Hunt beneath the moon – Vânătoare pe sub Lună
What Moon reveals, oh, Lord..
Hunter, game, all die on sword
Lord, what does the Moon say?
Hunter, game, all is prey…
Doamne, ce ne’arată Luna?
Vânător, vânat sunt una…”
We’re in the old tavern, waiting for the hunter to finish his brandy and tell one of his stories. We must pump to his full if we want something out of him. For us, the brandy is cheap. As cheap as the air we breathe. And we have time to spend. Plenty of time.
Here, the hunter: slim, tall, odd looking face, covered with wrinkles, an ugly man with stained cloths and tangled whitish hair. So we sit to his table and offer him a pot with that yellow brandy, mixed with honey and kept in mulberry cask, with staves smoked in oak-leaves fume. He looks as if he sees through us, and asks:
- Who the hell are you?
I’m a hind, a good subject for a hunter. Subject before the arrow comes, object after the arrow would have nailed me in death. On hunter’s back I would have been carried, in the market he would have brought me, to treat the dirty mouths of the townsmen with me.
I’m a hind, I said. Back to my home. To his place, I’m an interesting, even fascinating, creature. Long, nervous legs, strong thighs, slender shanks, narrow hips but beautifully curved, a virgin vagina in which anyone would spit the semen in less than a minute. Long ruby hair covers my shoulders, my breasts also, breasts not too big, neither too small, firm ones, let’s say, with big nipples, breasts that worth dying for. Or for which it’s worth to write ‘Song of Songs’. These are for anyone, the hunter included. But I carry within me the hind.
We point the clay pot where the brandy is waiting. He drinks without taking the eyes off of us. Chokes, coughs, wipes off his muzzle with the filthy sleeve which, our senses say it, still carries blood stains. From somebody else, maybe another hind. Or maybe another game. One of the reasons we are here is to find out what sort of game does he hunt. And, it’s well known, what else can make a man speak if not the brandy?
Another sip, another stare. And yet another question.
- D’you hear me … Who the fuck are you?
We smile. What to tell? How to tell it?
- Do you want a name? I’m … Klearinth.
- That’s not a name, he said.
Not at all. He’s not looking for a name. He’s only sniffing, like beasts. He’s sniffing us; he wants us, but who, in that pothouse, who wouldn’t? Somewhere, somebody is playing a violin.
- You’re one of the Master’s whores?
- Would I have been allowed to stroll alone all around the town? We turn back the question.
- What do you want from me?
- It is said that you hunt…
- I do, he nodded.
- What do you hunt?
A sip from his clay pot, and then again, the filthy sleeve over the muzzle.
- Anything.
We close the eyes. His words are hurting us. Anything, means our sisters, too. So here we are, sitting at the same table with the hunter: hind-woman. Herds, smaller ones, bigger ones, harts leading us, harts defending us, harts loving us. We are happy, because we don’t think of death. We think only of our pastures, our calves. We think of cooling rains and silky snows. Of cold springs, of forests where we hide of heat. We are a form of paradise. That’s how God made things. We are gentle and pure.
That’s one thing I don’t agree with. Maybe we forgot the reason for which God made us. Not to be hunt. But to live in His Glory. Not to be killed by men. But to take care of the world. That’s how I consider. Klearinth is a name, invented by my womanly thoughts. In one thousand years it may be a toothpaste brand. In an advertising, on a TV. That’s how people think. But I don’t like it this way. That’s why I’m here, now. To accomplish an order.
He didn’t even notice for how long we’ve blinked over his words. Or maybe he’s only pretending not to. He’s quick, and he may sense something around him, maybe our smell, woman smell. Or maybe he’s sensing the hind.
- So you’re not belonging to the Master? To whom, then?
- To nobody.
He has finished the brandy. He would ask for another one. We would give him another one, if we should. He leans over the table.
- I saw you as you entered the bar, he says. Nobody looked at you. As if you wouldn’t be real… You came to my table and sat beside me, with no fear and no shyness. You bought me a drink. You ask me if I hunt, when everybody knows that’s what keeps me alive. You’re not from the mansion house, I would have heard of you, one way or another, you have a strange name … Even now, as we talk, nobody is watching us… I should be worried, isn’t it?
We would consider more brandy. Let him drink, let him forget his fear and remember his stories.
The world sees me. Only me; the Hind is carried deep down, well hidden. The world sees of me as much as I want and the way I want it. Nobody will come to ask me who I am and to whom do I belong, nobody will come closer as long as I don’t want to. No common people can see the Hind. Excepting, of course, a hunter. Like this one, here. But even he can barely see a thing, the brandy blinds his senses and, by all means, he’s not expecting our individuals to rush over him. He’s only worried. Thus, let’s give him some tranquillity. Let’s give him brandy.
