"Sway"- Submission for 'City in a Wild Garden' Dec. 31, 2019

The wheelbarrow rattled softly beneath its load of compost as Reese pushed it over the broken asphalt. Her arms were starting to shake a little after all those loads back and forth, but this was always her favorite part of the day. Most of the deconstruction was finished, and she could hear the fading rumble of a truck hauling scrap off to the recycling center. It pulsed beneath the peaceful music around her. Melodies of chatter and laughter drifted out of rooftop gardens. The birds that crossed the ribbon of blue above her harmonized and crescendoed.

The music faded as she entered the chill shadow around her destination. She felt her stomach drop. It always made her uneasy to stand so close. There weren’t many buildings this tall left in the city, but apparently this one was safe. Her breath caught as she watched the sunlight shift slightly on the remaining glass. The building was designed to sway like that; Ms. Lopez had promised. It made it stronger somehow, and all the tallest buildings were inspected periodically. But no matter how many reassurances she got, she couldn’t help but think about how much stuff was piled up above her head.

Reese dumped the wheelbarrow into the massive composter at the base of the skyscraper.  She eyed the fading light and judged she had enough time to help a little more. She grabbed some work gloves and loaded up two big buckets with soil before heading for the stairs. Through a gap in the wall, she nervously scanned the sea of empty windows over the rooftops of the building next door. They didn’t seem to be moving. The building must be still now.

As she dumped the buckets out and started walking back down, she realized how frustrated she felt. She hated this fear and confusion. Why make them all ready to tumble down on top of us? She paused on the staircase, summoned her determination, and started to climb up. She had only helped with the gardens on the first few floors so far. The floors left to go wild were technically off-limits without supervision, but… The stomping of her boots echoed upwards.

She stopped at the tenth floor, her heart pounding. Rubble blocked her path. In the dim light that trickled in through the cracks and ivy, she made out an arrow pointing out. She followed it to a ladder snaking up into the shadows of a huge room that took up three floors. Something scurried into its burrow, knocking loose some debris as it fled. Probably a fox, she thought, or opossum. She left whatever it was in peace as she found the staircase again.

The sound of water trickling let her know she was close. The rainwater reservoirs way up here let loose occasional waterfalls that dribbled from floor to floor. She could hear croaks and buzzing from beyond the doorway. She peeked out at the mossy ponds sitting among the swaying reeds. The dying light reflected shimmering bands on the walls. As she watched, she felt the building sway beneath her feet. Water sloshed towards her, soaking her feet. She jumped up the steps and sprinted up the last flights.

What little breath she had left was taken away by the unobstructed view at the top. The entire front wall was gone. Far beneath her, the setting sun painted pinks and yellows across the landscape in parallel strokes. In the shadows, lights twinkled between rippling leaves and branches filling windows and yards. Through the haze the trains rolled past, coming and going like waves on the shore. Beyond, beneath the horizon’s peaks, she could just make out the wild herds that flowed like streams across the valleys. There was just so much, all at once, atop this mountain made from human hands.

Her eyes found her school, the market, the library… and her block, flickering like a candle. There was a bonfire tonight. Although she could see people on the street walking towards it, she couldn’t make out any details. Everyone looked the same from up here.

There was a sudden chorus of chirping behind her. An eagle had landed on the torn ceiling above a nest full of chicks. It watched her, and ruffled its feathers as it shifted. Reese took one last long look over her shoulder before she headed back down the eyrie of steel and glass.

Girl Beneath the Tree

Girl Beneath the Tree

I dance; your song sways me, a leaf on a tree.

My hair falls around my shoulders in waves

That shine with all your favored tones.

I sing; your visage fills me, pools of clear water.

My eyes foresee your coming and picture you,

Gleaming with the colors you love.

I laugh; your words thrill me, a swirling zephyr.

My fingers long to run through your hair

And pull you close the way you like so much.

I sigh; your troubles agonize me, a steady hearth.

My hand aches to hold yours as we walk our path,

Traveling beside you the way you need me to.

I groan; your body ignites me, an untamed blaze.

My mouth waters at the thought of you as close

And as passionate as you wish to be.

I wait; your absence defines me, an ever-changing entity.

My essence lives in you, biding its time,

Until you find my final definition.

-D.M.D.M. 4-28-06

The Power of the White Man

We discussed the difference between race and ethnicity in one of my classes today. For those of you who don’t know, I teach 9th grade English and high school theater in Harlem.I had asked them to, in at least two sentences, respond to the following question: “What words do you know that have the same literal meaning, but different feelings or associations behind them? Explain the difference in feelings and associations between the two words.”

Most of them didn’t understand the question. I gave them my prepared example: dog, pup, and mutt. I had already mentioned the lesson was going to be about connotation and denotation to some, and one of my students had already brought up her frustration with people mixing up sex and gender before I had even started the lesson or handed out the slips.

When it came time to share out people’s responses, sex and gender, unsurprisingly, came up. The student from earlier responded that “Those words have different definitions”, and soon the requests for phone permissions came pouring in. We Googled the definitions, and then I started a list on the board of words people THOUGHT had the same definition. Race and ethnicity came next. We Googled their definitions as well.

One of my students read from her phone while standing at the front of the class. “Race: a competition betw- shoot, hang on…” I honestly can’t remember if she cursed or not. I have recently stopped caring. But it took her awhile to find the definition she was looking for. Interestingly, the Google app doesn’t list that definition unless you click for further definitions. The version we used and actually discussed was from Cliff Notes, because she chose to scroll the links instead of click through the confusing UI:
“Race: The term race refers to groups of people who have differences and similarities in biological traits deemed by society to be socially significant, meaning that people treat other people differently because of them.”

At this point, I wrote on the board under “race”: “social” underline “construct” underline. (This is important because about 60-78% of my teaching is stagecraft, and I feel the timing and rhythm is important.) They asked me what it meant, and I asked the student to repeat the definition again, and then repeated the most pertinent part myself: differences and similarities in biological traits deemed by society to be socially significant, meaning that people treat other people differently because of them.

We then defined ethnicity. Google had this one ready:
“Ethnicity: the fact or state of belonging to a social group that has a common national or cultural tradition.”

