Turning and turning in the widening gyre the falcon cannot hear the falconer; things fall apart; the centre cannot hold
The closet I ever felt to my father was when he took me hunting in the woods behind our village. Most of the island was inhospitable and half-wild. If a garden were left untended for a day or more, it would become overgrown or dead. The beaches were one concern, with the water horses and their hunger; but the woods were full of wolves, and sometimes their crying would mount into a feral, haunting chorus.
He had always kept hunting hounds in a kennel behind our home. (He called them “hunting hounds,” but more often he took them to the beaches for war). They, in many ways, were insatiable. Their baying seemed more primordial than the wolves’ howls, if only because it had always been hungrier.
And, anyways, he used to take me into the woods, when I was very young. Once there, he had hounds for tracking and sighthounds for the hunt. They would start up a voracious cry, and we would run through the trees after a pack of wolves, or a mountain lion. Sometimes, we went with no dogs; sometimes, we went looking for a stag.
We never killed those.
We only watched them; regal; kings of the forest. During the rut, we listened to the bugling of the few island elk; I remember the way their breath fogged the early morning, pre-dawn air, the way it rose up like clouds.
There had been once, with the hounds, when we came upon a lone wolf. It was mostly dead; that is how I remember it, with every crevice of its body hollowed, its skin pulled tight over rigid bones. It had been old, or sickly, or mad—and in its desperation, it had somehow cornered the most beautiful stag I had ever seen.
It had been dying; but it had not wanted to die alone. The stag, cornered, had been tossing his great antlers; hot blood ran down his legs, from where the wolf had gnashed him with his teeth. When the hounds caught the scent, they had gone wild with it; and the frenzy led them to the wolf and the stag, and my father and I had been helpless to the way the pack ripped them both to pieces.
We never went hunting together, after that. We never went into the woods again.
This reminds me of that.
I find the rabbit first; and follow the trail of blood and disturbance from the woods, to the fox. The fox leads to the fawn, and the fawn to the doe. Then there is the horse.
When I find him, I understand exactly what sort of beast I am tracking. I recognize the teeth; I recognize the way an animal will succumb to hunger as one does lust.
I do not feel apprehension; I do not even feel fear.
It is like a sloughing of skin; stepping from one form, into another more comfortable shape. Finally, my mind seems to breathe. A language I understand.
Hunter, and hunted.
Hunter, and hunter.
I continue to follow the blood trail; from the woods to the beach; and from the beach I can see the sea, where the water horse stands. She is almost beautiful. Even the wolf had been beautiful, if only for its desperation to survive.
From this distance, I do not recognize her. From this distance, I remain unawares of how much of a fool I had been.
“Each-uisge!” My voice is a roar; the term belonging to the people I descend from, from those before the island. I call her the name of the spirits that drown men in the sea—I am charging down the beach, toward it, remembering how my horns are swords, my hooves for bludgeoning, my body made for this poetry of motion—
That is when I hear her voice.
Run.
Familiar. Known. My confidence lapses; my charge falters. It is enough of a flaw; I recognize my error but also understand that hesitation, slight as it might have been, is already too much.
”Sereia?” I say it aloud, a question, because—
Because I had been a fool.
How had I not recognized what she was? How had I not known?
How can anyone be at fault for this save myself?
If I had known... if I had seen what she was... there would be no dead men on the beach.
And yet, I had not.
He had always kept hunting hounds in a kennel behind our home. (He called them “hunting hounds,” but more often he took them to the beaches for war). They, in many ways, were insatiable. Their baying seemed more primordial than the wolves’ howls, if only because it had always been hungrier.
And, anyways, he used to take me into the woods, when I was very young. Once there, he had hounds for tracking and sighthounds for the hunt. They would start up a voracious cry, and we would run through the trees after a pack of wolves, or a mountain lion. Sometimes, we went with no dogs; sometimes, we went looking for a stag.
We never killed those.
We only watched them; regal; kings of the forest. During the rut, we listened to the bugling of the few island elk; I remember the way their breath fogged the early morning, pre-dawn air, the way it rose up like clouds.
There had been once, with the hounds, when we came upon a lone wolf. It was mostly dead; that is how I remember it, with every crevice of its body hollowed, its skin pulled tight over rigid bones. It had been old, or sickly, or mad—and in its desperation, it had somehow cornered the most beautiful stag I had ever seen.
It had been dying; but it had not wanted to die alone. The stag, cornered, had been tossing his great antlers; hot blood ran down his legs, from where the wolf had gnashed him with his teeth. When the hounds caught the scent, they had gone wild with it; and the frenzy led them to the wolf and the stag, and my father and I had been helpless to the way the pack ripped them both to pieces.
We never went hunting together, after that. We never went into the woods again.
This reminds me of that.
I find the rabbit first; and follow the trail of blood and disturbance from the woods, to the fox. The fox leads to the fawn, and the fawn to the doe. Then there is the horse.
When I find him, I understand exactly what sort of beast I am tracking. I recognize the teeth; I recognize the way an animal will succumb to hunger as one does lust.
I do not feel apprehension; I do not even feel fear.
It is like a sloughing of skin; stepping from one form, into another more comfortable shape. Finally, my mind seems to breathe. A language I understand.
Hunter, and hunted.
Hunter, and hunter.
I continue to follow the blood trail; from the woods to the beach; and from the beach I can see the sea, where the water horse stands. She is almost beautiful. Even the wolf had been beautiful, if only for its desperation to survive.
From this distance, I do not recognize her. From this distance, I remain unawares of how much of a fool I had been.
“Each-uisge!” My voice is a roar; the term belonging to the people I descend from, from those before the island. I call her the name of the spirits that drown men in the sea—I am charging down the beach, toward it, remembering how my horns are swords, my hooves for bludgeoning, my body made for this poetry of motion—
That is when I hear her voice.
Run.
Familiar. Known. My confidence lapses; my charge falters. It is enough of a flaw; I recognize my error but also understand that hesitation, slight as it might have been, is already too much.
”Sereia?” I say it aloud, a question, because—
Because I had been a fool.
How had I not recognized what she was? How had I not known?
How can anyone be at fault for this save myself?
If I had known... if I had seen what she was... there would be no dead men on the beach.
And yet, I had not.
