... ..scent of a girl ....January 20, 2004   Winter.  Sunday night.  The streets are dark and lifeless, necrotic arteries in a small southern town.  A thin drizzle feels warm as blood.  Spring is early, but I am late, late for my appointment with The Silverback.  I know to be late is to brew bad medicine. Making up lost time, I slither along back roads until I reach his elevated lair.  A cloud of gray mist has descended like a velvet curtain.  Against a moonless night sky, I glimpse the great beast, or at least I think I do.  His shyness is, itself, fierce and his furtive movements a cause for concern.  I leave my car and, of course, I bear an offering. "Enter, my friend." It is a voice yet faceless in the foggy night.  I step forward with care.  Those who startle The Silverback wake up dead. The Silverback has lived long and alone without loneliness and without boredom.  He is a being and, by his code, he must be.  I am; therefore, I be's bein'.  That is how he once explained it to me.  I recall this as I follow behind him, his gray-brown mane swinging like a metronome.  Once inside, we climb stairs until we reach the throne room.  When he is seated, I sit. "Sit," he says. I am sitting.  Can he see? "Ah, so you are.  Sitting, that is.  What have you there?  In your hand.  Is it a gift?  It should be a gift, I think." The Silverback sniffs the air and presses long, bony fingers against his sinuses. "Yes," I say. "It is a gift.  It is patchouli incense and an incense burner made from slate.  It is from Pier One." The Silverback smiles and studies the offering.  Then he speaks. "You are a man, but you are as thoughtful as a girl."  previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

©  2004 by the beastmaster