We discussed how ethnicity only has to do with biology, but at least one of my students still disagreed. He was the senior who was retaking the class. I actually was really happy when he transferred in for the spring semester, because he was smart kid who I already knew from teaching theater. I believe he said he had it first period freshman year, and he just missed too many classes being late to school that one semester in freshman year. (Many students in NYC have to get themselves up and out of the house on their own, or with the help of an older sibling, because their parents already left for work. Still blows my mind.) He asserted that race was a biological fact.

Someone suggested that we do Agree/Disagree/Unsure. I quickly agreed because I love making them get up and move around, and I jotted on the board “Race is a social construct”. I had the senior state his claim- Race is a biological fact. The freshman girl took up the other side, and after some prompting for clarity, took the claim that “Race depends mostly on the perceptions of other people.” Most of the class stayed one the yellow Unsure side at first, while most of those left gathered around the freshman girl under the green Agree sign. A few boys stood with the senior under the red Disagree sign, and some openly stated they were doing so “just so he wasn’t alone”.

I won’t try to recap their debate in detail, because the unfortunate fact is that when many of these beautiful moments I have to have one eye on the rest of the class, another on the door, an ear on the hallway, another on the phone, all while keeping in mind the best pedagogical practices, my contract, the Chancellor’s guidelines, each child’s individual needs and family history, and how much of my own money and unpaid time goes into supplying and maintaining my classroom. In addition, their words belong to them, and were spoken in the context of a classroom where most of my students have known each other since kindergarten. Even if I could dutifully recount each and every word, you won’t understand their context. Some of you because you won’t even try to consider it (very tempted to name names here, because you DON’T know who you are), and others because they weren’t meant for you.

Suffice it to say, once both students had their say, most moved to her side and agreed that race has more to do with the person observing that the person being observed. Even the senior sheepishly admitted that she had gotten him to reconsider.

The reason for this anecdote was to give context to a question I was asked in class that I could not definitively answer at the time. During our discussion, I broached the topic of eugenics, and those that tried to treat race like a biological fact. When I introduce a new concept like this, I usually Google it and scroll through the images to give students a good idea of the concept I’m trying to convey, rather than write a meticulously detailed lesson plan on a seemingly unrelated topic (Yes, the other 12-40% of my teaching is essentially knowing how to Google). The image I selected was labeled “The Existing Facts of Human Ascent” and showed a tree that depicted the general skull shapes of humans and their ancestors across time. Along the side showing “Living Races”, the skull labeled Caucasian rested the the peak, which the chart indicated the the position of highest intelligence. Below that was a Chinese skull, then one labeled Hottentot (which we had to Google on a phone because the smartboard was in use), and a final one labeled Australian. I made sure to tell them that this likely meant native Australians.

This led to a discussion of how Australia was once inhabited by people who had lived there for thousands of years and developed their own culture before white people came and took it over. We watched this video and I drove home the point that people have continuously tried to make the argument that one race is superior to the other, but each and every time their point is disproven.
One of my students, someone who is usually a class clown and a goof but can say some incredibly insightful things when I can catch his attention, asked me “Why do you think white people took over then?” I looked at him, looked at the clock, and shook my head. “I actually… iron? Gunpowder? I’m not sure.”

Having had time to reflect upon it, I think I have the decent answer as to the true power of the white man: obliviousness. Pure, unadulterated privilege. It’s the cultural equivalent of trying to break into a building by just walking in the front door holding a clipboard and looking like you have a purpose. Maybe our reading of Things Fall Apart is influencing me too heavily, but it seems like most of human history is white people just barging in and doing their own thing, and then wondering why everyone is mad at them.

Sometimes, I do chafe a bit about being held accountable for the sins of all white men everywhere. I don’t feel like I own the sins of Columbus or Cortez or Nixon or any of the others that knowingly began systems of oppression and exploitation. However, I cannot and will not blame anyone of color for looking at my face and not being able to see past my whiteness. I have spoken with way, way, WAY too many white people who ask if I “teach in a… safe? school?” or ask if they think my students would do better if their parents weren’t… you know. Many of them have never had a substantive conversation with a person of color, and many grew up as Baby Boomers, and established themselves in the 80’s, the era of greed and Reagan. Many times I have spoken with them, despite knowing full well that many of them were not known for being open-minded or willing to admit their own mistakes, faults, and flaws, let alone those of an entire group of people who have differences and similarities in biological traits deemed by society to be socially significant, meaning that people treat other people differently because of them. To be fair, I know way, way, WAY too many people (myself included) who participate in systems and practices that are they know are unsustainable, unhelpful, and unhealthy. But the anger and neurological reactions that underlie discussions of race make it difficult for people of any age to accept that all people are created in vastly unequal situations. Which, white folks who are angry and yet somehow still reading, is one of the many reasons the questions like “If we’re all supposed to be equal, why isn’t there a WHITE History Month?” make people want to yell at you. I will be more impressed by the runner that ran the mile with weights strapped on her back than the one actively trying to exterminate her and her whole family, even if she doesn’t get the fastest time (I may have lost the analogy there, but the image in my head is worth it.)

So what’s the antidote to the power? What’s the white man’s kryptonite?

What’s the opposite of obliviousness?

Work in Progress

After a long, dark, lonely night

I raised my face from weeping

And I stared at that adversary

In the mirror

“What do I do?” I begged

Nothing you can do, he sneered

You’re too weak and too small

A mote in the eye of God

Crying in the night, about to be

Crushed

“What do I do?” I screamed

What have you done? he snapped

Nothing but rail and wail

At the cold and heartless world

What can you accomplish with

Tears

“What do I do?” I growled

You’ve failed so far, he sighed

What hope can you have?

Every glorious campaign turns out

Wrong

“What do I do?” I seethed

What’s wrong with you, he spat

Why can’t you get through

As all the others do?

You are shameful, your soul is

Broken

“What do I do?” I raged

And I reached in and tore

Him from his feet, cut myself

On shards of distorted reflection

And hit him with all my strength

“What do I do!” I cried

Eyes full of fire and fury

As I choked his vile throat full

With my trophies and conquests

And stood above his crooked form

Triumphant

After a long, hard, savage night

I raised myself from fighting

And I stared at that light

On the horizon

-D.M.D.M.

Jonathan Cooper

The goodwives had mixed feelings about Jonathan Cooper. He came to town once or twice a fortnight, set up between the market and the well right underneath the big old oak, and sold what he had managed to trap, gather, or salvage whilst on his wanderings in the woods. This was no different than some of the other young men of the village, mind you; most of them second or third sons of fathers who barely had the acreage to give their firstborn enough acreage on which to scratch a living. Peter McCaffery in his long thick boots did a brisk trade in beaver and otter pelts, and Matthew Sheehan peddled fruit and nuts from a certain hidden glade that many fancied was just the Widow Mac Donagh’s untended orchards on the other side of the river.

