very cold. It was a rumbling undertone of sound, a solid sustained bass which never varied. The noise seemed to be coming from the swamp beneath him, filtering up into the highest branches of the cedars. It had strange gurglings and pauses in it, little sucks and moans.
He bent over and whispered in Matthew's ear, "What's that?"
"If my guess is right, we're near the Swollen River."
"Yes," the fox said. "That's the river. Don't let it worry you. We'll stop along its banks. Wouldn't think of trying to cross it tonight."
The swamp became more shallow, the ice gave way to solid ground, and as they came to a slow rise, the rumbling increased and Derin felt the earth tremble. When they were near the top, the satyr put him down. Derin held his right foot off the ground, stood on his left, and steadied himself by holding onto the satyr's arm.
"Careful now," Vera said. "It will still be tender."
The boy put his foot on the ground and applied some pressure. It held him. "It's not as fine as it seems," Vera reminded him, "but it looks like it's doing all right." And she was gone, up the rise overlooking the river. Matthew helped him hobble up after her. The fox looked out over the turbulence of river. Matthew stood by her side, his arms crossed on his chest.
The immensity of what lay before the boy took his breath away. True, it was difficult to see anything in so little light. The sky was a solid leaden sheet, and under it the river came rushing from his left and passed away to his right. Here, on its brink, the water made unearthly noises. It sounded like a storm coming out of the earth instead of the sky. Perhaps by daylight the boy would see the far shore, but as he stood there, he felt as he had when he'd made a trip with Matthew to the ocean. Its power humbled him. They were to cross this water? It seemed not like water at all, but like a stream of mud. It was thick and slippery, churning below him.
"I don't remember it like this," the satyr said uneasily.
The fox huddled between them in the dark. "The river is much wilder and broader since the owl took the moon. We should get some sleep. I'll gather wood for a fire." She set off down the rise they had recently climbed.
Derin stood close to Matthew. "There's something I have to tell you," he said. The satyr stiffened, ready for the rebukes he thought the boy had been hoarding all afternoon.
"I had the strangest vision back on that hummock," Derin said. Matthew looked at him and frowned. "I was racing after you, but you were so fast and I was falling behind. I got tired of having to run around things, so I tried to vault this cedar. That's when I fell and sprained my ankle. I was lying there and I opened my eyes and the frogs came. They just sat there in the water staring at me, and I started screaming, started talking to keep them away. They belong to the owl, don't they?"
"That's what Vera said."
"I don't remember anything else until you came back. I must have passed out. But U had this vision. I sank deeper and deeper into this hole and then I was a bird and I came flying up, into this clear sky. The sun was there and the moon, and I was the only bird around. I flew and flew. It must have been west because the sun was setting. And then I flew south. And I found this large thing that looked like a prison."
"Who know what dreams mean?" Matthew said. "Not me. I've had them myself, but they never make sense." The boy stood silent at his side. "That's not much of an answer, is it?" he asked.
"If it's the best you can do," the boy said.
Matthew looked out over the river. "Years ago," he said, "fourteen years ago, I was awakened in the middle of the night and brought to this bank, to the edge of the river, the only other time I've been here. A creature wearing a dark cloak, I couldn't see the face, handed me a blanket. I know it may be hard to believe, but. . . ."
"Me?" Derin asked.
"Yes. of course," the satyr said. "So I brought you back to the meadowlands."
Derin stood, stunned by this information he'd waited so long for. "But where did I come from?" he wanted to know. "Who was the stranger?"
"He could have been your father. He could have been someone else. I don't know. And where he, or you, came from is a mystery to me, I'm sorry I can't tell you anything else."
Derin shivered in the damp ait. He looked to his friend for reassurance, but Matthew was lost in thought. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
The satyr looked at him and then reached out and touched the boy's shoulder. "What good would it have done? He said you'd be sent for. And you have been."
Derin said nothing. Below him, the river bubbled: a cauldron, a tempest. It's happening, Matthew thought, as the stranger said. It's happening, and I can't do a thing to change it.
"You're tired," he said, but the boy wasn't listening to him. He was off somewhere, thinking of the crazy twists his life had taken. "I don't have any more answers for you," the satyr said, almost harshly. "Leave me alone for a minute. Go warm yourself by the fire. And get off that ankle."
"Matthew," Derin said. "I'll be all right. I can take care of myself."
"I think you can," the satyr said. "You'll have to."
The boy limped down the slope. Matthew stood alone, watching the river pass below him. He shook his head in wonder. And how am I changing? he thought.
* * *
End of chapter 3. More = later!
He put the boy down and began to massage his chilled body. He worked up Derin's arms, beginning with the fingers, and then rubbed the boy's neck and chest. Vera took the earthenware pot from Matthew's knapsack, filled it with water from the swamp, and put it beside the fire to warm. When a faint mist drifted from the top, she brought it over to where the boy lay. Matthew rummaged in his pack for a piece of cloth and found the flask he had forgotten.
"Of course," he said. "Just the thing." He drenched the cloth in the warm water and wiped the boy's face. Then he lifted Derin's shoulders, tilted his head back, and gently opened his mouth. Derin's face had lost its blue tinge, and when Matthew put his ear to the boy's chest, he heard a steady heartbeat.
He poured a few drops from his flask into the boy's mouth. Derin's throat contracted, and the boy jerked forward, couching. The satyr hit him on the back until the coughing ceased. Derin sat up and wildly looked around him. He threw his arms in front of his face, knocking Matthew backwards.
"Get away!" he screamed. "Get away from me."
Matthew struggled back to his hooves. "Derin," he said. "It's me. Cut it out."
The boy's eyes were full of terror. "Stay away," Derin screamed. "Get out of here."
It's all right. Derin. Listen to me. They're gone. The frogs are gone."
The boy caught his breath and looked around him at the hummock, his arms still threshing the air. He calmed down by degrees, his head twisting until he was sure they were nowhere to be seen. The air stuck in his throat in little hiccoughs, until he covered his face with his hands and started to cry. "You did a job on this ankle," the satyr said. "You might have broken it." He pulled Derin's hands away and gathered the boy in his arms. Derin did not resist. He buried his face in Matthew's shoulder and sobbed. It had been years since the boy had allowed himself to be held, and Matthew felt the burden of all that time. His throat tightened. "You should have been more careful," he said gruffly. "You've got to take care of yourself."
"They came out of the water," Derin said. "I couldn't stop them. They were all around me."
"They didn't touch you," Matthew said.
"How did you know?" the boy said, wresting himself loose from Matthew's hold. "You weren't even here."
Vera, who had been watching everything, came forward. "Let's take care of his ankle," she said. "We've got to get back to the river."
"Who are you?" Derin asked in amazement. "Where did she come from?"
"Her name is Vera," Matthew said. "She's the reason I left you like that." He turned to the fox. "Can you get some wild sarsaparilla?" he asked.
Vera disappeared among the cedars. "She can turn herself into a nymph," Matthew said when she was gone. He shrugged his shoulders. "I ran after her."
* * *
By the time the fox returned, Matthew had told Derin all he knew of their strange companion. He made a poultice of warm water, wild sarsaparilla, and rotting cedar and put it on the boy's ankle, binding it with the cloth he'd used earlier. The boy winced, threw back his head. "So it hurts," the satyr said. "It's a bad sprain. You'll have to stay off it for a while. You're lucky it's not worse."
