SRθ: Grim Inquiries (2023-2024)

Sit.19: The Death of the Author

MY INTENTIONS

Reader, don't take strangely
my words or you'll regret it
poetry's an ugly sport
for beauty's second pageant

each language is a maze
its pathways long and narrow
its rhymes can only travel
where led by tongues of arrow

so too does art refrain
from speaking out of turn
each tale is but a puzzle piece
of ancient, shattered urns

Know well the old conventions
and how they should be broken
and how they should be mended
and when to flip the token

metaphor and simile
know your arts and sly
keep bright your good intentions
keep shadowy the eye

don't let swell up your ego
you're far from all that's true
the world is made of everyone
and of the sky so blue

Payment will not feed you
coin can't easily chew
togetherness will lead you
so gardens grow anew

speak not of your exploits
but of tales all can tell
of journeys everyone has had
or wishes had befell

the truest message speaks softly
take care of one another
consider all as self, please,
and nature's only mother.

* * *

I waited for my finger to heal, and for once, enjoyed the help of the couple I'd been staying with. Instead of harassing and abusing me, they started taking care of me; they did my chores, cooked my food the way I liked it, and even helped me boil honey for waxing. I was no longer a distraction, or a threat – I'd become their practice child, someone for them to look after in preparation for The Ranger's upcoming bundle of joy. It was probably easier to play into this role specifically BECAUSE we'd never exchanged any romantic touch, which gave me a mischievous satisfaction – my needs were finally being met, and it was for their own good, too. The Jack was suspicious of me at first, when he saw the bump in her belly, but it only helped my case that I'd refused them both at every turn. I'd call that a win-win situation. The Ranger told me that she'd started paying more attention to her cycles, and that before I'd tried to set my boundaries by explaining them, she'd honestly had no idea there was a pattern – my observance that she was irregular was only made possible by comparison. I was excited for the two of them, and despite the pain in my hand and ear (which flared up again during my recovery), I was beginning to feel alright again. They gave me space to relax by building me a shed, just off the wheat field, where I could sit on a bench and see the trees through an open window.

