The bear15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLO5SZCtKNh
When the child returned with a basket of berries, its mother was sleeping by the pot where the soup was cooked, her fingers unclutched on the counter, by whose profiles the child laid down the sweet fruits from the tiny basket, its pocket, its belt, its aprons, and its palms—— we call it “it”, because it was young. Nor man, nor woman, only a jolly young animal, adorable in all possible aspects, too often being deemed too good to be true in the world thus the phase fleeing by.
The silence was dominant at the house, penetrating each corner: the boiling of the pot was silent, the hashed walls were cautious, so were the young creature's finger’s movement. That morning when it was walking back from the woods, its figure seen from the sky, such as in the eyes of a falcon, surely like a fleck sautering merrily and curiously across the red woods near this nameless town bound with wild sweetness, dallying and loitering upon any subjects of interests with least possible caution, the child was somewhat nearly boisterous. Yet soon the noon was passed and the road was finished to the home, and then it was in the house, by the woman’s side, the child; it was silent, muted, and cautious, like a hush, slowly, tenderly, peeping to the woman’s direction, not wanting to disturb her nor wanting to quiver the flame. Piling up berries around its mother, the child had these burning red leaves shuffling and falling through its thick, flowing hair, bound by a piece of ribbon. A lash of hair, here and there unshackled from the band, betold the gentleness and youthful vigor, its color dark and sleek.
When the mother woke the child smiled in front of her, its nose nudging her nose like two dogs touching their muzzles. Surprise! Sweets. Tips of finger picked up one or two, and a flash of pinkness dashed over the mother’s slumbering, dreamy eyes. Come and have a taste, Lurywen. The child was bickering like a bird. You would like it. You told me you like sweets last time, when you were very sick and hungry.
At the moment there was fragrance profusing, words dawdling tenderly yet tensely, all addressing a woman in trance, awake from a sudden dream, speaking of sweetness; Was it, the sweetness,she might as well in her misty view, half dazzled by the child’s smile, half stricken by the mist itself, inquire herself of the subject: sweetness; was it the thing craved by us all our life, to be announced by such a creature, so tiny and childish indeed, spared by the calling of towers, that buzzing rules roaring the world, louder even than the thunder? It smashed on and grinded on the woman who had just woke from a wave of dulled pain evoking by the forgotten vision. “Come have a taste. I have three kinds of berries. One from the mountain, one from the woods, and one by the creeks. which one do you prefer? Tell me.”
It pleaded. “Tell me, please. Lurywen.”
The child pleaded and the mother frowned. she frowned, wearisomely. She passed by the sweetness and stroked slightly by the child’s wrists, cheeks, and shoulders. There was water all over, sliding down, clinging up. On the floor the trails of water too snaked along the prints of shoes, accompanied by many a leaf carried away from the woods by the tiny shoes that trod upon them earlier that morning; The child was walking while the rain was falling and she was sleeping.
They both turned, their gaze moving along the turning road of rain painting on the wooded floor. The child was blushing; their gaze met at the door that was being battered by the wind and rain, and their eyes met when it turned back.
“I am sorry.” It spoke first. “I only have been to wood, creek, and hill. Mountain was too far. No cave, fracture, and wells.”
(Wildness and dark groves were copious by the small town, and the child’s curiosity was frequently touched and tested as it was dragged along, into some caves, uncharted place, only to be called back by a ring of sound in its head: not there, not here! Stay home! The world is dangerous.)
The mother sighed. It said still that it was sorry; but the berries had ripened, ever so richly and beautifully, right by its side. It couldn’t resist. One touch and they both could taste it, the sweetness she once spoke of with a sad craving and despair in her feverish dream.
The sweetness comes with danger. She sighed, gently, holding it into her arms and warming its flesh with her own. “Every sweetness has its guardian like every shop has a vendor. There’s a price to be paid.”
It stroke the child somehow, the metaphor. The child giggled, mixed with uncertainty in her arms, gazing up secretly for her expression.
“You mean bear, Lurywen? Cute guardian.”
The child said. She replied nothing so it laughed. Ah, the bears! They were friendly and cute. They gave it the berries, watching it away.