"Let me help," Vera said. "Just lie still." She sniffed Darin's ankle, took her tail and brushed it four times, rhythmically, over the boy's leg. She sniffed again, brushed her tail four more times, and then licked the ankle. "There," she said. "That should do it. How does it feel?"
"It doesn't," Derin said, amazed. "I don't feel a thing."
"Good," Vera said. "Then it worked. I deadened the pain to let the ankle heal. It's the least I can do." She looked at Matthew. "I led your friend on that wild chase. I thought I'd get the two of you through the swamp more quickly that way." She sighed. "Unfortunately, you can't always tell how things will turn out. Sometimes the best intentions. . . ."
"Well, thank you," Derin said.
"It was nothing. I'm a snow fox. I have the power of healing."
"And the power of transformation," Matthew said.
"Limited," the fox said. "Very limited."
"What about the real nymphs?" Matthew asked. "The ones who used to live in the meadowlands."
Vera smiled at him. "There were no real nymphs," she said.
"You're razzing me," Matthew said, laughing. "No wonder I never caught one. There were a lot of foxes, now that I think of it.
"Until the wind destroyed the clan," Vera said. "The wind the owl sent to bring the animals west. Many survived that night. But snow foxes are delicate creatures, sensitive and high-strung. The only ones who lived were those not taken by the wind. Eery snow fox in the whirlwind perished. And soon after that the ones who remained left the meadowlands to live in the upper regions of the mountains to the west. I think I'm the last one."
"The last of your clan?" Derin asked.
"Those things most beautiful perish first," Vera said proudly. "There are no unicorns left."
"But how did you know about us?" Matthew asked.
"I knew about the owl," she said simply, "and about the moon. It seemed only a matter of time before someone headed west to try to rescue her. I am wiser than I may appear. Snow foxes–if I might brag for a moment–are not ordinary creatures."
Derin looked at Vera, and she sighed and complied with his silent request. Before him stood a nymph, so radiant she dispelled the green gloom of the swamp. It was as though the sun had reappeared. The boy groaned, amazed. The nymph disappeared, and the fox was before them again. "I hope that did some good," she said. "It's a strain on me."
* * *
The fox gathered the knapsacks and gave them to the boy. Matthew bend down and Derin hobbled over and climbed on the satyr's back. It grew noticeably darker as they sloshed west, the fox cutting a single sliver in the water's skin, the satyr stumbling behind. "Slow down," he called. "I'm not as aspired as I was before."
Under Derin's hands, the satyr's shoulders rippled like the water below him. He was remembering the brief image of the nymph which had burned into his mind. He was lost in her radiance, in the memory of his fall, the frogs and their silent pulsing throats, aware now of a pull to the west toward the owl; it was as though he'd been hypnoyized, and was being drawn more tightly into a net.
As they struggled through the swamp, night came, clamping down around them like the lid of a box. The Satyr had to rest occasionally. During one of these stops, he untied the cloth around Derin's ankle and reapplied the poultice. The swelling had gone down, and Derin's foot had regained the color of living flesh, but an ugly bruise spread from the ankle and discolored the boy's instep.
The fox never spoke. She seemed intent in getting out of the swamp. She knew her way, even in the dark, as easily as Derin knew the way to Matthew's granite overhang, and they both agreed her presence was a rare stroke of luck.
Derin was beginning to nod when he heard a noise which brought him fully awake. It was like to roaring of a wind gathering far off. But there was no wind. The air was still and very cold. It was a rumbling undertone of sound, a solid sustained bass which never varied. The noise seemed to be coming from the swamp beneath him, filtering up into the highest branches of the cedars. It had strange gurglings and pauses in it, little sucks and moans.
He bent over and whispered in Matthew's ear, "What's that?"
"If my guess is right, we're near the Swollen River."
"Yes," the fox said. "That's the river. Don't let it worry you. We'll stop along its banks. Wouldn't think of trying to cross it tonight."
The swamp became more shallow, the ice gave way to solid ground, and as they came to a slow rise, the rumbling increased and Derin felt the earth tremble. When they were near the top, the satyr put him down. Derin held his right foot off the ground, stood on his left, and steadied himself by holding onto the satyr's arm.
"Careful now," Vera said. "It will still be tender."
The boy put his foot on the ground and applied some pressure. It held him. "It's not as fine as it seems," Vera reminded him, "but it looks like it's doing all right." And she was gone, up the rise overlooking the river. Matthew helped him hobble up after her. The fox looked out over the turbulence of river. Matthew stood by her side, his arms crossed on his chest.
The immensity of what lay before the boy took his breath away. True, it was difficult to see anything in so little light. The sky was a solid leaden sheet, and under it the river came rushing from his left and passed away to his right. Here, on its brink, the water made unearthly noises. It sounded like a storm coming out of the earth instead of the sky. Perhaps by daylight the boy would see the far shore, but as he stood there, he felt as he had when he'd made a trip with Matthew to the ocean. Its power humbled him. They were to cross this water? It seemed not like water at all, but like a stream of mud. It was thick and slippery, churning below him.
"I don't remember it like this," the satyr said uneasily.
The fox huddled between them in the dark. "The river is much wilder and broader since the owl took the moon. We should get some sleep. I'll gather wood for a fire." She set off down the rise they had recently climbed.
Derin stood close to Matthew. "There's something I have to tell you," he said. The satyr stiffened, ready for the rebukes he thought the boy had been hoarding all afternoon.
"I had the strangest vision back on that hummock," Derin said. Matthew looked at him and frowned. "I was racing after you, but you were so fast and I was falling behind. I got tired of having to run around things, so I tried to vault this cedar. That's when I fell and sprained my ankle. I was lying there and I opened my eyes and the frogs came. They just sat there in the water staring at me, and I started screaming, started talking to keep them away. They belong to the owl, don't they?"
"That's what Vera said."
"I don't remember anything else until you came back. I must have passed out. But U had this vision. I sank deeper and deeper into this hole and then I was a bird and I came flying up, into this clear sky. The sun was there and the moon, and I was the only bird around. I flew and flew. It must have been west because the sun was setting. And then I flew south. And I found this large thing that looked like a prison."
"Who know what dreams mean?" Matthew said. "Not me. I've had them myself, but they never make sense." The boy stood silent at his side. "That's not much of an answer, is it?" he asked.
"If it's the best you can do," the boy said.
Matthew looked out over the river. "Years ago," he said, "fourteen years ago, I was awakened in the middle of the night and brought to this bank, to the edge of the river, the only other time I've been here. A creature wearing a dark cloak, I couldn't see the face, handed me a blanket. I know it may be hard to believe, but. . . ."
"Me?" Derin asked.
"Yes. of course," the satyr said. "So I brought you back to the meadowlands."
Derin stood, stunned by this information he'd waited so long for. "But where did I come from?" he wanted to know. "Who was the stranger?"
"He could have been your father. He could have been someone else. I don't know. And where he, or you, came from is a mystery to me, I'm sorry I can't tell you anything else."
Derin shivered in the damp ait. He looked to his friend for reassurance, but Matthew was lost in thought. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
The satyr looked at him and then reached out and touched the boy's shoulder. "What good would it have done? He said you'd be sent for. And you have been."
