“Was the mating I was scheduled for to be with you?”
He stares.
“If with you I’d not have minded.”
But I’ve said too much.
He squints. He frowns. Then suddenly he grabs. Kisses. Hard. Holds me too tight. It’s scary. I’ve never…. I don’t know what to do. What if that, “We all die,” was about what will happen to me in the next few minutes? What if they told him to take me up and get rid of me? What if he thinks to give me one last pleasure?
If that is what this is. It seems done more for himself than for me. He’s rough and hasty. Our clothes are bulky, old, and weak. They tear. What then when we go back? If? Will there be enough untorn to outfit one person?
I see him without his hat. Black hair streaked with gray, though not as gray as his beard. I see his hairy body. Sweaty. Strong. Most of his chest hair is gray.
I’m naked and ashamed. I don’t know what I look like, to him or even to myself.
“Isn’t this against our rules?”
I hope I look all right. I hope I can give pleasure. But he’s in a hurry.
And after a moment’s rest he does it again.
Am I the dead one so it doesn’t matter about me? Except this second time it seems with a little more feeling.
After, do I see something new in his eyes? I’m not sure.
He gets up and tries to piece our clothes into one decent outfit. He leaves me the rags. Says, “Stay here.”
Then, just as he goes, he turn and he says, “I lost my child. I lost my wife.”
I call after him what he said to me, “We all die.”
Is this the first time he’s said anything that’s not part of our doctrine? I didn’t know he could.
Have I had my moment? My last request? Was that it?
I put on the rags. Tying and pinning until I’m more or less decent. I won’t stay here. I’ll go up higher. Except I’m so hungry. First I’ll go on down to eat. I could get my bonnet from its hiding place. They’re looking for a small women in a much too large man’s hat. They’d not notice me in my bonnet, and he won’t expect me to have crossed the scary cliff by myself.
But perhaps he was going to bring me clothes. Perhaps even food. He should have said so. Though I suppose one can’t expect talk. We’re not used to that.
I cross the scary part. Creep into the village to where the men were working. It’s late. There’s no one there. I find my bonnet and go in to eat. Ragged as I am, nobody notices.
I will not sleep down in the village. I head back to his tree. It’s getting dark. I don’t dare cross the cliff section of the path. But then I do it anyway … start to … and I stop right in the middle of the scariest part. I don’t deserve to be comfortable. I want to punish myself. I’ll sleep here on the edge, a stone for a pillow. It makes me think this is why we shouldn’t feel too much. We’re all on the edge of a cliff. I’ll sleep here as a lesson to myself.
Life is brutal. Life is pain. Life is full cruelty.
Didn’t we always say that? And if one loses a child and a wife….
I dream I slash out at everybody with a saw. I dream I killed the man I didn’t kill.
I wake up before dawn. I’m yelling. I turn into one of those women who screamed and screamed and had to be led away. But nobody hears me from here. I go on and on until I’m all screamed out. Then I sit on the scary edge, my feet hanging over. I don’t feel fear. I don’t care if I fall off the cliff or not. I understand, for the first time, what our creed really means … has meant all this time. As good as dead. All of us. There’s nothing to fear. What could there possibly be to fear?
There are no happy endings. All life ends the same way. Better to live with the knowledge of the end. Every day a preparation for what will, inevitably, be.
Except…. Except….
The sun is rising. There’s all different reds on the hills beyond. Below, the village is still in shadow. I watch the brightness come, little by little, across the valley floor.
Soon after, I see a black figure, like an ant creeping up the path toward me. It’ll take him an hour to get up here.
He looks surprised to find me on the ledge with my feet hanging over. Or maybe surprised to see me in my bonnet. To see my clothes all pinned up. He sits beside me. We don’t speak. Of course we don’t speak.
He has a bundle with him. Black. After all this sunrise, I’m tired of black. Anything, anything, not to see black and not to be all in black.