No one, not even Mary Walsh, could find fault in his manner and bearing either. While Peter was a quiet, humorless man who refused to haggle and the young Sheehan leered and hollered from the doorway of Hanlan’s pub, Jonathan would always have a smile and greeting for everyone that passed through the square. Many a folk had stood over his blanket of assorted wares and poured out the sadnesses and successes of their lives while Jonathan Cooper nodded along with his weathered forearms wrapped ‘round his knees.

His crooked grin would break apart in laughter for every breech-born bovine, and his brow would furrow for every ailing bairn that couldn’t shake that nasty cough, even with great aunt Rose’s special tea practically pouring out the child’s ears. The children loved to hear his stories and tales of long ago and far away, and although the parents would shake their heads at the outlandish yarns, they’d always give their wee ones a knowing look when the hero triumphed due to his courage or kindness or cleverness. More often than not, folks would move on smiling a little brighter after passing Jonathan Cooper when he was in the market, no matter if they did mutter about him over the fences and hedges later on.

Brenna knew Jonathan Cooper had walked under many moons with many maidens. Callie McTavish told her of how he and Aileen Prendergast’s cousin from out by Ballyglass had whispered promises to one another in the Old Way, with blood and earth late at night on the heath. Bridget O’Shea, Winnie Callaghan, and a few others had passed tales around about his sly looks and murmurs over the flagon’s at Hanlan’s. A wink of the eye and a roll of the hips was all the took to catch the gaze of Jonathan Cooper, and that was a fact.

Brenna knew Jonathan Cooper was a rascal and a rogue. Mary Walsh had seen herself how he had bandied boasts with Bradan Campbell the blacksmith’s apprentice and left the lad with a face as red as the coals of his master's forge. Father Patrick told the whole congregation- and her mother eyeballing her the whole sermon as though to make sure she was paying special attention- that the old tales of Cú Chulainn and the Tuatha and all the rest were the wicked lies of the Devil, and that folk that infected the minds of children with such heresy and had not stepped into church since time out of mind were sure to roast in hellfire.

Brenna knew what was said about Jonathan Cooper, and she could not bring herself to mind any of it. When she walked past him in the fountain square surrounded by the squeals of delighted children, her ear turned to hear the gravelly voice he used for his ogres or her eye sought out his expression as he described how he had found the latest half-destroyed trinket he swore was part of a Norseman’s funerary hoard washed up on the pebbled shore. They had exchanged pleasantries on occasion, and when their eyes met she fancied she could see his snapping with interest like the silent thunderbolts of a distant storm.

Yet try as she might, Brenna could not manage to speak at length with Jonathan Cooper. At Hanlan’s he moved easily from one table to the next, listening with his crooked grin to someone's tale, or sharing a more ribald story than those he told the children. He stayed for a night of drinking only occasionally when he came to town, and she had never been able to do more than make him laugh with a clever joke before he moved off. She was no Winnie Callaghan to trail after him all night with laughing eyes and parted lips. If a man could not tell she fancied him- not that she really fancied him, since she barely knew him, and besides she just wanted to see how much a rascal he really was- then she was not about to make a fool of herself in front of the whole village.

If a fool she was to be, she would much rather the sight of it was between her, Jonathan Cooper, and the Lord. So Brenna kissed her father on the cheek one morning, asked him if he would like mushrooms in his stew that night, and set off into the forest to help put food on the table. She knew of a particular savory patch of penny bun out past the bridge around the mountain. She knew also that Jonathan Cooper typically came over the bridge around the mountain when he came to town, and that Jonathan Cooper rarely missed a whole moon’s worth of market days. Brenna knew many things, and listed them to herself as she walked up the road, basket in hand.

She knew the lands for leagues from her home. She knew the way over the millpond; which rocks would slip and which would stay, where the hidden shallows were. She knew every nook and cranny of the hill she and her siblings claimed long ago, and held against invasions by McTavish and Walsh, and once both at the same time. And she knew of a few secluded spots that, as far as she knew, only a few other people knew of as well, including one out past the bridge around the mountain, but there are many coincidences in life.

She knew what grew beneath the boughs and roots of the woods. She knew which ink caps would dissolve before you got them back and which would make you throw up on Hanlan’s floor after your first sip, like what killed that tinker last summer. She knew where the wolves ran in the winter and just how far the bear would travel from her den in search of her cubs. And she knew that penny bun grew scattered all over the place past the bridge around the mountain, and that it would take a few hours to fill the big basket she had brought that day to make the walk worth it.

She knew how to kiss as well as she knew how to punch, and had given the bruises to prove it. She knew where to find the best slingstones and how to dress a rabbit, although she gave the hides to Sean to cure. And she knew she was almost as tall as Malcolm and quicker than everyone in town except Peter O’Brian and the Leary sisters, and more than a match for Jonathan Cooper in case he decided to do something unfriendly out past the bridge around the mountain.

Brenna had almost filled her basket twice- she had been careless, you see, and knocked it over the first time- before Jonathan Cooper walked down the road towards the bridge. His coal-black hair stuck out from under the cap on his head and dangled in front of his eyes, which were sometimes brown and sometimes green and were at this moment somewhere in between as they flicked to her and widened slightly. He stopped and ducked his head, yanking on the brim of his cap respectfully. Brenna thought she saw a hint of unease on his face before he was staring at the ground, but when he lifted his head again all she saw was his crooked grin.

“Afternoon Miss Gallagher,” said Jonathan Cooper. “Didn’t expect to be seeing anyone this far out of town.” He hitched up one broad shoulder and grasped his rucksack with both hands, which made the muscles of his bare forearms bunch up under his skin.

“Good afternoon, Jonathan Cooper,” Brenna replied with a polite smile, keeping her traitorous hand from rising to her throat. “Thought I’d gather some penny bun to put in the stew. There’s some good ones out here.” Jonathan nodded. There was a moment of silence, filled only by the breeze in the oaks above them. Jonathan Cooper shifted his feet and kicked a rock with his old and travelstained boot. In the quiet, the clatter of stone on stone sounded like Doomsday.