Derin said nothing. Below him, the river bubbled: a cauldron, a tempest. It's happening, Matthew thought, as the stranger said. It's happening, and I can't do a thing to change it.
"You're tired," he said, but the boy wasn't listening to him. He was off somewhere, thinking of the crazy twists his life had taken. "I don't have any more answers for you," the satyr said, almost harshly. "Leave me alone for a minute. Go warm yourself by the fire. And get off that ankle."
"Matthew," Derin said. "I'll be all right. I can take care of myself."
"I think you can," the satyr said. "You'll have to."
The boy limped down the slope. Matthew stood alone, watching the river pass below him. He shook his head in wonder. And how am I changing? he thought.
* * *
End of chapter 3. More = later!
Sunday, October 27, 2013
Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 7 & 8.
Derin woke at what should have been dawn. The sky was a milky grey. The trees circling the meadow were ragged and badly in need of water. Their lowermost branches almost touched the ground, and the leaves were parched and dusty. The air was curiously still, as though it had never moved, had always hung heavily, pressing the earth.
He knew, even before he was fully awake, that everything was wrong. All the sounds he was used to, bird song and river song, the low sweep of wind across the meadowgrass, were missing. He sat, rocked to his knees, and hunched down, peering around to see what was threatening him. But he was totally alone.
Seeing nothing to make him flee, he stood up. His movements were quick and angular, and his thick blond hair was matted with burrs. His eyes stared out of a face marked by an expression almost feral, as though he had been hunted all his life.
The grass ebbed around his knees, the only movement in sight. Still cautious, he waded through the meadow to the creek. Water, brackish and warm, hung between its banks as though suspended, more like a puddle than a stream. A dead lizard lay belly-up on the bank. Derin splashed some water in his face and wished he hadn't. It felt slippery, left a slimy film on his hands.
From across the meadow, Derin heard a familiar noise, the faint grumbling morning song of the badger as he made his way through the thick grass. Most days Derin avoided the lumbering slow-witted animal, but today his approach felt like a gift. The boy could see the meadow part and close as the badger made his way toward the stream. But well before he reached Derin, he went underground, burrowing. Finally he arrived at the edge of grass by the water and surfaced again.
"Morning, badger," the boy said, but instead of the rough greeting he expected, Derin heard what sounded like the clicking of tiny teeth and the animal stuck his head from his burrow only long enough to motion to him. Puzzled, Derin walked closer. "Get out of there," he said. "I like to see who I'm talking to." But all he got in reply was the click of the badger's teeth. He got down on his hands and knees and peered into the burrow.
"That's better," the badger whispered. "I don't want anyone to hear us."
"Who can hear us?" Derin asked, quickly looking behind him. "There's no one around but the two of us. Where is everyone?"
"I don't know," the badger replied. He hunkered further down into his hole so that Derin could hardly see his snout. "Something is terribly wrong, Derin," the badger said. "Something is terribly wrong." The blond hairs on the back of the boy's neck twitched. For all his faults, the badger was not an alarmist. "It's been this way for two hours now," the badger said. "Grey as doom, grey as a wolf's coat in winter."
"The sun will be up soon enough," Derin said.
"I'm not so sure," the badger said. "She should have been up hours ago. It's later than you think."
Derin looked at the sky suffused with this unfamiliar light. He thought of the trees, drooped and dusty, of the brackish water in the brook.
"I had the weirdest dream last night," he said. "A sheet slipped over the moon and a wind put my fire out."
"A sheet of what?" the badger asked.
"I don't know. I thought I was asleep and awake at the same time."
"I wouldn't know anything about that," the badger said. "I never dream. I never hoped to dream. But now, today, for the first time in my life, I hope this is a dream and that I'll wake, come out of my burrow to find the sparrows fluttering in the maple by the pond and the sun hot and silky on my coat." He slunk still deeper into his burrow until Derin couldn't see him at all. The boy had never known him to go backwards, and it seemed a bad sign.
Without waiting to see if the badger would return, he got up from the ground, started to run, and soon reached the woods at the edge of the meadow. The trees were silent as he passed through, and he thought of the soughing they made when the wind aroused them. The woods were dark and quiet. None of the animals seemed even to have awakened. If they had, they'd gone back to their nests or burrows to wait for the true day to begin, not this false dawn.
He had to find Matthew. Matthew would understand the silence in the meadow and forest, the badger's paranoia, the prickly sense of dread he'd awakened with. The satyr slept under an overhang of rock, a granite ledge about a mile from the clearing. Derin made good time. Today there was no one to stop and talk with, and the trail was well-tramped and clear.
Matthew was still asleep when Derin found him. Out of breath, the boy stood over him with clenched fists, stared down at the body which changed so suddenly from man to goat. He had expected the satyr to be awake, but Matthew lay unconscious, one arm thrown over his eyes, blocking out what little light there was. "Get up!" Derin said urgently. He knelt and shook the satyr's shoulder. Matthew stirred, groaned, rolled on his side. "Wake up, I said," the boy repeated, shaking his friend again.
The satyr uncovered his eyes and looked at the boy. "Stop yelling, damn it," he snarled. "You sound like something bit you."
"What's going on?" Derin demanded.
"I'm trying to get some sleep, you fool. Go away, will you? Come back this afternoon."
"It's late, Matthew. Something's wrong."
"I know something's wrong," the satyr said. "My head feels like it's coming apart."
"Were you drunk again last night?" Derin asked.
"What business is that of yours?" the satyr asked. "If you think talking to you is what I want to be doing. . . ."
Derin felt a tide of panic rising in him. He stood and gave Matthew as kick which almost raised the satyr's hindquarters off the ground. Matthew howled in pain and instantly was on his legs, his face twisted in rage. "You monster," he yelled. He swung at Derin, missed, howled again. He sunk to his hocks and cradled his head in his hands. "There are bats flapping in my skull," he said. "Termited destroying whole forests."
Above Matthew the branches parted and a dark shape filtered down, across the edge of Derin's vision. It was a bird, unlike any he had seen before, black as midnight, its beautiful glossy wings outstretched. Without making a noise, without a flick of wings, it landed above them, light as a milkweed seed, disturbing not a single leaf.
Derin was startled. Even Matthew was amazed enough to remove his head from his arms and stare at the bird.
It sat on the limb, slowly folding its wings, until it was still, its red eyes intent on the two of them. "Corvus corax," it said, simply. "I have come from the Deadwood Forest, beyond the Outer Lands."
* * *
It was not, of course, the first time Matthew had been drunk, nor the first time Derin had struck out at him. As the boy had grown older, he'd become more silent and withdrawn, would erupt in flashes of anger which Matthew didn't understand. He would suddenly pick up a rock from the ground and dash it into a lake, throwing a rainbow of water high in the air. He smashed his fist against the trunks of trees. And occasionally, for no apparent reason, he struck out against his friend. The satyr was prankish, sly, given to perverse twists of humor–ha trampled the first leaves under his hooves, he stole from the nests of birds–but he was neither vicious nor vindictive.