“Bears?” She was confused. “They didn’t hurt you?”
“No.” The child replied. “Do they hurt people? That’s strange. They are quite welcome to me.”
It placed some red berries to her palms. Lurywen; it said. There were the berries of the bear. It smiled. Have a taste, have a taste!
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYycyzcULHe
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUWXO2VBisU
One needed only to recall the fact that the woman, now wobbling and gauging the reality in the flow of the mass that just then had separated her from two of her potential pursuers, whose true intentions though she knew not of did nonetheless provoke this deep fear and resistance in her, had been living in the ultimate and extraordinary isolation for years, to understand her tendency of rarely, if not completely eluding the behavior of pondering over herself, nor passing any judgments to her surrounding or making any decisions concerning certain moral movements. The statement was ever easier to be validated seeing her growing paler and paler, more placid and even gravely ashen amongst the multitude of crowds that severing her from the imminent danger but too eventually isolated her, as in the way that had been for her over the past countless years prior to the meeting calling to all, including a minute slave like herself, from the rest of the glee and concord which within this short period of time were melting these impassive, cold mound of creatures into a lively one, by cutting any possible delegates or interfaces that could speak, inquire and converse on her behalf. She now resumed her wholesome self, who without any natural disposition to declare herself to the exterior world but to fear its existence in a muted fear, nudged and prodded heavily by flocks of sloshed women in the seven consecutive suites offered by an unknown lord, where the dishes were being served, bottled filled, arms braiding one another, and too magnificently fused by the hollering and bellowing from below the floor, calling and silent quarreling from above the floor —— which by some fleeting words as if falcons bolting by her were deemed to be the “Night Hunt” and “True Hunt”.
“The lesser lords hunt in the field, and the higher lords hunt in TOWER. Tonight if you climb to one’s bed, tomorrow you could be joining the hunt, or, rather, be hunted.” Common wisdom tested by time circulated around with warmth, followed by the conclusion, “But tonight is anyway too late”; The woman spoke nothing and scrambled her way to a corner where the drunk, the dull, and the sleepish were puckering together like worn clothes, slitting into a knit to hold herself while the words like harsh winds passed her by. She curled herself, only revealing a pair of eyes of the frightened, in whose pallid iris the women hugged, danced, caroused and the fire burned. As aforementioned, there were no natural dispositions for her to react towards the events and actions, to judge herself as good, bad, decent, or inappropriate, and there were even fewer without imposed exterior circumstances, such as a forceful arm, few interrogative fingers clasping her cheeks, some strident words commanding “Speak”, such that she would gladly think of nothing and let the tangible reality which at the same time usually was in inevitable to flash and drill in her mind, and all of it combined indeed made the voice she heard inside herself, late into that night when the clamoring women had fallen asleep and the whole seven chambers sank into the symphony of wild snorting, smooth breathing and the sobbing inside the nightmare, rather surprising. She had to harken the sound, the tender imperative to ring over in her head six times, each one accompanied by an outer counterpart, one the flickering of the ember, one the thudding of the door from above, one the whining of the beasts from below, one the weeping of a crippled woman from beside, one the murmuring of the tangled from behind, the last one the weak splashing of the first drop against the wall. She was startled, the woman, who was most like an animal clinging in a corpse-filled trench in the night for heat, to be awakened by the portent of the rain. There was rain falling, a coat of chillness ascending from the fracture of the room and bickering, lamenting of the birds from lightless corners; A door gently closed, another slowly opened, and that sound was crawling in her mind to breathe a puff of air in the reality, where she raised her head, alone, in the darkness, as if sitting on a battlefield fresh with tender bodies of woman, to hear it whisper, with an irresistible assuredness: You should leave now; Not a sound reverberating this mental one. Inside the room, the floor was patched by the lying woman who stretched their bosoms and arms, where she parted the lip knew not to say. Who was the voice that was addressing her, was it nature, or was it fear; she cannot tell. She managed up, sore and tired like she had never fallen asleep or eaten, hearing a chain of footsteps approaching, the candle on the hands igniting with a breath of fire.