After my finger healed (though not quite the same as it was), I decided it was time to go back to town. My shunning had expired, an' I was itchin' for some broader company, despite finally being back on good terms with the ranch couple. More than that, I wanted to see how everyone was doing.
In wet, warming snow, I made my way down the muddy forest path, back to where I'd been before my friend died. I thought first about going to The Artist's house, but decided first to get a lay of the land by the local pub. At the back of my mind, when unoccupied by gory nightmares of traumas past, was The Author – and his cane, which was lying next to me when he died. A man of crippled leg doesn't up an' walk to the end of 'is life without it.
I sat down at a table, but had to move to a stool by the counter. The place was bustling, with tea and mead sliding across tables, and plates full then empty of food being brought back and forth by the dark-haired girl. She was heavily pregnant, her belly swollen three times more than The Ranger's, but no slower to task. Some of the men still found her pretty, it seemed, and were heckling her – one even dared to grab her by the back-side and laugh. So she unhooked a tomahawk from her belt and axed his table, mere motions from his other hand.
"Next time, I won't miss," she grinned.
I was impressed. Not only did the men leave her alone as she pried her ax from the wood and walked away, but they actually praised her for being a "virtuous single mother". It was a turnaround so fast you'd think she'd spun their table out with another one, and each man along with it. So, it would appear that none had yet claimed the child as their own creation. She came over to serve me tea and boiled apple slices, no sugar in either. Sugar was expensive, even if I was interested... which I wasn't.
"Nice seein' you 'round again," she said.
"Thanks, you too." I smiled. "Your tomahawk-"
"Ah, you know what it's called!" she beamed. "Everyone else just says 'ax'."
"Aye," I chuckled, "My first friend was of the other world, the New one."
She lowered a brow, and played with her necklace – it was black cord, with black and white feathers, and some cat's teeth. "We don't call it that, it's no newer than the rest of the Earth. To us, it's... uh..." She tried to think. "Turtle Island. That's how it would translate."
"Is it shaped like one?" I asked.
She was slightly annoyed. "No, um... it's because my elders believed the world was born on the back of a giant sea turtle. It might be, for all I know."
I tried to squeeze just a little more out of her. "How did you get here-"
She cut me off. "Sorry, I gotta go, enjoy your food!"
I was annoyed back, but that was my fault for jamming my foot in someone's door, to to speak. She left for other tables, and I blew on my bowl to cool down the slippery, spiced apple slices. I forked one into my mouth, and listened to chatter. They were talking about the Cat O' Sparks at one table, examining the story for its themes. Its significance seemed even greater in the face of The Author's death.
A thin man said, "I think he INTENDED to die, as some statement against monarchies."
A bearded man shook his head. "It was the troupe, I think. They were scared he'd write an inferior second part," he posited.
"Obviously," a fat man chimed in, "it was his sister-"
"NOOOOO," booed the others.
"Family don't off family, he was her breadwinner!"
The fat man shook his head. "No, listen, I heard they didn't get on well, and that something happened between 'em-"
"Who cares?!" cried the thin man. "What matters now is what the story MEANS to us, especially after its creator has so unceremoniously departed! An author dying from his tale is like a father leaving their child!"
"I don't think a second part by him would've been so bad," said the bearded man. "Absence of the father never bothered me much, for the record."
"First off," the fat man argued, "You have a sad life."
The bearded man nodded.
"Secondly: aye, but nay. And by 'nay', I mean 'fuck. no.' The second part – 'Cat in the Underworld' – that could NEVER have happened if he lived. It's far superior to the original for its darker tone and higher complexity! It was ABOUT The Author's death, through allergy."
"Allegory," the thin man corrected.
"I didn't find it too gory, actually," said the bearded one.
"No-"
The fat man slammed his mug on the table, which barely rose above all other noises. "LISTEN, we all know The Author's first story was REALLY just war propaganda, that's why the cat wears a suit of armor! The wizard represents the crown, who steal our women when our backs are turned, when we're bleedin' on their very fields!"
The thin man argued, "The crown don't steal women, that's bandits. And this is Scotland, not England."
"Who do you think pays all the bandits?!" the fat man blustered. "It all comes back to them!"
"And what's the mule, then?" asked the beard.
"THE LABOR FORCE, COME ON NOW!!"
The beard thought, "There were bandits in the first one, but it was the evil wizard who stole the girl..."
The thin man sighed. "No, the mean sister SOLD the girl-"
I walked over to their table, and took a chair. They stared at me, but I wasn't wearing my skull mask, so they recognized me none. I said, "Your literacy is entertaining, but I knew The Author as a friend – he'd only meant to inspire people. To make them feel as like they could be heroes too, no matter where they came from, how small and weak they felt, and how feral and unhuman. You never even bother to question why the Cat O' Sparks is a cat to begin with – it's because, as I understand it, The Author wanted to portray a hero of nature rather than of civilization. To him, love was simply a natural balance that deserved preservation; and those we love, protection. The 'mean' sister and 'evil' wizard had simply disrupted that balance, each for their own selfish reasons. A cat in armor is a sort of visual poetic code: for an animal sworn to nobility, despite his fangs. Same as the maiden of feathers was simply a bird in a cage. It speaks to the human condition – we're all animals in suits, in our own ways."
They stared at me, and said nothing.
Then the bearded one piped up, and grunted, "What?"
The fat man gave me an odd look. "Can you repeat all that? We couldn't really hear you over the rest of the bar."
I was a little stunned, and though I tried to start up again, the pub only became louder when more people joined in from outside. I waved the critics good-bye, having heard and poured out enough. Behind, they laughed at me on my way out, calling me 'mumbles'. One of them mimicked me, 'blah blah blah human condition blah blah blah'. I was only a bit red for it, honestly. I'd said my piece about my big idea, not my fault the place couldn't house it.

Outside, I wandered through town and found myself retracing the path to The Artist's home. It'd been a full two seasons since I'd seen her, three by Hindu count – I was both excited, and dreading it in my bones. I made my way over, knocked on the door, and entered, but nobody was home. Through the house's only window, however, I saw a pregnant girl of red hair and white, fur-hooded cloak, arguing with an elderly lady next door. It had started to snow a bit, and her hair in the wind looked a bit like flame, tip o' candle. I went back out to see them, and overheard the elder saying:
"I'm already pretty enough, can't you see?"
"Yes," groaned The Artist, "but I could make you or your granddaughters prettier still-"
"HMPH!" the elder huffed. "I've not a grandchild to speak of, and I just told you I'm pretty enough! Would you have me feeling ugly AND alone?"
"No, of course not-"
"Then piss off, piss-pot." The elder slammed her door shut.
The Artist growled with frustration, and turned to see me. Instead of being excited, or cracking the slightest smile, she shouted, "OY, what the FUCK do YOU want?!"