Derin had known Matthew all his life, and the satyr was the only creature in the meadowlands even vaguely like him. The boy had grown up learning the language of hawk and deer. He'd swin in water so sold his toes had turned grey. He'd climbed to the top of the highest tree in the forest and stayed there all day, watching night fall over the country like a flat hand. He had grown tall and thin and muscled, fierce, strong-willed, silently proud. His body was scarred, impervious to weather. His skin was darkened by the sun and wind, his feet crusted with calluses.
And though he was now Matthew's size, he knew he was not yet Matthew's equal. The satyr's power in the forest was unimpeachable. Too many times the boy had seen the respect given the satyr by the other animals, a respect he'd never known from them, being too foreign, too strange. Matthew bridged the gap between him and the animals; he had his hooves in two worlds at once, and though the boy would never have admitted it, he was in awe of the fluid grace.
So why wouldn't Matthew tell him who he was? There could be no reason for holding that back; it seemed another of the satyr's jokes. Why was there no one around like him–only badgers, opossum, skunks, that impossible satyr? Derin had the growing sense that the answers to his questions lay elsewhere, not in the meadowlands. And then the bird dropped down like a blessing, a sign from another place.
MORE LATER!~!
He knew, even before he was fully awake, that everything was wrong. All the sounds he was used to, bird song and river song, the low sweep of wind across the meadowgrass, were missing. He sat, rocked to his knees, and hunched down, peering around to see what was threatening him. But he was totally alone.
Seeing nothing to make him flee, he stood up. His movements were quick and angular, and his thick blond hair was matted with burrs. His eyes stared out of a face marked by an expression almost feral, as though he had been hunted all his life.
The grass ebbed around his knees, the only movement in sight. Still cautious, he waded through the meadow to the creek. Water, brackish and warm, hung between its banks as though suspended, more like a puddle than a stream. A dead lizard lay belly-up on the bank. Derin splashed some water in his face and wished he hadn't. It felt slippery, left a slimy film on his hands.
From across the meadow, Derin heard a familiar noise, the faint grumbling morning song of the badger as he made his way through the thick grass. Most days Derin avoided the lumbering slow-witted animal, but today his approach felt like a gift. The boy could see the meadow part and close as the badger made his way toward the stream. But well before he reached Derin, he went underground, burrowing. Finally he arrived at the edge of grass by the water and surfaced again.
"Morning, badger," the boy said, but instead of the rough greeting he expected, Derin heard what sounded like the clicking of tiny teeth and the animal stuck his head from his burrow only long enough to motion to him. Puzzled, Derin walked closer. "Get out of there," he said. "I like to see who I'm talking to." But all he got in reply was the click of the badger's teeth. He got down on his hands and knees and peered into the burrow.
"That's better," the badger whispered. "I don't want anyone to hear us."
"Who can hear us?" Derin asked, quickly looking behind him. "There's no one around but the two of us. Where is everyone?"
"I don't know," the badger replied. He hunkered further down into his hole so that Derin could hardly see his snout. "Something is terribly wrong, Derin," the badger said. "Something is terribly wrong." The blond hairs on the back of the boy's neck twitched. For all his faults, the badger was not an alarmist. "It's been this way for two hours now," the badger said. "Grey as doom, grey as a wolf's coat in winter."
"The sun will be up soon enough," Derin said.
"I'm not so sure," the badger said. "She should have been up hours ago. It's later than you think."
Derin looked at the sky suffused with this unfamiliar light. He thought of the trees, drooped and dusty, of the brackish water in the brook.
"I had the weirdest dream last night," he said. "A sheet slipped over the moon and a wind put my fire out."
"A sheet of what?" the badger asked.
"I don't know. I thought I was asleep and awake at the same time."
"I wouldn't know anything about that," the badger said. "I never dream. I never hoped to dream. But now, today, for the first time in my life, I hope this is a dream and that I'll wake, come out of my burrow to find the sparrows fluttering in the maple by the pond and the sun hot and silky on my coat." He slunk still deeper into his burrow until Derin couldn't see him at all. The boy had never known him to go backwards, and it seemed a bad sign.
Without waiting to see if the badger would return, he got up from the ground, started to run, and soon reached the woods at the edge of the meadow. The trees were silent as he passed through, and he thought of the soughing they made when the wind aroused them. The woods were dark and quiet. None of the animals seemed even to have awakened. If they had, they'd gone back to their nests or burrows to wait for the true day to begin, not this false dawn.
He had to find Matthew. Matthew would understand the silence in the meadow and forest, the badger's paranoia, the prickly sense of dread he'd awakened with. The satyr slept under an overhang of rock, a granite ledge about a mile from the clearing. Derin made good time. Today there was no one to stop and talk with, and the trail was well-tramped and clear.
Matthew was still asleep when Derin found him. Out of breath, the boy stood over him with clenched fists, stared down at the body which changed so suddenly from man to goat. He had expected the satyr to be awake, but Matthew lay unconscious, one arm thrown over his eyes, blocking out what little light there was. "Get up!" Derin said urgently. He knelt and shook the satyr's shoulder. Matthew stirred, groaned, rolled on his side. "Wake up, I said," the boy repeated, shaking his friend again.
The satyr uncovered his eyes and looked at the boy. "Stop yelling, damn it," he snarled. "You sound like something bit you."
"What's going on?" Derin demanded.
"I'm trying to get some sleep, you fool. Go away, will you? Come back this afternoon."
"It's late, Matthew. Something's wrong."
"I know something's wrong," the satyr said. "My head feels like it's coming apart."
"Were you drunk again last night?" Derin asked.
"What business is that of yours?" the satyr asked. "If you think talking to you is what I want to be doing. . . ."
Derin felt a tide of panic rising in him. He stood and gave Matthew as kick which almost raised the satyr's hindquarters off the ground. Matthew howled in pain and instantly was on his legs, his face twisted in rage. "You monster," he yelled. He swung at Derin, missed, howled again. He sunk to his hocks and cradled his head in his hands. "There are bats flapping in my skull," he said. "Termited destroying whole forests."
Above Matthew the branches parted and a dark shape filtered down, across the edge of Derin's vision. It was a bird, unlike any he had seen before, black as midnight, its beautiful glossy wings outstretched. Without making a noise, without a flick of wings, it landed above them, light as a milkweed seed, disturbing not a single leaf.
Derin was startled. Even Matthew was amazed enough to remove his head from his arms and stare at the bird.
It sat on the limb, slowly folding its wings, until it was still, its red eyes intent on the two of them. "Corvus corax," it said, simply. "I have come from the Deadwood Forest, beyond the Outer Lands."
* * *
It was not, of course, the first time Matthew had been drunk, nor the first time Derin had struck out at him. As the boy had grown older, he'd become more silent and withdrawn, would erupt in flashes of anger which Matthew didn't understand. He would suddenly pick up a rock from the ground and dash it into a lake, throwing a rainbow of water high in the air. He smashed his fist against the trunks of trees. And occasionally, for no apparent reason, he struck out against his friend. The satyr was prankish, sly, given to perverse twists of humor–ha trampled the first leaves under his hooves, he stole from the nests of birds–but he was neither vicious nor vindictive.
Derin had known Matthew all his life, and the satyr was the only creature in the meadowlands even vaguely like him. The boy had grown up learning the language of hawk and deer. He'd swin in water so sold his toes had turned grey. He'd climbed to the top of the highest tree in the forest and stayed there all day, watching night fall over the country like a flat hand. He had grown tall and thin and muscled, fierce, strong-willed, silently proud. His body was scarred, impervious to weather. His skin was darkened by the sun and wind, his feet crusted with calluses.
