Twombly and Lota
"S'nots me feets dat's aching, pebble." He wiggled his bony little rump over the rise of her spine and grunted, "In facts, if'n yer not minding, 'owsabout we pause a spell. Twombly needs ter stretch a bit."
She padded off the path and settled near a drooping willow. Here in this part of the marsh, willows were everywhere, swaying and sighing in the breeze; almost dancing in it. She settled abuptly and the little demon tumbled from her haunches. He cursed vigorously. She ignored his protests and sniffed at the night air. It was a windy dark night, night like velvet above the canopy and with the fullest moon this year. Round and bright, it lit the night as though day. She curled her toes into the earth and raised her muzzle to howl.
"Oy, oy! Wutzall dis racket 'bout!" Twombly plugged his fingers to his ears and grimaced, looking around, then up, having to sway back to see all the way up at the moon. Lota ground within herself, stone upon stone, and she poured out a howl richly resonant. When she finished, she licked her chops and dropped into a pose like a sphinx, feeling deliciously alive. Twombly unpopped his ears. "Yappin' ats the big moon like a bloody cock at dawn," he pshawed it all away dismissively, "I oftin wonders if youn ever once were trewly Hound to the Vicar hisself as yew claim." He huffed and rubbed his bottom with both hands, kneading the life back into numb flesh. The demon doubled over at the waist and he leaned this way and that. He hopped about on one leg and then the other. He puffed his cheeks with exertion. Lota crossed her forelegs to watch him stretch, still buzzing and warm inside.
She had indeed been one of the Vicar's Hounds - not his favorite, nor his most cunning at sport - but she undeniably bore the mark and she could still dimly recall the press of his soft hand to her head. Prey cornered and wet at the end of the chase. The rush of power. And the tempering press of his soft hand to her head, approving of the hunt.
Fresh winds gusted about them and the willows rustled secrets to each other, dancing and serpentine. She was here in this marsh, under a moon that dazzled, with her silly little protector and the mark still blazing on her face. She was alive and far, far from the Kennel and her mind was her own.
Twombly hummed a little tune to himself and had just finished a set of refreshing hip thrusts when his travelling companion then howled again. He picked up his pitchfork and leaned against it, contemplating her and scratching idly at his beak.
He had found her, inert, abandoned, toppled over among the ruins and hardly worth a second glance, crudely hewn as she was. Over the years, robbers had long since plucked the obvious and choice remnants of glory; the gilded and glazed baubles. Finer statuary had been carted away, but Lota had lain abandoned for ages. Untouched and dimissed, she was simply too crude to matter. Once a traveller had used her side as a low bench, another had skinned a rabbit upon her flank. Once a thief had buried a gold coin beneath her, smugly certain of his hiding place. In her prime, when the hunts were regular festivals, she had been adorned with flowers, painted and polished.
And then one raining grey formless day, Twombly staggered into the ruins, ragged and torn. He was followed by hunters of his kind. But they were "hunters" in name only - not like the Vicar and his fine men. These pretenders had real fleshy dogs that were useless in the rain; barking, clumsy, stupid tools. Weak from his wounds, Twombly lurched over to where she lay, inert and abandoned. With his fork he pried her up and fell into the shallow space dug beneath her. And there he bled the blood of one chased, not the blood of one caught. It roused her after countless years and she gnashed her teeth and flared her sigil much to the surprise of all around, beholding her in the mud and rain.
She was Lota, one of the Vicar's Hounds risen, and she had the scent of prey upon her.
She waited for the horn to signal the chase, but it never came. There was no horn, and there was no soft hand at her nape. Only grey rain and shocked pale faces, a small demon dying in the mud and the braying din of inane dogs that mocked her station. She had no guidance, and so the first decision she ever made was to destroy this hunt, for it was blasphemous and pathetic. They all fell quickly to pieces and tatters.
But then there was still no horn and no soft hand of approval. She was lost and had to think for herself. Her second decision was to shelter the prey from the rain.
