The Alpha Female of Wicker

6

Bits of hay dust clouds in the dry air. The last of the humid night is sluiced by a powerful gale that sweeps through Wicker, and causes goose flesh to emerge from skin that appears almost bronze in the torchlight. On this body are muscles strong, firm and flexing, stressing and then relaxing. His eyes flare like a bonfire, higher and higher, into the night and as he cries, beads of liquid crystals that roll down him and hit the hay.

It smells of babe, of blood and oil. Deindividualized, there is one. It is musty, but soft, lovably dangerous, and it stands, and mumbles to itself. It mumbles of nature, of mystic spirituality, reality, and grounded asceticism. There is no God, and it knows. It knows so because it was told so. This world, is not what you think it is. It is a creation, a parallel, controlled and fated. There is no pity for the doomed, no mercy for the damned, unless the damned have an interest in beauty.

There is a scream, a sharp inhale of the dry air and a groan in return, recycled life breathing the world into the being that chants their own. The exercise of the body, breathing in and out, in and out, feeding the spirit, the natural, and chants, as one, as one.

And the, there is he. He is searching, everlastingly moving to and fro each natural chasm, seeking a feeling of the skin, delving into the scent of it. Even if it cries, or fears, he reassures and brings forth into it all that makes them both real. He and it.

Yet he knows. Unlike it, that sways and listens, follows and loves, he knows. He understands his position in life, the exclusion of fate, the static place in the dynamic world, and his appeasement, the appeasement of himself, of his character, of what makes him 'he'. The reason of his lowliness, of the unwilling to be different, and yet, the love of life he shares with himself, and the uncorrupted purpose of his stature. Blood.

He smiles, but once more, he is disappointed, and he forces himself out of nature, his hand sweeping the flaxen strands that smell like the earth, that covets nature's children. A failure, once more, and again, a unvarying indulgence of his placement. He sighs. No.

It is as simple as finding fulfilment, like the satiation the babe has after suckling at the milky-white bosom, a life-giving necessity for all who live on. Not because they wish to, because they will, or they will not.

Yet there is hope. The chanting ceases and the blood runs high, drips low, and smells rusted and mouth-watering. He smiles. He has time.

His mother's milk, offered every once and a while, enters him and nourishes his thirst for advancement, the everlasting search for utter peace, total absolution, and final reason.

The hunt has only begun.