And though he was now Matthew's size, he knew he was not yet Matthew's equal. The satyr's power in the forest was unimpeachable. Too many times the boy had seen the respect given the satyr by the other animals, a respect he'd never known from them, being too foreign, too strange. Matthew bridged the gap between him and the animals; he had his hooves in two worlds at once, and though the boy would never have admitted it, he was in awe of the fluid grace.
So why wouldn't Matthew tell him who he was? There could be no reason for holding that back; it seemed another of the satyr's jokes. Why was there no one around like him–only badgers, opossum, skunks, that impossible satyr? Derin had the growing sense that the answers to his questions lay elsewhere, not in the meadowlands. And then the bird dropped down like a blessing, a sign from another place.
MORE LATER!~!
Friday, September 27, 2013
Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 5 & 6.
As Derin slept , strange noises filled the meadow. The sound of water from the stream stopped, and the whole world of night was changed. Everywhere diurnal animals woke from their sleep. A badger stuck his snout from the mouth of his burrow, hurriedly looked around, and disappeared. A squirrel ran up the trunk of a maple, sat on one of the higher branches, and chattered as though she were dying of cold.
Still Derin slept on. He trembled in the grasp of troubled dreams. In one, his friend Matthew was a great brown bear who lumbered through the clearing on all fours, ripping everything in his path with his curved claws. The animal was not frightening, not even particularly vicious, but he was so unlike Matthew, yet had Matthew's face, that Derin cried out in his sleep.
The squirrel quit her chattering and swayed on the branch. The badger did not reappear. Above the clearing, the sky was dark and thick, a solid cloud. Like a fine rain, dust begun to filter through the air, falling on everything, on the leaves of trees, the stones in the brook, on Derin as he slept.
His cheek twitched as though a fly had alighted on it. Had he been awake and had he the ears of a great horned owl, he might have heard a very distant noise, days distant, faint as fingernails on slate, stopping and starting, very like the noise of a heavy object being raised off the ground with the aid of blocks and tackle.
* * *
The ravens had fastened ropes to the moon's cusps, and she felt ashamed hanging upside down and powerless, a foolish golden bowl. They used the dead trunk of an elm as a weight, and in fits and starts she was jerked into the air. The overhanging branches jabbed at her, but she could make no noise, being tightly gagged. Her usual weightlessness was gone, and she strained as the earth tried to pull her back. She was afraid she might break and crash to the ground in pieces, or if she didn't break, she might bend until her horns were joined and she was a crasy lopsided circle with a hole in the middle.
After what seemed a very long time, the moon found herself hanging opposite the clearing in the oak's branches. Ten ravens flew at her, pushing, and ten more maneuvered the ropes. She swayed into the middle of the cage, and with a crash the branches closed around her. The ravens gnawed at the ropes holding her, and one by one they snapped.
From below her came the laugh she had heard before. The ravens returned to their branches. And then responding to a summon never openly given, the animals came.
From dry bushes among the dead trees, from the recesses of darkness, from the branches of forest hidden from view, they came in double file, quartering the globe, the reptiles, black snakes and puff adders, rattlesnakes and copperheads. Toads and scorpions hopped and slithered into view. Timid field mice followed a band of rats with yellow teeth. Behind them came rabbits and woodchucks, skunks and opossums. She saw deer, squirrels, wolves and foxes and boars. And from the air, like the descent of snow, came the birds.
They'd been hiding since the darkness had fallen and now, gathered at the owl's command, they cowered before the moon. All their lives she had crossed the expanse of night above them; now she was sequestered among them, caged, a symbol of his power.
The owl sat in absolute stillness, his fierce yellow eyes surveying the assemblage. In concentric circles, far beyond the reaches of the clearing, the animals encompassed him. Slowly he turned his head from side to side as if to say, This is good.
"I have been successful," the owl said, "as you can see." With a powerful flick of a wing, he loosed a feather which floated up toward his prisoner. "The moon no longer rules the night. That is my domain now, all of it. Every creature of the Deadwood Forest, every citizen of the Outer Lands, will pay homage to me."
Not an animal made a sound, but even from where the moon hung, it was as though the air had soured. "Does anyone have anything to say?" the owl asked imperiously.
A small band of rats suddenly broke for the forest. Their squealing, the startled noises of the other animals they attempted o push aside, cracked the hush which had fallen over the clearing. The owl puffed up his chest and gave two powerful hoots. From the trees behind him, a squadron of peregine falcons, their talons gleaming, swooped from the sky and surrounded the rats. Each of the birds wore a slit leather hood and out of that darkness their eyes and beaks shone.
The owl stretched his wings until they almost covered the clearing. Under him the animals huddled in his shadow, but the moon doubted they felt protected by that outstretched canopy of feather. Slowly the owl folded his wings. "Bring them here," he said. As if in deep thought, he surveyed the trembling group at his feet. He lifted one of his claws; talons as long as the blade of a boning knife closed around one of the rats. "Do not try that again," he said, and tossed him back to his fellows.
The owl's eyelids drooped, as though he were about to fall asleep, as though the power of the moment had exhausted him or made him drunk, but nothing moved in the clearing around them.
The moon looked down with awe upon that fur and scale. From the air above her, she heard a noise, a faint flapping, like wings. She strained to see, but could make out only a blur in the darkness. What-ever it was was headed east.
A look of pure pleasure shone from the owl's round face. If he had heard what the moon heard, he gave no sign.
"You may show your love for me," he said. "You may prove your fealty."
So, one by one, the animals kneeled and then rolled over, baring their throats and stomachs, their softest, most vulnerable parts.
* * *
More later! Next post will be a rant.
Still Derin slept on. He trembled in the grasp of troubled dreams. In one, his friend Matthew was a great brown bear who lumbered through the clearing on all fours, ripping everything in his path with his curved claws. The animal was not frightening, not even particularly vicious, but he was so unlike Matthew, yet had Matthew's face, that Derin cried out in his sleep.
The squirrel quit her chattering and swayed on the branch. The badger did not reappear. Above the clearing, the sky was dark and thick, a solid cloud. Like a fine rain, dust begun to filter through the air, falling on everything, on the leaves of trees, the stones in the brook, on Derin as he slept.
His cheek twitched as though a fly had alighted on it. Had he been awake and had he the ears of a great horned owl, he might have heard a very distant noise, days distant, faint as fingernails on slate, stopping and starting, very like the noise of a heavy object being raised off the ground with the aid of blocks and tackle.
* * *
The ravens had fastened ropes to the moon's cusps, and she felt ashamed hanging upside down and powerless, a foolish golden bowl. They used the dead trunk of an elm as a weight, and in fits and starts she was jerked into the air. The overhanging branches jabbed at her, but she could make no noise, being tightly gagged. Her usual weightlessness was gone, and she strained as the earth tried to pull her back. She was afraid she might break and crash to the ground in pieces, or if she didn't break, she might bend until her horns were joined and she was a crasy lopsided circle with a hole in the middle.