He takes out a small package and then puts the bundle beside us. He opens out a little packet and there’s bread and lemonade.
I say, “Thank you.”
He flinches as if my Thank you surprises him, but keeps silent.
I say, “I’ve been down home.” Though I know he knows that from my bonnet. I say, “I had supper.”
No answer.
I say, “But I spent the night right here. There’s my stone pillow.”
He ought at least to say some of our creed words.
I want to shake him up. To get him to talk I say, “What happened to your wife and child?”
He frowns.
“Tell me.”
“Life without words is peaceful. There are no disagreements.” And then, “Some words should never be said.”
Of course he’s right, but I want words.
“What’s going to happen now? I suppose you’ll take me back.”
No answer.
“If we should fall in love, then no end to it.”
“There are no happy endings.”
“I suppose you want to end it before the end comes.”
Nothing.
“So as to know the end.”
Not even a nod.
“Speak!”
He’s squinting out at our valley. I can’t stand the thought of going back.
How easy it would be … him squatting there, reaching to get more lemonade for me.
“I won’t go back.”
Of course no answer.
I push him. Off he tumbles, down the cliff. He doesn’t make a sound. Of course he doesn’t. I look over. I see the black shape below. There’s no way he can still be alive. Besides, what would he do with me? Just take me back.
I wait. I watch a long time for movement, but there’s none. Though what could I do if there was some? I don’t know how I’d get myself down there.
I wait so long I’m hungry again. I open the bundle he brought. There’s a man’s red shirt. Man’s blue pants. A dress … a real dress, also blue. A white bonnet with little flowers on it. Where in the world did he get these things? Has he been saving them for an escape? Was he already preparing to leave but didn’t know how or what to say?
Desire breeds nothing but more desire.
Was he full of desire?
I sit. I wait. Numb. I don’t know how long but I see the sun is low. If I’m to cross the ledge I have to do it now.
I put on the dress and bonnet. I cross and head up, higher yet, into the snow. There’s no path. The sunset has spread all across the sky. Everything looks pink. Everything glows. Even me.
GLIDERS THOUGH THEY BE
THEY LIVE, AS WE DO, by the shadows, by the warmth of stones on sunny days, by fissures in rocks. They scramble, skulk, and skitter—as we do. They die, as we do, by the sky, by the trees. Live by black brush, prickly poppies. Die by the drop and dive and skim of the masters from the air.
You’ll be right in among them, doing everything their way. You’ll be trying to like their kinds of food. You’ll be spitting out pinfeathers. In spite of yourself you’ll say, Oh, oh, oh. And you’ll have to sing their songs of self satisfaction, but don’t forget you’re one of Us.
Find the ins and outs of their warrens. The windings and dead ends, the escape hatches. Know their ditches, the views from their hills….
They call themselves The Creatures, as if we weren’t. They call their section of the land, The Place as if our place wasn’t as much a place as theirs. They say they live at the c
enter of the world as though we don’t.
That’s all right, let them think what they have to think.
Love your enemies. You’ll have to. Hide your distaste. But you won’t have to kiss them unless you want to. Though sometimes our kind does fall in love with their kind, so soft and pink, so thin, so close at hand, as they will be to you. Our kind always thinks such love is a mistake, but I say, all the better. (You’ll be thinking your new babies will take to the air along with theirs. Don’t count on it.)
Though they keep calling it that, remember they can’t fly. It’s only gliding. And their wings … They aren’t really wings, just a few feathers, in with their fur. But they’re the big problem. Or, rather, the problem is us … that we have none. In all other ways we’re exactly like them. They crawl around just like we do. Rush from hideout to hideout, all the time looking up to investigate the sky. They squeak out warnings just like we do. We might as well be them though they wouldn’t have us.
Bring a sharp knife. Not to kill—of course not—but to… you know. Be sure to get them just before they’re fledged. After that, success will be unlikely. Every single one you cut will be a blow in our favor.