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡyaQtfGuBAd
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCBPUhi4bU2
A queer tranquility befell on the woman after she had decided that she should leave the tower prior to the allowed time thus violating the rule——any rule, whatever the official name maybe. There was certainly no heroic characteristic in her nor any kind of rebellious ferocity, nonetheless she was determined and composed when she straighthed herself and walked through the fallen and sleeping bodies of the women, with caution and a certain care betelling her early habits, perhaps walking in a maison, serving her master amid a pleasant soundlessness, and her lip was seen in a sweet serenity: she shall return now, and despite the ill-portent and alerting warning lingering in her mind, the thought alone gave her tremendous comforts. She was thinking about the cave——her littoral home by the white-gray sea far north, if only she should ever mention the word, home, again. She thought of it with warmth, though she repulsed the idea of “home”, very slightly, in quantity, yet it might be correct to say that in a second thought the quality of this rejection went strong, that by reconsidering she would in a sense talk to herself, with that strange, soft resolution, contending that the cave, being a kind shelter for her in various providences, was no home. She had no home being born as a slave, but the slave woman, in her outwordly, and sometimes senseless white, did build a home for herself, with good efforts, and good heart; Then it had gone, for long. When she thought of the cave by the sea now, she somehow imagine faintly she return to the stone reserve, open to the fair moon and dimly glimmering cold sea, picturing a good night of sleep, but no home. Her earlier companions asked her if she had had, or tended to any children; Yes, she had. Then, when she had nearly finished her road of bodies to the door, she heard that voice urging her to leave, that voice warning the danger, ring again in her head, like a bell blooming in the night, its fragrance captivating, answer in a proud manner, that yes, she had. She was at the moment, a little bewildered, and greatly disturbed, to a state of being sorrowful, wanted to beg the voice to cease and leave the subject be, for the subject alone brought her great pain, inaccessible to any conversational reason, as the pain cut deep and cut alone. It was all hers to take. Though the sad fact was that her pleading and rejection did not matter much to anything, even this incorporeal voice, and, She had, it simply stated, and she owned much more. Where the slaves were chained to the children to bear, she was given the child she once owned.
“Please.” She spoke out upon the excessive statement, in a quivering voice, “It was all long time ago. I did not own the child. I did not own anything. The child is gone, so am I.”
And so was her home and her everything, which was the reason why she thought of the cave but not her home. She stepped out into the shaded corridor where the darkness was oppressive with yet a lengthy window leading in a swathe of bright illumination. The carve in the dense blackness was affable sign in a TOWER so hostile to her with its sole existence, where when drawing near , one could glimpse wider and wider expanse of openness, of the soft and silent night, strands of glassy light, vaulting the water and land below, indicating an exit by a single leap and fall. A trace of gentle fear could be seen on her face when she thought of the discarding of her now temporal flesh in order regain the fuller, larger version, with the wings and claws that enabled her to glide over the wilderness, further into the north, the split of the flesh and crushing of bones. She could never get used to that lacerating pain, overwhelming everytime her whole being and swallowing her whole spirit for a brief but unforgettable moment, leaving a muffled shriek never to be released in air. Then she was afloat, not really herself, for a while, feeling herself striking on the shore, showering by the dust and sand, trudging back to her cave, sinking into the bathtub, and have a good sleep. She smiled at the vision. Wasn’t it too sweet?
It was. The footstep sounded at somewhere very near when she approached that line of light severing half of the corridor, and she was breathing deeply, in preparing herself, that she nearly choked at the sound. “Who is there?” The voice asked, not, though, in her mentality, but in reality, out the other side of this pond of light, drawing first the figure’s shadow. An enlongated shadow, tall and lean, gown drooping. She was touching the fringer of window, with her fingers in the flush of light, as if burning in white fire.
“Who is there?” The voice asked again. She held her breath, feet trembling. As the figure came near the window she could see the faint flame of the candle he held, and the faint light lit his face, on the other side of the light. She filched back, in a move too fierce for her, to escape from his sight, into the darkness. The face she saw was a face of renunciation of the happiness, merry and joy, displaying itself with a temperament of muted doomness and hurtful sensibility. It was a face that burned her vision, setting her tongue mumble for a proper word to ease her prompt surge of pain.