After what seemed a very long time, the moon found herself hanging opposite the clearing in the oak's branches. Ten ravens flew at her, pushing, and ten more maneuvered the ropes. She swayed into the middle of the cage, and with a crash the branches closed around her. The ravens gnawed at the ropes holding her, and one by one they snapped.
From below her came the laugh she had heard before. The ravens returned to their branches. And then responding to a summon never openly given, the animals came.
From dry bushes among the dead trees, from the recesses of darkness, from the branches of forest hidden from view, they came in double file, quartering the globe, the reptiles, black snakes and puff adders, rattlesnakes and copperheads. Toads and scorpions hopped and slithered into view. Timid field mice followed a band of rats with yellow teeth. Behind them came rabbits and woodchucks, skunks and opossums. She saw deer, squirrels, wolves and foxes and boars. And from the air, like the descent of snow, came the birds.
They'd been hiding since the darkness had fallen and now, gathered at the owl's command, they cowered before the moon. All their lives she had crossed the expanse of night above them; now she was sequestered among them, caged, a symbol of his power.
The owl sat in absolute stillness, his fierce yellow eyes surveying the assemblage. In concentric circles, far beyond the reaches of the clearing, the animals encompassed him. Slowly he turned his head from side to side as if to say, This is good.
"I have been successful," the owl said, "as you can see." With a powerful flick of a wing, he loosed a feather which floated up toward his prisoner. "The moon no longer rules the night. That is my domain now, all of it. Every creature of the Deadwood Forest, every citizen of the Outer Lands, will pay homage to me."
Not an animal made a sound, but even from where the moon hung, it was as though the air had soured. "Does anyone have anything to say?" the owl asked imperiously.
A small band of rats suddenly broke for the forest. Their squealing, the startled noises of the other animals they attempted o push aside, cracked the hush which had fallen over the clearing. The owl puffed up his chest and gave two powerful hoots. From the trees behind him, a squadron of peregine falcons, their talons gleaming, swooped from the sky and surrounded the rats. Each of the birds wore a slit leather hood and out of that darkness their eyes and beaks shone.
The owl stretched his wings until they almost covered the clearing. Under him the animals huddled in his shadow, but the moon doubted they felt protected by that outstretched canopy of feather. Slowly the owl folded his wings. "Bring them here," he said. As if in deep thought, he surveyed the trembling group at his feet. He lifted one of his claws; talons as long as the blade of a boning knife closed around one of the rats. "Do not try that again," he said, and tossed him back to his fellows.
The owl's eyelids drooped, as though he were about to fall asleep, as though the power of the moment had exhausted him or made him drunk, but nothing moved in the clearing around them.
The moon looked down with awe upon that fur and scale. From the air above her, she heard a noise, a faint flapping, like wings. She strained to see, but could make out only a blur in the darkness. What-ever it was was headed east.
A look of pure pleasure shone from the owl's round face. If he had heard what the moon heard, he gave no sign.
"You may show your love for me," he said. "You may prove your fealty."
So, one by one, the animals kneeled and then rolled over, baring their throats and stomachs, their softest, most vulnerable parts.
* * *
More later! Next post will be a rant.
Friday, August 16, 2013
Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 3 & 4.
The boy was hunched by a fire when the moon disappeared. He had gathered wood in the late afternoon, dragging it from the forest surrounding the meadow. He's kindled the fire as the sun's last rays faded around him and ate his supper by its warmth. He was waiting for Matthew, but the darkness thickened and the satyr never arrived. It seemed he was often waiting for Matthew, whose arrivals and departures had no pattern, who could never be counted on.
The moon appeared in the east over the fringe of trees, rose higher in the sky. Derin grew tired and fidgety and bored; when he finally allowed himself to sleep, he slept fitfully. A twig cracked and he awoke, expecting Matthew, but it was only a squirrel come to share the fire's lingering heat. He looked up again and saw what seemed to be a solid black sheet move from the west. It swept across the sky, bringing with it a subtle thunder. He stared, transfixed, as it slipped over the moon's horned face and the light around him disappeared. The stars to the east still shone, more brightly now, but the moon and the western sky were dark.
Around him, the trees circling the meadow writhed in a heavy wind. He was suddenly very cold. The wind bore down on him and its chill damp entered his shirt, crawling over his chest and back. In a panic he threw himself on the ground and rolled. The wind passed over him, harsh as sawgrass, and when he slowly stood again his fore was out, stone dead.
* * *
The moon thought she would never breathe again. Down, down she went through an air so liquid she knew she'd been dragged under water. Then the falling stopped. The wings surrounding her beat themselves to a halt. She felt a slight pressure on her side and it terrified her. Whatever was under her was moist and chilly, the touch of decay.
Out of the darkness, through the gauze which trapped her, she heard a voice. It had nails in it, the sharp glitter of quartz, the brushing force of unquestioned power.
"Unwrap her," the voice said.
She felt the net unwind, and as the layers grew thinner, dark forms materialized. She could breathe again, and her light returned to her, only a little, but enough to see by.
"And gag her when you're through," the voice said.
She lay in the clearing of a huge forest, amid dirt and rotten leaves. All around her stood trees, leafless and gaunt, their angular branches reaching into the dark air. On every limb for as far as she could see perched the ravens who had captured her. They hunched deep in their lustrous feathers, their beady eyes bright with malice. In the clearing in front of her sat a huge black rock the shape of an egg.
To her horror, the rock began to turn. It wavered from side to side on the enormous gnarled claws at its base until it faced her. She gasped and caught her breath so sharply she glowed for a moment and then went out again.
In the brief light she cast over the clearing, she saw a great horned owl. Its slow breathing ruffled its feathers. Its beak was hooked, like a sickle. its eyes, yellow as jaundice, were the size of gold ducats. And on its neck and chest, where the bib should have been, was a wet swatch of red the color of blood. The owl fastened the moon in his somnolent gaze and held her there.
She was about to cry out when two of the ravens standing guard clamped a gag over her mouth. It was made of linen so tightly woven that only the most sustained effort pulled air through it. As she breathed slowly, she seemed to herself ridiculous, trapped, blinking on and off like a firefly, a small curved flicker in the night. From the owl's maw came what must have been a laugh, but it was ugly as a mauled animal. The ravens hunched deeper in their feathers until their red eyes disappeared.
"Let me look at her for a while," the owl said, "and then we'll fasten her in the tree."
The owl stared at his captive, his great eyelids drooping. Behind her, the moon heard a rustle high in the treetops, and turning, saw a small group of ravens readying a series of ropes and tackle. They were nearly hidden among the twisted branches of an ancient oak, one of the tallest in the forest. Its upper reaches did not move in the wind.
The ravens were preparing a cage, tying back the branches at one side with great effort. In the center of the oak was a hollowness around which the branches naturally tightened.
"I have you," the owl said. "You are not mine, but I have you. The nights will be very dark without you."
He laughed again As before, the ravens sank in their feathers, all but one who sat on a branch near the moon. This raven was preening herself, pecking under a wing for fleas, and as the moon watched, amazed at what seemed a display of sheer arrogance, she couldn't help imagine that the raven looked straight back at her and winked.
More parts: l8ter.