- You used to be a warrior, we try to make him speak after another pot of brandy is offered.
- I’ve reached as far as Jerusalem, he sighs. I was young, I hadn’t even have idea of women, at that time, when I left… I was in the old Master’s suite, may God rest him in peace, I had to ran behind him all the time with a bunch of arrows, he seldom used the sword, he liked the bow because, he said, he can’t stand the stinky smell of Saracens… He put the bow in my hands. With him I hunted for the first time. And with him I’ve found out what despair and what death the women are…
He gives us a grinning face; the brandy is swinging in him, wet and coarse.
- And that’s why I have always chosen the whores, he follows, they only ask for money… or something to eat. Sometimes they pay back in scratches and smarts… but these are better than the chains that any other woman would hang around your neck!
- You said you’ve been as far as Jerusalem, we turn him back.
- I’ve been out there, I saw the fortress, I swept away the Saracens, I’ve been there for two years… it wasn’t such a big deal. Some of us died, others did not. I was one of those who came back. Me and the old Master. He managed to live just enough to craft the young Master. After his boy was born, he kicked the bucket. Some say that that fat sow, his wife, she poisoned him… he, he, that’s why whores are more…
- To Jerusalem…
- What the fuck do you want with that Jerusalem? He shouts back.
He leans over the table, catches a nipple and holds it tight until we have tears in our eyes.
- What is that you want to know, he whispers, who sent you, what do you know that you keep on asking me?
- It hurts us! We’re whining.
He lets us go, sniffing the air; we hide as good as we can. We dislike pain, another reason to be here, close to the hunter, to ask him, to find more, to see how much he knows.
- Your mug looks Jewish, he said, wonder if you’re not coming from there… although, you seem to be young, you hadn’t been born when I was there … or… you don’t think I can be your father, do you?
And he bursts out laughing.
- You might be old enough… thirty years ago I got to know Saracens, as well as Jews…
- I’ve never been to Jerusalem, we reply. But I’ve heard many things about the city. About those who have been there… plenty of things. Especially about a book… Don’t mind I’m so dark skinned, as I’ve been burnt by the sun, my mom’s sons got angry and named me to take care of the vineyard… but is the vineyard of my beauty I didn’t take care of… Does it remind you of something?
- I don’t know anything about any book, he says.
We didn’t have the slightest doubt he would admit it. We see him searching for his blade, under the table. We see him as he opens its sheath; we see all these, but he doesn’t know. We see everything we want. And we also know he doesn’t like to fight by blade. He prefers the bow, as he was taught. Because, when he lets the arrow go, he can’t see the eyes of the game. He doesn’t look into the eyes.
- I can’t read – he’s lying. Can you?
- I’m not your daughter. I’m not what you think of me – we’re trying to avoid the question.
He jumps, pushes away the pot with brandy and presses the blade to our neck. And here, our story could have had an end.
Outside, on inn’s wooden walls it was getting dark and rainy; inside, tavern’s customers were getting talkative and dizzy, smashing clay pots, cheering over brandy or wine. Yet, there weren’t many women around, most of them, already hot-headed, have allowed customers to milk them; they sniffed around, or simply wanted a screw, out of which they may got something. Money, maybe. Or maybe a kid. Whatever. Hunter’s gestures didn’t get unnoticed. Two peasants watch us. Because we wanted it that way, of course.
- You can slash me, if that’s what you want. But what for? People would catch you, and tomorrow you’d be hanged. And, even if you manage to get lost now, you’ll be an outlaw, a runner hiding all over the county; sooner or later you’d wish you were dead… you’d be a game… searched for, wanted, sought, with no shelter, you’ll become the game you’re killing now. I’m sure you hate that… so put the blade back… Do it!
He obeys. Our words were enough. But we know he’s planning to kill us. That’s why he smiles.
- Nothing can keep me here, he says. I’ll leave… wanna see? I’ll get out that door, I’ll disappear in the night, no one knows my den but you, maybe, only … if you’d be a witch… that’s what you are, a witch? Will you come after me? Will you follow me?
He’s stirred. We didn’t want that. We didn’t think it’s going to happen. We were wrong. But we have an excuse, it’s for the first time we’re talking with a hunter. Different kind, taking into consideration all the peasants we’ve been with, up to now. He’s like us, in a way. Savage. He lives out of our flesh.
- I didn’t want that, we say to him. I didn’t want to scare you… you’re afraid now. But I’m not scared of you. I’m just a woman. Of course I’ll follow you. I’ve walked all the way here only to meet you. I don’t want to lose you now.
