the Bunny House, the Chicken and the Honey

That same morning, a second children's story was born out of three more Pieces, I was glad to tell it, yet am much happier to see it retold through her voice:

"A lonely little Chicken stood scratting one afternoon in the dust of a large yellow field. She scratted all day long at the same dry spot, for she believed she was a Bunny and was trying to build a Bunny House in the ground, as Bunnies do.

She laboured day and night, tearing her small toes on the stones, but to no avail: each time, after much time, she had managed to make but a small pit in the earth, the Summer wind came and blew the earth back from whence it came, scattering her work out into the mellow flatness of the field. But still she scratted on, by day and night, to build a house to live in, for how else could a Bunny live but in a house under the ground?

Yet another time, and this time more than ever before, she had dug into the ground a full basin of air, just about the right size for her to nestle her body in. But this time the Autumn rains came and where air or Bunny should have been, there was muddy water and dark earth. But still she scratted on, day and night.

And then crept Winter over the field, draping its cape of ice and snow over the ground as it stalked on by. At first sight of the snows the Chicken was disheartened, but then she found, as she bent to move the stones and grit with her beak, that the snows made the land thicken into lumps that could be scratted and picked away with ease! By this time she had become stronger, and worked with the land as five Chickens put together.

In a matter of days she had made a small burrow, which, over the following days without snow, became a deep tunnel with a deep reservoir at the bottom with a chamber off to one side, a small way from the bottom where she could sleep without fear of snow or rain touching her. When it was all but complete, she sat back and puzzled: what was it that Bunnies did once they had built their houses?

No sooner had she finished her hard work than she was wandering out into the tired old field in search of Bunny Houses containing other Bunnies whom she could ask what to do. An hour had passed when she came upon the first Bunny House and craned her neck down through the narrow passage. Within, wrapped in great snoozing darkness, was a small family of Bunnies – a Mother Bunny and five or six Child Bunnies, all fast asleep! The Chicken was saddened: because they were asleep, she couldn't ask them what they normally do in their houses.

She wandered on across the greying plateau before her, and stumbled upon another entrance to a Bunny House. Peering in, she saw a big Father Bunny sheltering by himself, his eyes softly closed like night sky on the hills. The Chicken smiled and shed a small tear from her earth-black eye, wishing he would wake, yet marvelling all the while at his profound peace. She retreated from the hole and made her way onward into the dark plains.

Night coursed over the ground like a hum, broken only by the small peaks and troughs of moonlight on the stones. The cold clung to her feathers like tar, made thicker with her own mounting exhaustion. Spotting a denser patch of dark beyond her, the familiar sign of a Bunny House, she quickened her brittle feet and gathered herself impatiently toward its mouth. The warm darkness revealed still more of itself and grew to a girth sufficient to allow the Chicken's whole body to nestle its way inside.

Within this ample Bunny House, she heard a faint scratching sound and peered in as deep as her eyes would let her – before her, and with no less surprise than she, was a Chicken! Though startled, each offered the other a welcoming cluck, and settled down together on the floor where the newfound Chicken offered her guest some honey from a nearby pot. They lived out their winters together in this way through the rest of their lives, waking from the long and languorous stretch of the snows with a drop of the sweetest honey."

Spark of sight

They pushed me forward again then pulled me back, their hands twisting round my garb and their faces contorted into smirks as we walked slowly down the narrow corridor. It was the last hour of their fun, each guard one paw of that great cat playing a last game with the mouse. Presently, they pressed me onto one side of the corridor, forcing me to grate my skin against the rough, rocky stones making up the indelicately built wall, leaving a trace, perhaps a penultimate message of my existence.

My last vestige perchance should be the spurt of blood that'd follow the fall of the long, Roman cavalry sword, severing any insignificant obstacles along its path to the wooden altar, usually but air and neck, but sometimes shoulders and jaws as well. The blood of this sacrifice should placate Mars and the fulfilment of a deserved fate should please Fortuna; in fact, all other gods should be as glad for they are jealous and love to see us grieve. They'd force me to face the gathered crowd, and return their expectant watch with meek expression, and I would do so, but not because of them.