Twombly recovered, and proved himself to be a creature of honor. She had saved his life and so he pledged his existance to serve as her protector. He felt no awe at her mark. He knew nothing of her time. When he felt he was being charming he called her "pebble", and he was vaguely annoying. It was his hunted blood that had roused her, and so it would be his death that would surely return her to endless torpor. She would never mention this to him.
"Lets us be off, den!" He said and vaulted onto her back. He hitched his heels at her sides as if it mattered and she turned into the wind, catching the scent of water ahead, perhaps a lake? a river? She felt sure that towards water lay answers and it had been pulling her in this direction for days now. She could feel Twombly squirming on her shoulders, dancing and humming to himself as usual. It was some jaunty tune in a language she did not know, but his high spirits made it amusing to hear.
Up ahead, through the gloom and blown branches, she spied pinpricks of light, a few at first, then a multitude.
"Twombly," she whispered and then paused, holding perfectly still. Immovably still. The demon had fallen asleep, but he roused and rubbed his eyes, peering up over her head.
"Mngrk? Whussut? I muster dozed offs. Are we ders, yet?"
She didn't reply but held her pose and watched the lights sway and bob up ahead, drawing closer. Torch light, it seemed, perhaps there was a village nearby. Perhaps more hunters. She strained her ears, ears that could hear the pounding fear in a sparrow's heart from a thousand paces. Only Twombly's snorts and ragged breathing. He squinted through her ears and the fires grew closer.
"Ho now, Lota! Me thinks deres gon' be a treat fer us'n tonights!" He cackled sharply, much to her surprise and drummed his small hands on her forehead. She shook him off and looked again. The fires were closer now, spread wide throughout the wooded marsh but as silent as ever. Bobbing up and down as though held high.
"Ow! Whutchers do dats fer?" Twombly sat up in the mud, speckled with it and moonlight. He hopped to his feet and raised up onto his toes to see into the distance. He licked his lips.
"What do you mean? I don't know what is approaching, should we run?" She meant this for his sake, fearing nothing herself, but uncertain of her ability to protect him against an unknown threat. The demon glanced at her then seemed to understand, his little face splitting wide with a grin. He slapped his thigh.
"Aha! Howsbout dat! Whut? Haintcher never fore seen a swoop of fire ducks?" He cackled and danced around in a circle, brandishing his fork. He jabbed and twirled with it, plucking invisible targets from the air. Lota flickered an ear and looked again.
Indeed, what she had previously thought must have been torches held high were instead, inexplicably, a flock of ducks on fire. Silent ducks, at that. Moving slowly in broad formation, they flapped their wings in a rhythm that seemed to have no bearing on their actual speed. She ran ahead to meet them, followed by Twombly who was tying a small handkercheif around his neck. He chortled behind her.
"And 'ere me finkin every sot'd know bouts fire ducks. Even littluns know th'tune," he burst into a wandering tune, scuffling close to her heels.
Charred cinderfeathers of soot and black.
When the other ducks all fly down south,
Ashes, ashes go in my mouth.
By now they had reached the first of the birds. They were ghostly and silent as the grave. They flew overhead at a snail's pace and there were thousands of them, all moving in unison. Lota sat to watch the procession, marvelling. The fires did not illuminate, the birds gave no scent.
"Are they spirits?" She asked, suspecting. Twombly couldn't exactly answer. He had his fork in his teeth and was busy climbing up a nearby tree to get closer. Upon reaching a likely branch he spat out his weapon and stepped awkwardly out onto the swaying limb. He held his fork before him for balance and gingerly made his way. He talked as he moved, looking down with ernest concentration.
"Not sactly, pebble. Sees, story as were told t'me issat once dere was dese two duckies, madly in love and all dat. Newlyweds or summint likes dat, dunno. And soes th'one duck says to th'other, 'Oy! Let's boo to dis migratin bollocks and stay 'ere fer th'winter. jess youn me, cozy-like.' And the other duck says, 'Oh chickiechick, we'll freezes our arsesses off, we will. But I'll stay if you stay.'"
Twombly had tip-toed out as far as he dared, clinging from stem to jutting stem tightly. The branch bucked and swayed in the breeze. Looking over the passing, flaming fowl, Twombly seemed to be searching for something in particular. Lota wagged and listened, enjoying the strange tale and the sight. She also stood ready to catch her rotund little friend should he fall, which seemed increasingly likely the futher out he kept creeping.