“Well I’d best be getting on into town, what with it getting late and all. Might be able to sell a few things before it gets dark,” said Jonathan Cooper. He glanced around the woods behind her and hitched his rucksack up again. “Are you out here all by your lonesome?”

“Jonathan Cooper,” Brenna said, lifting up her chin, “I have been running around these parts long before you ever showed your face in town. There isn’t anything out here I can’t handle on my own.” His eyes widened again as his grin slid down his cheek and he yanked on his cap.

“Uh, of course you can Brenna… pardon the disrespect, certainly didn’t mean it like that… just meant to say, or I was going to say rather, that, if you didn’t have someone here with you, and you were heading back to town now, we might walk in, ya know… together,” he said. His crooked grin perked back up, and his eyes twinkled. “Iffen you want to, of course.”

Brenna managed to keep her chin up and his expression detached, despite her stomach leaping up to her heart. She gave Jonathan Cooper a wary, warning eye, then looked down at her basket and around the glen. She stepped off the verge and bent at the waist to pluck a few more penny buns from the crook of the oak’s roots. She turned around quick as she dropped them in her basket, and could find no leer or evil look on his face.

“I suppose,” said Brenna, and she began on down the road towards the bridge. From behind her came the casually hurried sound of boots scuffing against the dirt, and then Jonathan Cooper was walking beside her.

Brenna wasn’t able to keep up a cold front for long. Jonathan Cooper began to describe what he had in his rucksack and who he thought might be willing to spend a shilling or two on which item. He made her crack a smile when he spoke of the trouble he had gathering blackberries out by Clooncundra, and when he told her of how Keiran Finn promised him two pounds for brooklime and wine to clear up Saint Fiacre’s curse she almost spilled her basket again in laughter. He had an uncanny ability to mimic the people she had known for her entire life, copying their tics and quirks flawlessly without being unduly disrespectful. Soon her own wry remarks had Jonathan Cooper laughing as well, and they had tears in their eyes and stitches in their sides for most of the walk.

Much too quickly, they were back in town, and Brenna bade Jonathan Cooper goodbye in the market while she went off to her home. She was humming and twirling as she entered the cottage, kissed her father once on each cheek, spun her mother about the kitchen, and even swept up her little brother in an uncharacteristically sisterly hug. The stew tasted delicious, and she blushed and giggled when her father said that she would have to walk out past the bridge around the mountain again. Her good mood was so infectious that they spent the rest of the night telling tales and singing songs around the hearth, and Brenna went to sleep with sore cheeks from so much smiling.

The next morning, while they were fetching water from the well, Callie McTavish told Brenna that Jonathan Cooper had spent all night at Hanlan’s in his usual manner, but his eyes eschewed the scandalously low bodice of Winnie Callaghan in favor of the front door. Callie McTavish said that Jonathan Cooper had eventually shambled off early to the boarding house, his head hung low, looking over his shoulder the entire time. Brenna just smiled and hoisted her pails.

Once the chores were done, Brenna went shopping in the market, beaming as bright as the sun. Every fishwife and farmer had a smile for her, and she saved a farthing or two with Mister O'Houlihan and Mister O’Brian, who were just happy to hear her laughter bursting from her throat. Jonathan Cooper was set up in his usual spot on the edge of the market, and Brenna caught his gaze with hers more than once as she wove through the stalls.

Her basket full, Brenna walked towards the old oak tree. Jonathan Cooper was entertaining the Fitzpatrick boys and Elaine Murphy’s brood while their folks went about the market. She sat down on the edge of the fountain and listened to the tale of clever shepard and the greedy king. She too jeered at the greedy king when he demanded the shepard turn over his entire flock, joined in with the bahing bairns to keep the greedy king awake for a week, and cheered along with the children when the clever shepard tricked the greedy king into giving him the crown. When the story was over, she was mobbed by sheep and evil kings, and told that Jonathan told the best stories, and wouldn’t he please tell the one about Fionn MacCool? Before long, Elaine Murphy and Sybil Fitzpatrick were sitting besides Brenna, their baskets and bundles at their feet, whispering and laughing to one another while Jonathan’s face got redder.

Finally, the mothers dragged their children back home to get on with supper, leaving Brenna alone under the old oak tree with Jonathan Cooper. His face was still red from the sly looks and giggling, but Brenna’s dazzling grin quickly put him at ease, and soon they both sat behind his blanket filled with herbs and trinkets, discussing which versions of the legends they knew best, and how he thought of his own stories on his long, lonely trips between towns. When Brenna got up to carry her basket home, Jonathan Cooper bid her farewell with a wistful smile that turned jubilant when she asked him if he would be telling different sorts of tales at Hanlan’s tonight, as she was thinking of going, but only if the company was good. As she walked back home, Missus McTavish gave her a knowing smile and a shake of her head as she packed up her stall, but Brenna was too lost in writing her own stories to notice.

It was quite late before she got to Hanlan’s, but the look on Jonathan Cooper’s face when she walked in made the hours spent brushing both hair and dress worth it. She had worked for months gathering dying herbs for Peter Tierney in exchange the fine verdant cloth that was the rich color of hazel leaves under a summer sky. Her fingers still stung from the many weeks sewing by candlelight, especially the damn goldenrod braid that ran along the top. She had intended to save it for the Mayday festival, but she had finished it just the other night and needed to see how it fell and hung anyway.

Hanlan’s was packed that night, and by the time she walked in Jonathan Cooper was sitting at the fireside table with what seemed like half the village. He was listening to Colin McGrath loudly tell for the hundredth time about the white elk that he swore he almost brought down near Ballinaglea, and jumped in with a jest as Colin took a swig. Shawn Kennedy smiled and said something as he gave up his seat to Brenna, but she couldn’t catch it while Jonathan Cooper launched into an animated telling of Cú Chulainn and the playing field of Emain Macha. Colin McGrath tried to finish his story once King Conchobar put a stop to the brawl, but the others shushed him so Jonathan Cooper could continue with the tale of Culann’s hound and how Cú Chulainn got his name. He stalked the floor and growled and howled, throwing himself into the telling with a fervor none had ever seen from him before. Eventually the only sound that could be heard was the crackling of the fire and Jonathan Cooper’s voice, filled with guilt and regret as Cú Chulainn pledged to protect the smith’s house until a new hound could be reared.