Inside, I filled a kettle, and put one of her leavened loaves of dough in the oven. They sat three in a row on the counter, each covered by a small cloth. I started the oven by lighting the last of her firewood with a flint-iron, and put the kettle on top of it. I offered to take her jacket, but she kept it on.
"Fuckin' nice of ye to drop by, finally," she cried. "Knock me up an' fuck off, why don't ye – I'm nearly crowning here! God damn it."
"I'm sorry-"
"Ya left me pregged in the thick of winter, ya daft piece of shit. Ya don't get to be sorry no more. Rub my feet an' shut the hell up."
I removed her boots and did so, embarrassed. "I didn't know-"
"Know what, where babies come from?!" she snapped. "Lookit the fuckin' raven-hair, ya did, eh? I'd say she was your work but she's further along. You've seen 'er, right? 'Ave you?"
"Aye," I responded.
"She gets all the attention. 'Oh, poor me, I'm only sixteen, life is so hard.' I'm not a whole hell of a lot older, y'know! She's probably snoggin' the chef, that's why she's so fed. Doubt he's the father, though." She sniffled, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Ya know what I'VE been doing? Fucking STARVING! Freezing, too! Christ."
I gritted my teeth and kept rubbing her feet. There was a minute of silence.
She started up again. "Yer lookin' fine, though, what the fuck?" she inquired. "You rest in a cave with models or somethin'? All winter, you just pose fer paint? La-dee-da?"
"I..." I waited for her to cut me off. She didn't. "I was working at a ranch."
She asked, "Saving money for yer child, I assume?"
I started to sweat with shame. "It was more of a... communal thing." I swallowed a lump in my throat.
"Oh, for-" she snapped again. "Just great. You're off having orgies with vagabonds, then. What a father you are, eh? No wonder you kept moving after the first one, I bet you've been just stellar with each of us. I feel so fuckin' blessed."
I frowned. "Are you done?"
She wide-eyed at me. "Are YOU?"
I paused. Then I stopped rubbing her feet, and washed my hands in the soap bucket in the sink.
"Where were you really?" she asked. "Why'd you leave me all alone? I thought you'd sailed home to be rid of me. For treatin' you sorely, and other bullshit."
I turned to her. "I didn't know you were with child. I left because I was starving, and the town hated me. You seemed sick of me too, and you were drinking heavily. I needed out. The Ranger and The Lumberjack took me in, but they were a handful. Then my shunning expired, so..."
"And now?" She looked at me with fear in her eyes now.
"Now..." I sighed. "I'm staying with you, until the baby's had. But after that, I'm going home. I can't take this place for much longer."
"Oh, fucking CALLOUS!!" she yelled, tears in her reddened eyes. She stood up slowly, using the table for support. "I was wrong, my brother was twice as warm in heart as you are. He was just bruised from me, passing down my wounds. But YOU-" she spat on the floor, and pointed at me. "You can't even let yourself be wounded before you get cold. You're too fucking afraid."
I tried to say something, but she left the kitchen and slammed her bedroom door behind her.
Speechless, I put my head in my hands, and leaned back on the counter. The tea was ready first, then the bread. I left both on the table and covered them with a large bowl, to keep them from going stale.

In The Author's old room, I saw something new: a bed fitted with sheets. Maybe The Artist had been having company, or expecting it – or hoping for it. On the writing desk was a stack of pages: a short summary of a possible third story. It was titled, "The Cat Sister's Redemption". In it, she'd gained the power of raising massive plants out from the ground, with flowers as broad as the wings of an eagle. She used it to fight a rogue Cat O' Sparks, who'd gone mad from wearing the mask of Death after his return from the underworld. Its dark power had corrupted him over time, and it made him cruel and villainous. It almost seemed prophetic.