He prepares to leave, he hangs the bag to his shoulder and gets to the door, oddly, he’s almost walking backwards. That’s when we want every one to look at him. Faces turn to him, emaciated skins, drunkards with wet eyes, whores whose beauty didn’t set only hid away, hungry good-for-nothing people, dirty merchants filled with pride, meek people. Nobody sees us. Because we don’t want it. That messy crowd looks at him as if he has just popped out from thin air. Some of them look at him in wonder. Others just grin.
He opens the heavy wooden door. Rain covers him, as he loses himself in the night.
Is it him?
It’s him, the Hind answers. You’ve frightened him.
Shall we judge him more?
You’ve already judged him. He has been to Jerusalem. He lied about the book. Do you need anything more? Kill him!
But he knows nothing. Be merciful, Hind…
Mercy is for kind-hearted and complied people. Scourge is for beasts. He’s nothing but a beast. Worse, he’s a man. And he lied. He has the sin in him, the original sin… Kill him!
He’s going to fight.
You’ll fight, too.
And the Book?
The Hind answers no more. She leaves me in silence. She leaves me with my thoughts, poor woman’s thoughts. The Hind is the revenge, I’m the keeper. The Hind is kind, I’m cruel and merciless. The Hind gives orders, I kill.
We’re getting out not long after. It’s raining heavily. That’s a good night, we consider. Empty pathways. Darkness, barely split by shy beams of light, let go by wooden windowsills. Muddy brooks to our feet, we’re lost for a second, where to look for him? We sense a thin wind in the wet air. We guess for a pathway, hit into a foreigner, smash him in mud and walk further on. We’re on a narrow alley, we throw our rags for being as free as possible, although we’re cold. For the passengers, we appear eerie, misty creature quickly covered by rain. We sense the hunter, somewhere in front of us. At the edge of the town. In a two storeys home. We sense his fear, a thick mark flowing on his path, hardly weakened by the water that pours from heights… We listen to the door, weak sounds coming from inside. We guess a fire, just started; we imagine the room that sees the alley, a huge fireplace, a table from unplaned logs, shelves around the walls, wardrobes all over the room. Stairs hanging from the walls, staircases that lead to upper storeys. Wooden floors, blackened by the oil rubbed on them. And somewhere, among the furniture, the hunter. We hear his whispers.
- It must be somewhere, you must remember.
- You’re stoned, answers back a woman voice. You didn’t give me any book… Go away, you’re going to wake up my man…
- Damn! / Screw him! / What the hell! Don’t you see?! We’ll be dead, all of us, give me the book, you stupid, try to remember where it is.
- I don’t know anything, she lies, I don’t know what book are you talking about, let me, go away, you woke up the entire home.
Noises, at the first floor, a harsh voice of an upset man:
- Who are you talking to, woman?! Where’s my night pot, ‘coz I feel like…
- To no one, go to sleep! She shouts back.
And then, whispering:
- Hide in here and shuddup, don’t say a word! See what trouble you’ve caused me.
Heavy steps, on the staircase, a belch. A rippling sound tells us that the man has found his pot. And then the door opens, and a flat face stares into the rainy night.
- Ugh, whadda weather, he mumbles throwing the liquid on the alley.
Almost touching us, almost seeing us. But we don’t want to be seen. So we steal in, we get close to the fireplace, we hide behind a wardrobe, the one in which the hunter is hiding. We feel him, and we’re sure he feels us, too. Only that he can’t explain what is that he feels. That’s why he is frightened. He thinks he’s terrified. A terrible fear liquefies his guts. In that wardrobe he feels trapped. And all he can do is to hit back. Blindly, no target, no point. In turn, all he wants is to kill, or at least, to scare somebody. He’s only a knot of instincts, he lacks reason. And it’s not what we wanted.
He jumps out the wardrobe, the woman looks at him speechless, so does the man next to her. More, the pot slips from his hand, breaks into pieces, and a foul smell rises from the floor.
- Who the hell are you, and how come you’re here?
He turns to the woman:
- You’ve hidden him there, slut?
That’s all he can say, the hunter has already found his throat with the dagger. He falls over the pot shivers, but he won’t be bothered by that anymore.
- The book, the hunter growls. Where is the book?
The woman stares at him with no expression on her face. She’s beyond reality. No gesture from her as the dagger’s blade is cutting through her chest. We watch the two bodies, horrified. We’re sorry for them, it didn’t came out as we wanted. If we weren’t there, they would have still be alive.
Kill him!
The Book, first, let him find it.
It’s not what I want.