There was a moment of silence, and Colin McGrath opened his mouth once again, but to everyone’s relief Jonathan Cooper began to tell of Queen Medb and her insatiable appetites. Soon Hanlan’s was filled with laughter as he wove his way amongst the tables, choosing patrons to represent each man as they attempted to satisfy the lusty Queen. A few of the drunker or more good-natured seven even got up to mime their collective efforts to please her. He was so clever and ridiculous as Medb that even those that at first looked furious to have their manhoods mocked were roaring with laughter when Jonathan Cooper chose old Jarlath Slattery as Fergus mac Róich and worked ‘herself’ into hysterics over his virility.

Amidst the hooting and hollering following his performance, Jonathan Cooper grinned his crooked grin appreciatively, took a bow, and proposed a toast to the mighty Fergus. Brenna felt as though the room melted away as he returned to his seat, his eyes, now bright green, flashing as they met hers. She congratulated him on so fine a telling, but said that she had heard the story of Medb and Fergus a bit differently. As her voice sunk low in the telling, the others at the table began to cough and turn red, then elbow each other and loudly announced to no one that their mugs needed refilling. Jonathan Cooper edged his way around the table, and they sat next to each other in front of the fire telling each other stories of maidens taken by the daoine sídhe and passionate, forbidden love for hours, their flagons slowly going flat, untouched.

The moon was full and huge behind the trees when Hanlan kicked them out of the common room. The air held the pregnant promise of a new day that comes after midnight, but neither Brenna nor Jonathan Cooper were ready to lay down their heads. She took him down her paths through the woods, her feet falling where they had for years whilst his caught on roots or stones occasionally. She slid her hand into his to guide him, and they walked close and slow so that she could catch his body against hers when he tripped. She led him through the brush dappled with moonlight to the hill that seemed a mountain fortress to her as a child, but now was a rise that gave an excellent and private view of the starry sky. They lay next to each other on the sward atop the hill, and pointed out the constellations that figured into the tales they had told.

Eventually Brenna lifted herself up to look at him. “Jonathan Cooper, you’ve told more stories today than I think I’ve heard in my entire life. But I’ve yet to hear the story I’ve wondered about since I’ve met you. Tell me your story, the story of Jonathan Cooper.”

The sleepy, contented smile on his face vanished, and he sighed as one does when waking from a pleasant dream. He shook his head, chuckled ruefully, and said, “I’ll tell you that story if you wish, but I do not think that it is a story you’ll truly wish to hear,”

“If I tell you my story, you will find out I am just a man, with no magic about me but what I can conjure up with my mind and my words. I can make pictures in your head and take you to other worlds, but it is as fleeting as the breeze. I cannot move mountains or speak the language of the moon.

“I am no faerie prince nor Cú Chulainn come again. I have most likely failed as many quests as I have fulfilled. I may fall prey to disease or despair, and I have done things I regret, and may do more. I am but a man who itches when walking the path laid out before him by another, whether it is train of thought or life ahead, who would rather claw his way through bog and fen and the fury of Manannan mac Lir than live the same life as everyone else.”

Jonathan took a deep breath and looked away into the trees. Brenna saw the moonlight shining on his face and sliding down his cheek. His chest began to rise and fall in rhythm with the swaying of the leaves.

“Come with me, girl. I swear to never make you walk where you wish not to go, nor stay with me any longer than you desire. I cannot swear I will never hurt you, but I can swear I will strive to repay any debt I incur threefold. Come be wild and explore the world with me, my dear. Let us trust no one’s word about the world but our own, see as many things as we can before anyone else, and do the things these people only dare to dream.”

Brenna didn’t speak at first. She could barely think. The entire time she had known him, Jonathan Cooper had maintained a collected demeanor, never losing his temper or shedding a tear, even when he was in his cups. To see him now, with his soul laid bare before her, felt so strange that at first she could not completely comprehend what he was saying. He laid there with his hand out towards her, looking for all the world as though he was expecting to be struck down like Culann’s hound. She felt her face grow hot and tight, and he looked away and pulled away his hand, beginning to rise. She caught it and pulled him down to the ground.

“You daft man. Do you think me some empty-headed tart, to think that the handsome stranger who comes to town is Angus mac Og made flesh? I’ve heard the tales and seen you dally with other girls, and while I’m no Winnie Callaghan I’ve tumbled my fair share as well. I too have made mistakes, and fie on your if you think me such a hypocrite to expect perfection when I am not perfect myself.

“I know enough about you to seek out your company, and do it publicly, without a care to what others might think. I know you’re kind to children and animals, confident without being boastful, and you move me to all sorts of places with your words. I know you don’t lead a common life, Jonathan Cooper, and that you are but a man, and that is why I sought you out. Now are you going to kiss me or not?”

The goodwives had mixed feelings about Brenna and Jonathan Cooper. Although some at first spoke disdainfully about girls that ran off with wild men, Brenna’s mother would have a quiet word about the virtues of not speaking ill of others lest other speak ill of them and their various sins that everyone knew about but were too polite to mention. Anyone in their cups enough to sneer loudly about what might be happening to Brenna in whatever far-off town she was in would quickly find her three brothers leaning their elbows on his table and grinning wolfish grins, asking him to please elaborate on his theories.

But no one, not even Mary Walsh, could deny that the wandering life agreed with Brenna. When she returned on market days, sometimes with Jonathan Cooper and sometimes without, she always wore a wide smile and bore a boisterous laugh. The children loved when they both came to town, for they both sat behind the blanket beneath the old oak tree and told their tales, and none could walk away without their own smile and their own dreams of what may be.

-D.M.D.M 1-24-2016

Chase

    I smell a mouse.

This first moment is arguably the best, most exhilarating moment of the entire chase.  The first, elusive whiff of the quarry dancing across my nostrils, the sudden rush of sensation as the spoor fills my nasal passages and almost overwhelms my mind with information, the lingering hint of taste at the very back of the tongue…  It’s enough to paralyze me with anticipation.  That is until I feel this flood of energy wash down my spine, shooting down my limbs, coiling in my haunches, pushing me off the bed.  No true hunter can resist the allure of the hunt.

    The faint sound of scuffling and scratching reaches my ears.  My quarry is trapped… that is unfortunate.  My paws flash over the ground as I accelerate out of the bedroom towards the increasingly panicked squeaks.  There will be no chase, but the kill will be just as satisfying.  It’s so fulfilling, tasting its fear and then its blood… Every sensation is full of exhilaration: the rush of air over my long, elegant tail, the sense of weightlessness as I dart quickly and quietly across the carpet, the flow of my muscles beneath my silky, ebony fur.  This is what I was born to do.