He continues, "So dey stays put when winter comes. Alla other duckies hightail it south but dese two. And o'course it gets icy and alls th'food runs out. Love don't heat empty bellies! Meanwhiles dis foxfeller shows up and he's sniffin round hungry and such too. He sees th'two lovebirds out trying to scrounge up green grass. He says, 'Hoo, yew duckies! What're yewsall doin stills here? Tut tut, come to me home and I'll keeps yer warmern yer motherns eggy womb.' And so th'one duck says to th'other, 'What a nice chap he is, innit? Let's get outta dis nasty weather, yes?" And the other duck says, 'Oh chickiechick, he'll eats us alive, I jess knows it. But I'll go if you go.'"
Twombly squat low and held his balance on the shifting limb. He scanned the ducks intently, but Lota could not discern what he was looking for; they all looked the same to her. By now, the flock overhead had spread throughout the woods as far as she could see, like silent floating lanterns.
"Does the fox kill them," she asked, wagging and enjoying the rare spectacle.
"Patience, pebble," the little demon replied, brandishing his pitchfork. He pumped his legs and swung the branch in a grand arc towards an oncoming duck. The bird made no notice of him and Twombly leaned out like a whaler at the bow, casting his polearm. The prongs sunk into the bird and it poofed into a cloud of ashes and embers, engulfing the demon briefly. He sputtered and flailed, keeping his balance, but gagging fitfully and tangling his limbs around the branch. Lota chuckled and he scowled, embarassed. In moments though he was back on his feet, pushing the branch into another arc, and riding it near to another bird.
"The foxer gennelman takes th'two to his den and shows thems th'kitchen. 'Into here,' he says, and he opens the oven door, 'Into here ands yewl be toasty in no time.' Blahser, blahser, dem duckies chat it out. One wants to go in and reckons all dere prollems are good as solved. Th'other is more wary but still follers along. Next thing dey knows, CLANK goes the door and up comes the flames.'"
Twombly rode the branch in a dramatic arc, sweeping past the duck and jabbing at it. It fell to ashes as well but he managed to dodge the soot this time. Immediately he was already working his legs on the branch to swing it to the next target.
"Then they died," Lota said. Twombly nodded, his eyes fixed at the end of his fork.
"Oh aye, dey perished, poor critters. But th'shame of it don't ends dere, nawp. The foxiefox weren't no good in the kitchen afters all and he went and ruint his supper, burning those ducks to char whiles he napped and dreamed, drooling." The demon laughed and struck down another duck into ashes.
"How dreadful," exclamed Lota. "And what does any of that have to do with these things? There are so many here, more than just two, how can they be the ghosts of those two ducks?"
On a clumsy strike, Twombly lost his balance and fell, wailing. Lota snatched him into her jaws just in time and set him down. He dusted himself off, and gestured at the mass of birds. "Well, ifs yew look, y'll see dat ittaint a dozen different birds, but th'same bird over n'over. Dat derns the ghost of th'agreeable one. But dey're alls smokes and dust; not fit t'eat. But somewheres in this mob is the restless soul of th'dippy one dat gottem inter dere troubles in th'first place. And dat one's sposda be succurlent n'juicy under aller black."
"You mean you've never caught it?"
"Nawp, but I heard tell of some folkses what have. It'll be th'one bird movin diffrintly from th'rest. And it's said dat catchins it brings good lucks for th'winter!"
"But there are thousands here."
"Ayup, but nows dat we founderit, we gots all night to sorts out the meaty one. Dese mobs last fer hours!"
In the morning, both were covered with soot. Lota had a mouthful of bitter ashes, and eventually Twombly did too. Having become frustrated with using his fork and he then hurled himself bodily at the spectres. They never caught the duck they were after, and they awoke still as hungry as ever. But they had enjoyed the night and the bright full moon.
Related images:
Page Information
|
Wiki Information
|
Recent PBwiki Blog Posts |
Create your own free wiki!