If somebody else finds it, we’ll be hunted again and again.
We will always be hunted, anyway.
Keep quiet, Hind.
- You’re somewhere around, the hunter whispers. I can feel you…
We know it’s not about us, but about the Book. That’s where he’s having the power to hunt us down. To see us, to imagine us, to desire us. He lightens up a candle, overturns an old chest, searches through old wrecks, opens shattered furniture, turns the table upside down, he checks the walls, even the floors, he opens a trap where a dark cellar opens its mouth to his feet. A strong smell of staves, rotten wood, infinite dirtiness, rises from below. He goes down on the decayed stairs, but we wait for him by the fire. He would hear us if we go after him. We know he’ll be back. We’ll decide later.
The Book had to be lost, says the Hind.
We had to take care of it, I remind her.
Lord’s words are in it. All the goodness and the purity of the world are in that Book. All the happiness one can get in a lifetime is written in there. We’re not hurt by that. But because we’re hunt down. Trap him down in the cellar, burn the house, get revenge! He has killed us enough!
Wait, you, Hind.
He gets out of the cellar. We’re thrilled. He has found the Book; he holds it as if a trophy. We consider it’s high time he sees us. And he notices us, by the fire. He gets closer to the stairs. And he sees us on the staircase. Wherever he turns, we’re there, waiting for him. We move as quickly as his eyes. He would hit us with the blade. But he ponders, he knows it won’t be difficult to hit us. Unless we want that.
- If I open the Book, I can kill you, he says. Only by reading out loud. If you let me go I won’t harm you.
- I cannot let you go. We want what’s ours.
He smiles. He opens the old covers made of perfumed wood, scorched now.
You must have killed him before! See what you’ve done, now he’ll finish us, the Hind complains.
He won’t do that, I reply to her. Do you forget I’m woman, too? And he desires us…
- I read about you in the Book. I know your powers, I know your places, armies of cherubim played with you before being put to defend the gates of Heavens. You were the masters of the world before mankind appeared. You wipe away the clouds and chase the storms, you track our dreams, you gather in unnamed forests imagining that you were created to save … the world.
- The kindness and the purity of this world, we whisper.
- Yea, right, you’re kind, merciful and pure, he grins. And what do you get in change? Our dreams… it’s written in here.
He hits the Book, its pages. If we try to seize it from him, he would slash us open in no time. Because, if he only glance at the first word in that book, we would be dead. No one knows my Name. The hind would be spared. And that’s an easy pray for a hunter. He knows it. He’s only playing now. He did it before. With other creatures like us. First, he had us, then he chased us down. There were other hunters before him, also. They played with us. Sooner or later, we had the Book in our possession. And we hid it as good as we could. But it has always been found. And we’ve always been hunted. That’s how things were established, on this world. The Book is found. Because the wood from its covers belonged to the Tree of Life and Knowledge. And the pages were its fruits. But, again, do not forget that the first one who tasted the fruits was a woman.
- You’re a succubus, said the hunter. And it’s in my power to act upon you.
He points to us, to lie on the floor. He throws his dirty rags close to the fire, he keeps the Book open, threatening us with it. He’s going to possess us, the way he did before, not with us, but with others like us. We lie down, we prepare ourselves, we wait for him inside us. And he comes, he tastes us, he sips from us. The fireplace is burning hot, the logs break and sparkle, embers jump all around us. The floor started smoking, hunter’s cloths are catching flames, small and clear flames start dancing around. He tries to set him free, but we nailed him inside us, in our sweet within, he can’t escape us now. The fire touches him and he screams, he struggles to set him free, he lets the Book go, rather throws it, he tries to strangle us, what a stupid thing to do, we’re not afraid of his hands, neither of the fire – it’s only the metal and the words that can kill us. That’s why we are so calm, now. We’re waiting for him to turn into ashes, and then we rise, we get free of his debris, we take the Book and get out in the night, leaving behind us a burning house. Soon, the entire town will be in flames. Little will escape the doom. That’s what we call revenge.
And where are you going to hide the Book?
I won’t hide it. I’ll keep it with me. Go to sleep, Hind…
The Book, out of which we’re not allowed to read, but only to take care of, will stay with us. Will be always with me, in fact. I’m Klearinth, hind-woman, up on a hill, watching the town burning. Up in the skies the Moon gleams. I’ve wiped away the clouds, I’ve chased the storm. I set out, searching for another town to turn to ashes. Or to throw upon it a disease. Or a war. Or whatever they’d desire. Because that’s my destiny, from now on. To own The Life and The Knowledge. That is, The Death.
Traducere din română în engleză de Monica Nicolau