    My feet bring me to the source of the sounds: the space behind the fridge.  The linoleum touches my belly as I slink into the shadows, eyes wide and ears twitching.  So close now, and it is still unaware of its impending death.  Since there will be no hunt, I will just have to make the play last longer.  Lingering out of sight, I let my scent travel ahead of me.  I would hate for it too die of fright so quickly.  Haunches coiled, my tail flickers as I prepare to launch myself around the corner…

    “Chase, get out from there!  You’ll get all dirty.”  Hands grab me around my waist and yank me into the air.  My claws flail awkwardly in front of me as I am robbed once again of the satisfaction of the kill.  Two boney arms crush me against a buxom mass of sequins and glitter.  Somehow, I manage to find enough air to howl my displeasure.  My face is almost crushed against the side of the refrigerator as Kristen leans down to peer behind it.

    “Oh God, Matt!  Matt Matt Matt!  There’s a mouse caught on the trap!  Matt!”  Out of the kitchen and through the living room we go, bouncing and running, everything below my shoulders dangling in a very undignified manner.  I’m being jostled so much that I can’t get my claws up into her arm like I desperately wish to.  Now we go into the bedroom, where Matt is getting up from his computer.  Then back through the living room, following Matt, still dangling, and back into the kitchen.  My shoulders are beginning to hurt from bearing all of my weight.

    Matt pushes the refrigerator aside and gets down on his hands and knees.  I can tell that Kristen is very anxious because her arms are slowly making it more difficult for me to breathe correctly.  I try squirming out of her grasp, but she simply juggles me around to another, equally uncomfortable position.

    “Well?” she asks, bouncing with nervousness.  Matt has slid the trap out from behind the refrigerator, and is looking at it.  The way he is poised over it, you could almost imagine he was some sort of furless, mutated cat.

    “It’s not dead yet,” he says.  Of course it’s not dead yet.  It’s a square of sticky paper; hardly the deadliest of Man’s great creations.  Again, I am bounced rapidly as Kristen whines in anxiety.  Why won’t she let GO…

    “Just get rid of it!”  I have an idea: give it to the cat.  Cats are quite good at getting rid of mice.

    “I don’t want to just throw it out while it’s still alive…” Picking it up, he stands and turns around.  The mouse, my erstwhile meal, is plastered to the paper, its whole side stuck down like some sort of macabre bas-relief.  Its little chest is heaving, and it’s emitting so much fear that I can’t help but lick my lips.  I finally manage to escape Kristen’s suffocating clutches and drop to the ground.  I twine around Matt’s legs.  Drop the trap.  Drop it.  Give it to me…

    “Well just DO something with it!  Get rid of it!”  She holds the last word out for a few seconds and warbles with frustration and fright.  Matt looks around the room.

    “I dunno… like… we could smash its skull with a mallet…”  

    “MATT!”

    “It’d be better than starving to death in the garbage!” But the brain is the best part!  I stretch up and hook my claws into his jeans.  Matt shakes me off.

    “Stop it, Chase.  This isn’t for you.”  What!  I’m the one who found it, you ingrate!  Your poor little rodent would be withering away to death right now if it weren’t for me!  Just let me have it!

    “Aren’t mice allergic to chocolate?” Kristen asks.  “Like dogs?  Maybe we can just give it some chocolate…”  I have to turn and stare up at her.  You can’t be serious.  You’re going to feed it.  Amazing.

    “I think that’s rats.  Besides, we don’t know how much it would take to kill it.  We could just make it really sick.  And it may not eat anything we give it since it would smell like us.”  Oh come on!  You don’t want to torture the mouse, but you have no compunctions about torturing the cat with all this talk of food and feeding!  He moves towards the stove and opens the oven door.  

“What are you doing?”  Yes, what are you doing, Matt?  I hope you don’t plan on cooking it.  I’d prefer it alive and juicy, thank you very much.

    “I’m going to gas it… my neighbor caught a mouse in the oven once and killed it this way.  It’s really kind of disturbing and creepy, but I can’t think of an easier death for the poor little guy.”  Alright, fine, I promise to make it quick.  I won’t play with my food.  I make one last jump for the trap as Matt lowers it to the oven rack, but I’m pushed away.  In goes the trap with the mouse stuck to it, the door slams shut, and Matt turns the knob.  A slight hissing noise fills the room.  I peer through the little window.  The mouse soon begins to twitching rapidly.  It spasms a few times, then lies still.

    What a waste.  What’s the point of having a cat if you’re going to put down traps and kill the mice yourself?  My tail twitches in annoyance, but in the pit of my stomach I feel uneasy.  This kind of death is unnatural.  It’s not right, somehow.  Nothing about this situation is right, come to think of it.  This is not what nature intended when it designed sleek hunters, such as me, and small, crunchy, tasty treats, like that mouse.

    “Oh God, take it out before it burns…”  Kristen’s voice is hushed.  Matt twists the knob back and opens the door.  The smell of the gas turns my stomach so much that I lose my appetite.  I mince quickly into the living room and up onto the armchair, curling around and watching the two humans through the doorway.  Taking the mouse out of the oven, Matt peers at it closely.

    “Well, it’s dead now.”  He walks across the room, out of sight, and I hear the door open.  There’s the sound of the garbage can lid being raised and dropped, then the door closes.  “I feel sick.”  Kristen scurries over to him and latches onto him, burying her face in his arm.  “I think I’m going to pick up some humane traps tomorrow.”  Humans… I lay down my head and close my eyes.

***

    When I awake, I am still hungry.  I can smell the canned, metallic-tasting mush sitting in my dish in the kitchen.  It will have to do.  I ooze down off the chair and make my way to my dishes.  The food bowl tastes faintly of soap as I lick it clean.

    Having satisfied my stomach, my box in the laundry room is my next stop.  I do my business there, shake off my paws, and slink off to find a warm spot to lie in.  About this time of day, the best place to go would be the sliding doors back in the kitchen.  I curl up on the rug inside the doors and bask in the sun’s warm rays.