“Is that you?” She did not know whether the man had seen her or not. Perhaps vision in the openness should always be mutual. She only see his lips, part with a tremor, inquiring gently.
And she found the word:”No!”
She screamed; A sharp cry that should wake a TOWER for an imprudent like such, yet she couldn’t care more. No suffering so strong had ever stricken her as the two sort of pain assaulted her at the same time when she jumped out of the window, and the man too shouted his, wait. “Wait!” His sound blasted with her flesh and blood, and for a moment her mind was blurred, blind and covered by the torrent of pain to grow a dragon, even as tiny as her, in full; she stumbled on sky, dropping hard, for quite a while as if to hit the ground, but manage to lift herself all in a trance—— the forest became a bit tiny now, beneath her wing, and their motion softening as she moved. But it didn’t last long. The woman, the dragon of Perity nearly whimpered when she saw the shadow falling on her like a cumulonimbus, colossal in shape and malicious in its force, bring a thunder of clash when he slit the air. She would beg if she could, as what can she possibly do, under a Vansiyr? A Dominion, even! She wanted to beg, but she was not herself, not even her weak and feeble self, but a scared animal, darting, scuttling, scooting on the air, in search of safety; Wise men said there was no safety, and nonetheless, she did. That shadow followed her everywhere, so she tried around, desperately, under that massive shadow, for somewhere narrower, darker and smaller, to accommodate her and banish him.
The shadow loomed over, when she entered the canyon leading to the north. He didn’t go away, as the shadow was always overhead, but neither he followed. The man just wouldn’t go. She though to herself weakly, in a daze. When the narrow passage widened again she dashed into the sea fog, thick and dense, so the shadow finally diminished, swallowed by the white mist.
High above there was only moon, fair and bright across her cloudy eyes.
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡAbI9J4VpSD
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡdBkb1UvsO1
Later into afternoon the rain ceased and the temperature rose. She stayed inside the cottage and felt a warm heat, preparing a big fish brought by her child a day earlier. Now that its zeal for nature grew, the younger one seemed to become the major purveyor of household food. “Berries!” It would say, bouncing. Eggs, beef and cheese! She was confused. “Where did you get all of these, my darling?” After dinner, or around the dusk she would sit with the child in their tiny courtyard, facing a small grove, where the last beam of sun squared a pique field; or she called it, my baby, caressing its hair, so young and lustrous, dark as ebony, or playing with its little finger, interlocking with hers. “from the old vendor” was its usual reply, as the child looked down by tiny creatures to play with. The baby was growing fast. She looked at it with a gentle and sad smile. Fast for a dress, and fast for a slave; it was after all her child who she kissed her destiny on, which was fretting not infrequently.
“I saw him weep one day, by the half of the hill, and I helped him. He said I was nice to do that, and gave me some cheese.”
“It was kind, my baby. But do not ask more than that, will you please?” She pressed her forehead, gently on the child’s cheek; everything comes with a price.
“Well, then.” Pondered the child, “I didn’t get the fish from him. I got it from the creek.”
She chuckled. “There’ s no such big fish in the creek.” She bite her lip and showed the child her crack on it. The lip was dry and crisp. “So big that I tend to it all afternoon without drinking water. Where did you get it, darling? I am to pay the price.”
It looked at her; her baby, with that transparent green eyes, blinking as if in a slow motion. For a moment she thought the child look very sad, for a reason unknown to both of them. The woman huddled the child to her bosom, but the child wouldn’t look down. Their eyes danced with each other, until it bashed, with a smile.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, mother.” It said, “I cannot. I find it hard for me to do so, looking at your eyes. It is hard.” It fumbled over its pocket, for a few good coins, and placed them on her palm, silver and polished.
She was astonished. “Where did you get this much?”
“Fight.” Said the child. “I fought the children, down in the town.”
She gazed at it, till it apologized; she waved her hand as a gentle gesture, but her face was sad, which saddened the child, too. The sadness of a loved one was infectious and it was well known, so until she would look at it again, the child was in fear and pain.