The moon appeared in the east over the fringe of trees, rose higher in the sky. Derin grew tired and fidgety and bored; when he finally allowed himself to sleep, he slept fitfully. A twig cracked and he awoke, expecting Matthew, but it was only a squirrel come to share the fire's lingering heat. He looked up again and saw what seemed to be a solid black sheet move from the west. It swept across the sky, bringing with it a subtle thunder. He stared, transfixed, as it slipped over the moon's horned face and the light around him disappeared. The stars to the east still shone, more brightly now, but the moon and the western sky were dark.
Around him, the trees circling the meadow writhed in a heavy wind. He was suddenly very cold. The wind bore down on him and its chill damp entered his shirt, crawling over his chest and back. In a panic he threw himself on the ground and rolled. The wind passed over him, harsh as sawgrass, and when he slowly stood again his fore was out, stone dead.
* * *
The moon thought she would never breathe again. Down, down she went through an air so liquid she knew she'd been dragged under water. Then the falling stopped. The wings surrounding her beat themselves to a halt. She felt a slight pressure on her side and it terrified her. Whatever was under her was moist and chilly, the touch of decay.
Out of the darkness, through the gauze which trapped her, she heard a voice. It had nails in it, the sharp glitter of quartz, the brushing force of unquestioned power.
"Unwrap her," the voice said.
She felt the net unwind, and as the layers grew thinner, dark forms materialized. She could breathe again, and her light returned to her, only a little, but enough to see by.
"And gag her when you're through," the voice said.
She lay in the clearing of a huge forest, amid dirt and rotten leaves. All around her stood trees, leafless and gaunt, their angular branches reaching into the dark air. On every limb for as far as she could see perched the ravens who had captured her. They hunched deep in their lustrous feathers, their beady eyes bright with malice. In the clearing in front of her sat a huge black rock the shape of an egg.
To her horror, the rock began to turn. It wavered from side to side on the enormous gnarled claws at its base until it faced her. She gasped and caught her breath so sharply she glowed for a moment and then went out again.
In the brief light she cast over the clearing, she saw a great horned owl. Its slow breathing ruffled its feathers. Its beak was hooked, like a sickle. its eyes, yellow as jaundice, were the size of gold ducats. And on its neck and chest, where the bib should have been, was a wet swatch of red the color of blood. The owl fastened the moon in his somnolent gaze and held her there.
She was about to cry out when two of the ravens standing guard clamped a gag over her mouth. It was made of linen so tightly woven that only the most sustained effort pulled air through it. As she breathed slowly, she seemed to herself ridiculous, trapped, blinking on and off like a firefly, a small curved flicker in the night. From the owl's maw came what must have been a laugh, but it was ugly as a mauled animal. The ravens hunched deeper in their feathers until their red eyes disappeared.
"Let me look at her for a while," the owl said, "and then we'll fasten her in the tree."
The owl stared at his captive, his great eyelids drooping. Behind her, the moon heard a rustle high in the treetops, and turning, saw a small group of ravens readying a series of ropes and tackle. They were nearly hidden among the twisted branches of an ancient oak, one of the tallest in the forest. Its upper reaches did not move in the wind.
The ravens were preparing a cage, tying back the branches at one side with great effort. In the center of the oak was a hollowness around which the branches naturally tightened.
"I have you," the owl said. "You are not mine, but I have you. The nights will be very dark without you."
He laughed again As before, the ravens sank in their feathers, all but one who sat on a branch near the moon. This raven was preening herself, pecking under a wing for fleas, and as the moon watched, amazed at what seemed a display of sheer arrogance, she couldn't help imagine that the raven looked straight back at her and winked.
More parts: l8ter.
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Satyrday: a Fable. Sunday, parts 1 & 2.
We live in an old chaos of the sun
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable...
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambigious undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
-"Sunday Morning,"
Wallace Stevens
SUNDAY
It was just past midnight and the air was filled with wings. An army of ravens came out of the west like a cold black storm. Leaves rustled in the deepening chill, and over the ground a wind rolled, a darkly visible tumbleweed of air.
But in the sky was a rumble such as a distant earthquake might have made. The moon was startled by the sound. The night had been peaceful, its curved sweep studded with stars. Above her, their sharp sparks bristled. She had followed this course forever, her bright edge unfolding until a pale medallion hung full in the sky. Balanced between the earth and the pincushion of stars above, she remained pleased with herself, the axis of night, the interlocutor. But now she was waning, past half, growing weaker with the loss of light. And this rumble behind her was frightening.
Over her shoulder the moon watched the ravens approach. They came like a rippling sheet, its slow waves caused by unseen hands, the fury of its organization apparent even at this distance. In an instant the ravens were cawing. The first hoarse streaks of sound reached the moon and multiplied until their monotonous echoing rattled the night. Crauk. Cr-r-cruk. It came from everywhere, its hard consonants scratching at her, and under the surface a denser noise, the violent reverberations of their wings.
The moon thought the whole of creation was screaming. The earth disappeared. Ravens swooped under her, so thick she could only see her dim light flung back at her by their glassy blackness. Thousands still flooded from the west, a turbulent stream curled in a sudden arc and the bright red darts of the ravens' eyes pushed past her face, in front of her.
Only then did she see the net. Hooked in the ravens' talons was a fine gauze, black as their wings, hardly visible in the reflected light. As the birds whirled around her, the net caught the horns of her crescent and stuck, drawn even more tight. She was imprisoned by layers of gauze; she was strangled by them. The hoarse screaming of the birds grew, pulsing through her until the cawing seemed to be coming from inside.
She could see nothing more. She felt herself stiffen, the sudden onset of vertigo releasing into the certainty of fall, and she groaned as the ravens wretched her free from her path over the earth. Her fire went out. The night filled with horrible rush, the dissonant flapping of thousands of wings, the hollow suck as she left her orbit, and the creeping cold of the wind which took her place.
* * *
The satyr stood under the leaves of an ancient maple, out of breath. He scratched his hind quarters, put his hands on his hips, and panted. His two horns glinted in the moon's spare light. He bent at the waist and let his torso hang until his fingers brushed the ferns and moss of the forest's floor. It was summer in the meadowlands and his chest filled with the fragrance of leaves, rich dirt, and rank smell of his body. Then he straightened and yawned and swatted a mosquito which had landed on his shoulder.
Matthew swayed and abruptly sat down, his back to the tree. His tangled hair caught on the bark and he grunted in annoyance as it tore loose. And then the pain, like the itch, was behind him, with nothing before him but the two tapered legs, covered with goat fleece, stiff with dirt and twigs. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the reeling; red suns exploded in his head, the aftermath of wine.
Not even he knew how old he was. For him the past was a blur. What few memories he had were focused against the succession of seasons, a rhythmic celebration the world held, tension and release. Instinctively he'd known these warm indolent nights would soon be upon him when he noticed skunk cabbage jutting from the forest's mulch. Then its leaves untwined, the willow's furred blossoms appeared, the day lingered in the sky.
Matthew heard a noise in the stand of saplings to his left, his body tensed, and he scrambled into a crouch. From the underbrush a six-point buck stared at him. The animal's eyes were wide, its flanks quivering in the moonlight. The satyr was an awesome figure to the other creatures in the meadowlands, and he was never completely trusted. He had a strange smell, and wilder eyes, sparked with a cunning beyond them. Perversely he leapt at the stag, his arms outstretched. The animal bounded deeper into the forest, crashing through a brace of trees, leaving only Matthew's rough laughter in its wake. The satyr threw back his head again and looked at the moon's horns through the maple's translucent leaves. She hung suspended in the night sky, a paring of her fuller self.