    Outside, the wind blows the trees gently, making their branches sway back and forth hypnotically.  I ponder the designs the wind creates in the leaves and the wide expanse of lush green grass, lost in the process of determining a pattern to the seemingly random array of curves.  After an indeterminate amount of time, I feel myself approaching a conclusive order to the gusts of wind when a flurry of wings and brightly colored feathers drops into my view.

    There, on my porch, stands an arrogant little robin.  He jerks his head around, surveying his rest stop.  As if his tiny speck of a brain could comprehend anything other than food and danger…  The robin hops over to the trail of ants traveling from the garbage can next to the door to a tiny crack in the foundation on the other side.  The ants scatter away from the shadow of the avian menace.  Down comes the beak of the robin on an ant, and then another, and then another.  The robin is soon hopping back and forth in front of the door, gobbling up as many of the insects as he can.

    I, meanwhile, am furious.  Not only does this bird mock me by totally ignoring me, but also he flaunts his hunt in front of me so soon after I am denied a kill.  I stalk back and forth behind the door, following the damn bird, my haunches tight with the killer instinct.  Gone are the thoughts of peaceful green waves.  Now all I want to do is break this robin’s neck.

    I need to find someone to let me out.  I run out of the kitchen and through the living room, darting to the first door.  I can smell fresh air, and hear the wind.  Someone has left a window open!  Into the room, up on the couch, over the plant, onto the shelf, and out the window I go.  Jumping silently from the windowsill to the railing of the porch, I spot the robin, still mindlessly pecking away at the specks moving all over the porch.  My body flows down off of the railing, and I stalk my prey from behind the garbage can.  I coil, and wait.

    As soon as the robin hops into range, I pounce.  My body explodes from the crouch and rockets through the air towards my prey.  Seeing me, the robin reacts, leaping into the air and spreading its wings.  But it is too late; my claws are already hooked in its tender flesh.  Its body is pinned beneath my paws, and I can feel its heart as it beats frantically along with the now-broken wings.  Between the thrashing about and the anguished screeching, it takes me a moment to contain my quarry.  The robin nearly gets away from me a few times, but I finally trap one useless wing beneath one paw and press down on its chest with the other.  I lunge, and my teeth sink into its throat.  It dies almost immediately, its blood flowing into my mouth and over my tongue for a few seconds before its heart stops beating.

    I feel amazing.  I have never felt so alive.  I can feel every hair on my body tingling with excitement and sensation.  Carrying the bird back behind the garbage can, I gnaw and nibble on it.  I don’t get much meat off of it, but it feels so good to eat a fresh kill.  After I finish with the bird, I lick its blood from my paws.  Each drop intensifies my fervor.  I run full out down off the porch and into the garden out of sheer exhilaration.

    I hide beneath the flora and try to make sense of my racing thoughts.  I can’t go back inside now.  My tongue scrapes over my lips and I find new traces of blood.  My hackles rise and I feel my haunches coiling involuntarily.  I need to run and leap and hunt!  Without any further contemplation, I rush off into the woods.

    I dart between the trees and flow through bushes and undergrowth with barely any noise at all.  A gully suddenly opens up before me.  I leap across without any hesitation.  Brambles choke the path before me.  My lithe body avoids each and every thorn as I pass through.  I am a mighty panther, absolute king of my domain, undisputed ruler of everything I survey.

    I jump to the top of a fallen log, and my eyes fall on a monstrous beetle waddling along the rotting wood.  Tremble, mortal, as I am your lord and master!  You live and die by my whim!  I swat at the beetle with a mighty swipe of my paw.  The insect stops and braces itself, freezing in place.  I bring my head down low and look it in the eyes.  We lock gazes for what seems like ages.  Finally, the beetle capitulates and turns away.  I sit up smugly and watch it amble away.  Wise move, beetle.  Wise move.

    The wind carries the scent of some rabbits nibbling at the grass a little ways away.  I leap off the log and stalk closer to them.  I wend my way through the undergrowth.  My tail trails behind me, held low.  Prowling close, I see two rabbits hiding in the tall swaying blades and shoots.  My hunger is sated from my earlier meal and the robin, but I can’t help toy with these ignorant beasts.  Taking my precious time, I pad closer and closer until I am practically on top of them.

    The wind changes, and suddenly the rabbits smell me.  In the time it takes them to raise their heads in alarm, I burst through the grass towards them.  They scramble away, darting in differently directions.  I deliberately give chase to the faster of the two.  My surroundings are secondary to me now, a mere afterthought.  All I see is the panicked form of the fleeing bunny.  My eyes lock on to the cottontail and never waver.  

I run until my breathing becomes heavy and labored.  I slow to a stop and stretch out, flexing my claws and yawning wide.  The rabbit disappears into the undergrowth with a rustle.  Today, he has known mercy.  Lucky for him, I have appeased my hunger for the day.  He will live in sheer terror of the stalking, potent predator that pursued him today.  Luckily, nature has taken pity on these weaklings and given them short memories.  He will most likely forget me as soon as he finds something tasty to nibble on.  As I regally groom the dust from my coat, I realize how late it is.  I should return home before it gets dark.  I begin to trot back home, making my way out of the woods.

…But, I say to myself, why go back?  I stop short and sit, tail coiled around my feet as I ponder.  There’s nothing for me at home.  I can find my own meals.  I need none of their human amenities.  I am beyond domestication.  I’ve gone feral.  My place is to be on my own, now.  Those two waiting in their safe little house are no use to me anymore.  This is where I belong.  Goodbye, Matt.  You were tolerable.  Goodbye, Kristen.  Learn how to hold a cat.  Hello, wonderful new life.  I curl up beneath the roots of a tilted oak tree and fall asleep quickly.

***

By the time I awake, it’s beginning to get dark and my stomach feels empty again.  I am unconcerned; it should be no trouble finding a meal out here in the wild.  I prowl around a bit, sniffing the air and ground.  The multitude of scents is a bit bewildering… I follow the scent of a chipmunk for a while, one that smells quite young.  I recognize its scent from the cellar, as small animals frequently found their way in through the broken window.  With some difficulty, I track it to a tree stump before I realize I am no longer following the scent of a small chipmunk, but rather a large hedgehog.  I backtrack and try to find where one became the other, but I am completely turned around.