“...Did they hurt you?” Finally she spoke, slowly, as if tortured. The child clinged to her, seeking her confirmation. Her fingers soothed the child, but not herself. She was trembling when it said it was not hurt. It was not hurt, for no one could win it. Before long they had grown some awe for the child, who fought with a chill, precise move without malice. But it would hurt, anyway, for it was a fight.
She shook her head, in disbelief, when she gazed into its complexion, when the grove too shook. She touched the child’s cheek bone, feeling it rise, harden, its torso grew into a shape too flat for her dress, which was yet to happen but she could already envision; the grove shook, as she turned away in a trance, and the child stood up, dashing for the cottage for a handful of berries.
The child, it sprinted out, to the courtyard, crying while it ran:”I might have taken too much, mother, a little too much!”
She stood there, looking at the bear, twice as tall as herself, bending not for berries, but for the ground. “I told you, mother. They won’t hurt me, the bear.”
She turned her eyes to the child; they might be, he hesitated, her child with that vernal eyes whose dress and servitude awaited down in the tunnel of fate, now shattered by itself to pieces, stood before the bear; She couldn’t speak, overwhelmed by confusion. How come?
“I think they are even a little afraid of me.” He said, with the typical sorrow much as she could remember.
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡEXFqySeAzC
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqG0OjB286i
The bear; Bears of grove. She dreamed of them, their old honey and sugar, as if sipping from ancient cracks of her stone cave, with a sticky quality, spreading over the shelter —— she returned, suffered, in pain, worn-out, crawling bare on the sand for the distance between the ocean-girdled beach and her cave, the moonlight cold and bright, pricking her skin. She moaned yet she persisted on, leaving the pain behind, for an asylum. After the grudging, she reached there, the stone-walled room with desks, bathtub, and a cooking counter. She smiled exhaustively, climbing herself onto the bed, curling into the fur and dived into deep sleep, where she saw the bear, standing in the grove. Berries, the child said, giving her syrup of danger, yet she opened the mouth, to taste the sweetness.
The bear roared—— Her eyes flung open in panic on the sight of a bear’s growling mouth, fleshy and bloody, breathing the air of animality. She reached her hand to push away the head, but it was hard for her to exert the force; she was pushed down, bear without clothes, tired. She awaited the pain but closed not her eyes, lips parted after dream, for that promised sweetness.
There came the molasses, burning, boling and thick, splashing over her nape and breast, covering her face, along with the split and lashing sound of the head separating the body. It was a blink and the bear did not whine but more to release that unfinished roar; the fresh and beautiful wine of blood.
She held herself up, her fur sliding down, while the man closed his eyes and dropped the head of the bear with a soft thud.
“My apologies, Madam.” He said gently, “Do you have any dry clothes, or maybe I can lend you my robe?”
She shook her head; forgetting that he couldn’t see. She gazed him for long before she said, yes, she had clothes. She wiped the blood cursively and dressed again in white, not caring the stain; all she had, she had white. While she dressed, he stood in silence, eyes closed.
“I am dressed.” She said dryly, hiding herself into the corner of darkness, watching the man in the moonlight open his eyes. It pained her. She couldn’t tell how, but it cut deep, with that striking pain.
He nodded, managing a nervous smile, unnaturally. The man asked where to put the corpse of the attacker; that bear from the forest. Should he place the remaining in storage or should he dispose of it?
“Let us put it by the shore. The sea beasts sometimes feed on the shore and would take it.” She said, to which he nodded, dragged up the headless neck, out into the moonlight, to the breathing sea.
She chased up, by his side, inhaling a few times, bidding her gratitude. “Thank you.” He was about to smile, a true and genuine one, and turned his face to her, looking at her with that much tenderness, and she added, not without good reverence,”My lord”, so he could not finish that smile. She could see that arc fade, as he slowly turned his face away, leaving a dim profile, rejecting the moon. They spoke nothing and put the bear by the sea. Far away, the beasts splashed the water merrily, for a good meal.
15Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTRvDHA9XrR