It all depends on them, everything depends on them, it always has. Though now everything depends on you.
We can’t imagine what our nubs are for except to show we’re kin with them. We never fledge. Maybe we haven’t tried hard enough—haven’t spent enough time dropping out of trees or leaping after grasshoppers. But who, among our young ones, hasn’t broken a leg from trying something foolish that those others can do without even thinking.
Perhaps it’s all in the mind and we’re not thinking the right thoughts. Or perhaps it’s fear of falling that forces them to fledge. Maybe they push their little ones off lower branches—pry their toes up one by one and then push. Or break the branch out from under them. If they fall and keep on falling, they’ll fledge soon enough. They’ll have to. Being harsher on our own young might be the only way.
Nubs are ugly. Wings… so delicate, so optimistic… are lovely. Even so it’ll be easy for one of us to hide among them. Wear a vest or hang a scarf over where your wings ought to be and you can pass for them. Go!
They have no trees! That’s my first shock. Hills and valleys… mounds of loose dirt next to entrances, yes, piles of rocks just like home, and bushes…. You’d think they’d have trees. I wasn’t told the most important thing. Perhaps they have gnawed them all down as a safety measure—which it surely is. Perhaps they don’t ever say, Die by the trees, as we say.
But then I see they do have… one… just one huge tree off in the middle of their compound. It’s the largest I’ve ever seen. They must take great care of it. Keep it watered. We had no idea they lived like this.
I wear a vest that hides my nubs. Thank goodness there are some of them that are of our bluish color. We’re larger than they are, but not by much. Perhaps that’s why we can’t glide. Though why don’t we fledge? And why have these ugly nubs in the first place?
I had skittered along with others of their kind. I joined a hunting group, bringing back voles, locusts, beetles…. I had nothing hanging from my belt, but many others didn’t either. Since I’m bigger than most of them, I thought to wrestle something from one of the smaller ones, but then I thought better of it.
Now, through the gates and into their treeless… almost treeless compound. I hope I don’t look too surprised as I enter.
It’s neater than ours. And in spite of having no trees (except that one) they’ve made plenty of places for shade and to hide under. Little lean-tos and platforms, prickly poppies are growing right on top of some of them.
Handsome though I am (and especially so in my red vest—or so my own kind tells me) right away they squint at me. Some clack their teeth. Perhaps I remind them of Us. I puff up so as to look even larger though I lose some of my shine that way. I know that’s not a good idea, considering I’ll look even more like one of Us, but I want to scare them as much as they’re scaring me. I become myself. Or, rather, I become Us.
I hum a tune I know is theirs—I think is theirs—we always said it was theirs, but what do we really know of them? By the looks of their one-tree land, even less than we thought.
It must have been the right thing to do because a large female evaluates me carefully. She has a reddish cast, pink eyes, lashes as long as her whiskers. Each eyelash and each whisker has three colors, brown, white, and pink. Even though she’s one of theirs, she’s superb.
With my own, I’d chitter or some such but I don’t know what works with them. And I don’t want to spark any jealousy among their males or attract attention to myself. But I do clack my teeth a few times.
Females are larger than males, and she is one of their largest. But they’re not fighters. They’re no good for anything but having children. If cornered or if any little ones are in danger, even if not their own, they become much worse than any male could ever be, but I doubt that fighting will be called for if, when I cut, I do it out of sight.
We, I and the hunting group, advance towards the center of the compound. When we’re not far from their tree, I leave the group and enter a burrow—up the lookout mound of loose dirt at the doorway and then down, down, down. Just like home.
Soon I hear singing coming from below. Female singing. When I get deeper and closer I stop and listen. You have to be born to their kind of music to understand it. Same with their kind of dancing, (head bobbing up and down—exactly like a lizard trying to attract a female). Bla, bla, bla goes their poetry. But as I listen to the song I can tell there’s a pattern to it, and the voice is delightful: squeaky, and shrill. Were it used as a warning signal, there’s none who’d not hear and obey. I feel shivers up and down my spine.