Giving up on the chipmunk, I find another, unfamiliar scent.  It reminds me vaguely of rabbits, but smells bigger.  It twists and twines around trees and underbrush for quite sometime.  I am just about to give up in exasperation when I step into a pile of bloodied leaves and bones.  Rabbit bones.  I sniff at them for a moment in confusion, and then pick up the scent of something big and vaguely doggish going away from the carcass.  I had not been following one trail, but two.  I bat at the bones in frustration and then leapt on one as it rolls away.  Some other creature dares hunt in my domain!  Were I not so hungry, I would hunt the offender down and make him- I sniff again at the trail- make her pay for her trespass!  My stomach rumbles again to remind me of just how hungry I am.  Perhaps it would be better if I just sat here and waited for something to come by.  I settle down beneath a bush and wait to pounce.

    I wait.  And wait.  And wait and wait and wait.  It becomes quite dark before I hear so much as a rustle.  My stomach snarls at me to hurry up.  Then the leaves on the forest floor begin to stir and crackle in intermittent spurts.  I tense up, my hindquarters raised in the air.  Finally… there’s no dog-thing to steal my meal from me this time.  I can’t see it, but I can smell it- a prey animal, from the ever-present hint of fear- and I can hear it.  I wait still longer, ignoring my aching stomach.  Finally I can hear it land right in front of me.  I uncoil and pounce…

    …only to land on the biggest squirrel I’ve ever seen.  The critter explodes into a frenzy of chattering teeth and claws and big bushy tails.  I have no defenses against this whirling devil.  I fight back as best I can, but I am totally bewildered by its speed.  My soft, silky fur is ripped out in patches, my beautiful tail is bitten and bent, and my pride all but dies.  I somehow get all of my feet beneath me and sprint away.  Close behind me, the squirrel chatters and chitters angrily, staring at me with bulging demon eyes.  I have to get escape!  The gates of Hell have spewed this monstrosity into my woods!

    I dart across a small clearing, and leap up the trunk of a small tree.  Ah HA, devil-squirrel!  You cannot pursue me anymore!  I will regroup in the safety of the foliage and the wreak havoc upon you and your kind!  I cling to the rough bark and peer down over my shoulder.  There is no sign of the squirrel on the ground.  Yes, that’s right, rodent!  Fear me, for I am Chase, king of this land, and you have greatly angered me!

    I look up as rustling moves the branches above me.  And what’s this?  A bird, most likely, and a nest!  My stomach growls in praise of my choice of strategic retreat locales.  I am just about to cautiously and carefully climb the tree further when the leaves part and the head of the devil-squirrel pokes through.  There is a horrible moment in which his vacant, soulless orbs lock with my own.  Time seems to freeze as two adversaries wait in tense silence.

    Without warning, the squirrel launches itself at my face and latches on.  I fall backwards off the tree trunk, spitting and flailing and twisting in the air.  I claw and yowl at the demon.  Its teeth are locked on my ear, and its nails are driven into my tender, handsome face.  Proving the old adage wrong, I land on my side.  The shock of the hard ground shakes the devil-squirrel loose.  In a flash, I regain my footing and streak away, yowling and wailing all the way to my yard.

***

    A few days later, I mope into the kitchen.  I gaze gloomily at my empty bowl.  Kristen must feed me by hand for now.  I lie down awkwardly on the mat, the giant, stiff cone around my head making it difficult to find a comfortable position.  The night of my exile from my domain by the demon, Kristen and Matt brought me to the vet.  As if my shame were not great enough, they sought to punish me for leaving them.  The veterinarian slid needles into my body, and painfully pulled at and stuck my battle wounds.  Whatever he did makes them itch like mad, and I ache to gnaw at them and lick them clean.

    My tail snaps in anger.  I cannot even groom myself properly!  Every night, I must be captured by Matt and battle him as he attempts to submerge me in the tub.  It is such a vile experience I can barely stand to think of it.  He doesn’t get away unscathed, though.  His arms are bandaged quite well from the first time he tried to do it.  Now he wears gloves and a heavy coat.  At least I’m getting something good out of it, even if it is just Matt’s flesh.  My eyes drift shut as I think of the vengeance I will wreak on their precious furniture when I am restored to full health.

    A scrabbling on the gutters rousts me from my slumber.  I lift my head to stare at the ceiling in confusion.  The sounds are frantic-sounding and come in short bursts.  Perhaps some addled pigeon has gotten stuck in the leaf-trap.  The sound stops and there is a series of light thumps as something lands on the lid of the garbage can and then falls to the porch.  Getting up eagerly, I peer out the edge of the door.  Maybe I will get to watch something die slowly and horribly.  Maybe a chipmunk tried to eat a screw or something and it’s choking to death on it!  That would really make me feel better.

    As if by magic, the devil-squirrel Himself appears from behind the garbage can.  The sight of my mortal enemy so close to my holiest of Spots, my Warm Mat in the Kitchen, terrifies me beyond belief.  I take off for the bedroom.  The cone catches the air and makes it difficult to see or run straight.  Two thick legs clad in denim come from nowhere, and I find myself tangled up in them briefly.  I extricate myself and run into the bedroom.  Behind me, there is a loud, floor-shaking crash.  I hear Kristen cry “Matt!  Are you alright!” and an answering groan, but I pay it no heed.  I head for the space under the bed, between the extra comforter and the boxes of knick-knacks, where I can only hope to be safe from the demon.

    I am suddenly brought up short as I try to dart beneath the box spring.  The cone!  The blasted cone prevents me from escape!  Frantically, I run around the edge of the bed, trying to shove myself to safety.  Nothing is working!  I hear angry words from Matt in the living room.  Oh no!  The devil-squirrel must have found a way in, and Matt is foolishly trying to stop it!  If I can’t defeat it, what hope does he have?  In desperation, I turn around and back into the darkness.  My cone still prevents me from true refuge!  With a massive tug, my collar of shame pops past the metal frame of the bed.

    Safety!  Except… my head is stuck at a very uncomfortable elevation.  I try to move it, but the cone is wedged tightly against the floor and the boxspring.  I can’t even move back and forth much, as I am trapped between the comforter and the knick-knacks!  I yowl in terror, thrashing about and ripping the comforter to pieces.

    Through the thin dust ruffle, I see Matt and Kristen’s feet.  The demon must have lost my trail and given up.  Matt kneels and lifts the ruffle to peer in at me.  He has to fumble with the silky fabric due to his bandages.  His face is tight with annoyance as he takes me in.  We stare at each other for a moment, me in terror, him in anger, before he looks up at Kristen.

    “We should’ve gotten a dog.”