Fresh Short Story: The October Mare (1)

Crushed the stalk of rosemary between her nails, sucked the odor into her nostrils, rubbed the oil onto her fingers, tossed the stalk onto the ground. A gust caught pine needles and spirited them onto the sidewalk, carrying the thick scent of wood smoke. Ash and electricity danced together beneath the pale blue sky, through which whorls and giants of white clouds trudged. She cut beneath a patch of grass, burrowed into the soil, felt slight moisture from yesterday's rain, caressed an earthworm that was not enjoying the change in temperature, and resurfaced as an ant-- or no, a crow. The crow launched its body into the air and alighted on a power line. A beagle rounded the corner on a leash, scuffed and snuffled through Indian corn leaves. She said, "Aghk!" Several trees away, another crow ignorantly answered. It was beautiful to be alive again.

A gossamer shroud of peace lay over this place. No human bodies to maggot, no gunfire to dodge. The ivory tower of middle-class America. Middling America. Meddling America. There is something like me, she thought. So there's probably something else. She meant an existence outside the understanding of science and general human knowledge: a thing that people would call supernatural. Every fall, she experienced loneliness upon resurrection and struggled to console herself. It cannot be denied that every creature recognizes its own kind. Keep a cat, a parrot, a dog, a child, and a rabbit for years -- then add another cat. Whether the cats grow to like one another or not, they will recognize instantly that here is another them. No matter how closely the parrot befriends a cat, it can never be a cat. It can never play with it as cats play. This is how she felt.

She shook off the loneliness and took wing. The wind rustled through her feathers, colors passed beneath her -- roofs, trees, people, gardens, cars -- and freedom thrilled her body. They are not me, but I am all of them. She landed in an oak tree as a squirrel, skittered down the trunk, played a game of digging through leaves until she found an acorn to nibble. Another squirrel ran up to squabble with her, and she engaged briefly before racing back up the tree. Go on and play, she thought. Just play and play. She barked down at the other squirrel. Work would come.

"A small coffee." She handed the cashier something that was not money, but that he took for money. "To go." She left a seeming $5 tip, then sat for a moment with her paper cup. Wearing black jeans and a stylish grey jacket, she noticed a woman at nearby table glance at her not without amorous interest, and smiled to herself. The body she had formed was a very attractive man. Sometimes she chose to be ugly, but right now she was having fun being an energy in the world. Look, look, go on and look! She left the coffee house. Love was not for now.

It was late September, the fall equinox in the north. A bead of fire appeared, and like a dragon manifesting rose smoke from an old man's tobacco pipe. The coffee jittered her insides. She had over a month until Halloween; this year, more than ever, she felt the fire to use it. She would play, yes! But only until, hm...the beginning of October. Then would her work begin. Until that time, she meant to be a child in a playground, a dog in a park, a variety of lovers; anything and everything her heart desired in this anodyne place.

One day, she spent hours bumbling over logs and under leaves as a humble beetle. Another, she hunted for insects as a woodpecker, banging her brains. She spent an entire day sleeping as an owl, feathers delightfully fluffed. Away from the forest, she seduced men and women, limbs languidly thrown over sleeping lovers. This pocket of the world was so sweet and simple, barely aware of anything outside itself. She could understand the hatred for it, and felt some herself, but it was also difficult not to love, when life flowed so calmly and easily.

When she woke on October first, sadness weighed her down like a night hag, but she rallied to assume her duty with sharp focus. "Where are you going?" the lover asked.

"It's time," she replied, and was gone.

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aole i pau