Tonight he'd drunk himself senseless by her light, run through the forest almost soundlessly, in search of the nymphs who had vanished from the meadowlands years before. He had never abandoned hope that one night he would round an oak and there, glimmering like foxfire, she would appear. She would glance over her shoulder, toss her long hair, and run away from him again. It might have been yesterday, but he didn't remember. Now, still slightly muddled, stirred by his encounter with the stag yet ready for sleep, he thought of her.
A noise began to build in the forest behind him, a noise no animal might make, a distant sound like the steady crash of waves against a cliff. He whirled around, could see nothing but the retreating welter of trunks and bushes. Yet the noise grew until he saw what appeared to be a wall of darker air move toward him. Twigs jumped from the ground, the maple began to creak, and its leaves rattled as if someone were shaking the branches.
It happened quickly; a pool of blackness gathered around his hooves. He turned sharply and looked at the sky. The moon was gone. And then he heard the noise. It was like river ice cracking in a spring thaw, like stumps being pulled from the earth. Stepping to the side, he ducked around the maple's trunk and the wind's full force almost knocked him over. Leaves flew into his face like the wings of bats. He struck out at the whirling air as if he could brush it away.
He had to get back to his ledge. If the wind were this strong, what would the rain be like? But he was drunk, unsettled by the onslaught of this storm, and he stumbled away from the maple in the direction of home, cursing as the wind rushed him along, howling as it threw him against trees or tumbled him into a briar patch. He'd known only one night to rival this. It had been long long ago, and he'd almost–almost–forgotten.
Part 3 coming soon! (hopefully in less than a week)
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable...
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambigious undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
-"Sunday Morning,"
Wallace Stevens
SUNDAY
It was just past midnight and the air was filled with wings. An army of ravens came out of the west like a cold black storm. Leaves rustled in the deepening chill, and over the ground a wind rolled, a darkly visible tumbleweed of air.
But in the sky was a rumble such as a distant earthquake might have made. The moon was startled by the sound. The night had been peaceful, its curved sweep studded with stars. Above her, their sharp sparks bristled. She had followed this course forever, her bright edge unfolding until a pale medallion hung full in the sky. Balanced between the earth and the pincushion of stars above, she remained pleased with herself, the axis of night, the interlocutor. But now she was waning, past half, growing weaker with the loss of light. And this rumble behind her was frightening.
Over her shoulder the moon watched the ravens approach. They came like a rippling sheet, its slow waves caused by unseen hands, the fury of its organization apparent even at this distance. In an instant the ravens were cawing. The first hoarse streaks of sound reached the moon and multiplied until their monotonous echoing rattled the night. Crauk. Cr-r-cruk. It came from everywhere, its hard consonants scratching at her, and under the surface a denser noise, the violent reverberations of their wings.
The moon thought the whole of creation was screaming. The earth disappeared. Ravens swooped under her, so thick she could only see her dim light flung back at her by their glassy blackness. Thousands still flooded from the west, a turbulent stream curled in a sudden arc and the bright red darts of the ravens' eyes pushed past her face, in front of her.
Only then did she see the net. Hooked in the ravens' talons was a fine gauze, black as their wings, hardly visible in the reflected light. As the birds whirled around her, the net caught the horns of her crescent and stuck, drawn even more tight. She was imprisoned by layers of gauze; she was strangled by them. The hoarse screaming of the birds grew, pulsing through her until the cawing seemed to be coming from inside.
She could see nothing more. She felt herself stiffen, the sudden onset of vertigo releasing into the certainty of fall, and she groaned as the ravens wretched her free from her path over the earth. Her fire went out. The night filled with horrible rush, the dissonant flapping of thousands of wings, the hollow suck as she left her orbit, and the creeping cold of the wind which took her place.
* * *
The satyr stood under the leaves of an ancient maple, out of breath. He scratched his hind quarters, put his hands on his hips, and panted. His two horns glinted in the moon's spare light. He bent at the waist and let his torso hang until his fingers brushed the ferns and moss of the forest's floor. It was summer in the meadowlands and his chest filled with the fragrance of leaves, rich dirt, and rank smell of his body. Then he straightened and yawned and swatted a mosquito which had landed on his shoulder.
Matthew swayed and abruptly sat down, his back to the tree. His tangled hair caught on the bark and he grunted in annoyance as it tore loose. And then the pain, like the itch, was behind him, with nothing before him but the two tapered legs, covered with goat fleece, stiff with dirt and twigs. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes to stop the reeling; red suns exploded in his head, the aftermath of wine.
Not even he knew how old he was. For him the past was a blur. What few memories he had were focused against the succession of seasons, a rhythmic celebration the world held, tension and release. Instinctively he'd known these warm indolent nights would soon be upon him when he noticed skunk cabbage jutting from the forest's mulch. Then its leaves untwined, the willow's furred blossoms appeared, the day lingered in the sky.
Matthew heard a noise in the stand of saplings to his left, his body tensed, and he scrambled into a crouch. From the underbrush a six-point buck stared at him. The animal's eyes were wide, its flanks quivering in the moonlight. The satyr was an awesome figure to the other creatures in the meadowlands, and he was never completely trusted. He had a strange smell, and wilder eyes, sparked with a cunning beyond them. Perversely he leapt at the stag, his arms outstretched. The animal bounded deeper into the forest, crashing through a brace of trees, leaving only Matthew's rough laughter in its wake. The satyr threw back his head again and looked at the moon's horns through the maple's translucent leaves. She hung suspended in the night sky, a paring of her fuller self.
Tonight he'd drunk himself senseless by her light, run through the forest almost soundlessly, in search of the nymphs who had vanished from the meadowlands years before. He had never abandoned hope that one night he would round an oak and there, glimmering like foxfire, she would appear. She would glance over her shoulder, toss her long hair, and run away from him again. It might have been yesterday, but he didn't remember. Now, still slightly muddled, stirred by his encounter with the stag yet ready for sleep, he thought of her.
A noise began to build in the forest behind him, a noise no animal might make, a distant sound like the steady crash of waves against a cliff. He whirled around, could see nothing but the retreating welter of trunks and bushes. Yet the noise grew until he saw what appeared to be a wall of darker air move toward him. Twigs jumped from the ground, the maple began to creak, and its leaves rattled as if someone were shaking the branches.
It happened quickly; a pool of blackness gathered around his hooves. He turned sharply and looked at the sky. The moon was gone. And then he heard the noise. It was like river ice cracking in a spring thaw, like stumps being pulled from the earth. Stepping to the side, he ducked around the maple's trunk and the wind's full force almost knocked him over. Leaves flew into his face like the wings of bats. He struck out at the whirling air as if he could brush it away.
He had to get back to his ledge. If the wind were this strong, what would the rain be like? But he was drunk, unsettled by the onslaught of this storm, and he stumbled away from the maple in the direction of home, cursing as the wind rushed him along, howling as it threw him against trees or tumbled him into a briar patch. He'd known only one night to rival this. It had been long long ago, and he'd almost–almost–forgotten.
Part 3 coming soon! (hopefully in less than a week)
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