They told me, go ahead, love. Might be the best way to hide. And the best way to find out whether it’s our only way to survive. They said, “Some of us, as you are, are handsome and bold. Do whatever it takes. Become them as best you can.”
Almost all our compounds have gone over to their side. It may be that we have nothing else to do but pretend we’re them, except we don’t know how. The how, is my job. (Along with the cutting, which will make them more like Us.)
I step closer and around the corner so I can see. There’s a large room hollowed out and the floor covered with glittery jay feathers. What a singer she is! I can hardly believe her high notes. Higher than I’ve ever heard. Out in the open air her song would carry for miles. I don’t doubt but that I may have heard her screeches as far away as from our own land. And what a remarkable size to her! Except for her pink, you’d think she was one of ours. Her wings lie, folded under her arms. They glisten in the glow of the burrow. I wonder, at her size, can she really glide? We’ve heard that sometimes their females get so big they can no more glide than we can.
I flatten my fur to give it more glow. I enter boldly. Everyone has squatted down but I stand in the back—and stare. I can’t help it. Even if I didn’t want to, I couldn’t not stare—her legs so delicate, her feet so small, the bulk of her, her front teeth that peep out as she sings. I wonder if how I feel shines out from my eyes. But then it’s in the eyes of all of them, males and females alike.
I try to approach her after the performance but of course everybody else wants to, too. We do look at each other, both of us half a head above the others.
I think how good we’d look, her pink next to my blue. She must know that, too.
After a bit I see I’m not going to get near her with all those admirers crowding around. I leave. I explore the burrow. There isn’t much more to it but the escape hatches. And I feel the need for air after all that emotion.
But just as I come out, the call comes. Almost as beautiful as their singer’s high notes. Some other singer on guard duty. Sky alert. We all rush back in. After a moment we peek out to see what’s going on. Striped neck, striped tail, speckled underbelly…. Quite beautiful actually. Sky folk always are. Already high, the flap, flap, flap. A
baby shrieks—and shrieks and shrieks. Somewhere a mother calls out her goodbye—calls out her love. The shrieks get farther and farther away though the mother keeps calling out long after it’s useless. But it isn’t as if we don’t all expect this.
It’s over. Everybody comes out. Not a one stays inside. Back with my own we do the same. I mill around with the others. We squeak and pat each other. We clack our teeth. It would be a perfect time for another of the sky folk to get us. They would have to take a big one now that the little ones have all been pushed back inside. Though if they’re like our own, there’s always one or two who find a way to sneak out some back door.
She’s there of course. They’re still crowding around her. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to get close. I ask her name. “Lee-ah of the far North holes.” “Ah, the far North hole’s Lee-ah.” A name equal to her bulk, her poise, her tiny feet.
Everyone is still looking up. I step around them, working my way closer, patting shoulders as I pass the others. I make sure my vest hides where my wings should be. Closer. Then close at last. I whisper. “Lee-ah of the far North.” She smiles—her beautiful smile, gnawing teeth showing in the front. I can see she’s glad to see me.
I say, “Except that I’ve met you and heard and seen your brilliance, a sad time.”
“A sorrow.” She raises her head as though to bare her throat to me. A good sign. Then says, “And you, from where?”
I bare my throat, too, but I had hoped she wouldn’t ask the important question so soon. If they’re like us, I have to come from far enough away from her north and yet not be from my own North. I say, “Also the North, but the east of the North.”
That’s the truth. One step farther up from their North and I’d be at home with my own.
It must be all right because she says, “I do love those from the East North.” I know what she means by that.
She shakes her shoulders and spreads her wings a little bit as though to show them off.
I shake, too, and hope my vest still hides my nubs. “I say, “Glorious.” I show my front teeth.
I Live With You Page 14