There were those who thought me a saint and would expect me to be a cephalophore, but had I been, I would not have the time or self-indulgence to cradle my head in my arms and take it where I'd have it rest until the last night of sleep. I would rather it stayed here. There were also those who thought, or knew rather, that I was merely a charlatan and would, at most, stand to walk a few paces for the enjoyment of most, and then drop upon the ground, while the last beats of my heart served not my will but bloody spectacle.

A doorway to my left, leading into one of the many living catacombs, gave me respite from the pain and an instant to remember my happy days of fraud. I was an opportunist, having come to the City unknown to any, I used my charm and some well placed gold coins to lead many to believe that I was an instrument of God, one that served men that is, what foolish thought! After they saw me 'cure' a leper, a limp and a blind, they all accepted that I had been taught by Mark the disciple himself. I took to helping those in need, for a small fee to aid my one-man church, by having them believe that their ills were gone, and they felt better for it, I feel no shame for serving such a noble cause. Those whose ills I could not help, I told they had to pray to spare their sins, which had wrought their condition, and took my fee. But worthy works as these can but sustain themselves a week before vile tongues start plaguing them, and not three days had passed before I found a nobler employment.

I learned of a recent Imperial decree that held men from tying bond with their mistresses, because in troubled times the free make better soldiers than those who as Samson are bound to the two pillars of love and passion. I must differ with the Emperor, as what I learned in these the last of my life is that the caged fight better for their freedom. With that thought on my mind, I twisted out of my guards' distracted clutches and thrust at the neck of the elder one, choking his breath. The younger one was lost but a mere moment before he slammed my face against the opposite wall and left me lying on the floor as he turned to attend to his companion. I did not wait to draw breath again, but had my shaky hand draw out from folds of clothing a piece of parchment, the other found a gap that could conceal its sight and both helped slide the one into the other. Moments after I felt several kicks breaking my ribs, and did not mind them, each part of me that broke gave me a moment more to live, and to remember. Besides, it was time for pain to conjure the start of painful memory.

The current law served as manure for good black market, particularly for one with my current reputation, which I soon used to bind kin spirits into married love. The ceremonies were small and modest, as were the temple and wooden altar, which was filled with gashes left by heavy knives, as it must have served as cooking board for the former residents. I knew how to perform my rites well, having seen wedlocks during my varied travels, knew by true heart all the parables and sermons quoted from Mark's and Christ's lips, though they be of my own invention. My merchantry of love was a happy affair, and a faithful one indeed, for though I loved the sound that charitable coins made within my humble purse, I also felt a kind of pride when I saw my patrons leave, cautious but joyous. To my misfortune, my good deeds were not unnoticed by the Law, which eventually knocked at the door of my humble abode in the shape of two good soldiers, whose callous faces glared with contempt. They took me rather unceremoniously from my temple, carrying me off to the prison where I would spend the rest of my short days, holding my arms as we walked just as the prison guards were doing after having forced me to lift my carcass off the floor. My broken nose was filled with blood, barring my ability to breathe, making me feel as I did upon my first rendezvous with my jailer and interrogator.

My name means 'valour' yet I professed little of it when I spoke with my detainer, a man of robust frame displaying a slender, bony portrait. Yet weaker than his visage was his patience, which was exhausted after the merest deviation from the stony path of his direct truth, never had I met a man less interested in the landscapes of imagination. As we progressed, the path we took became shaper and sharper on my figurative feet, and most painful of all was that his truth was not mine. It was not only my mind's soles that bled that day, but so did much of the rest of my common body after the fondle of his salted whip. I suffered first for my want to lie, then suffered for my will to speak the truth and only was relieved when I reached his compromise. In the course of but a few hours, he proved to me that I was priest, that I had for my filthy faith broken the law of the true Gods, and that my head would soon adorn the front façade of the Emperor's palace, but not before I was humiliated by twenty more salt-soaked lashes every day, for every single day I had defied the Law. My jailer then called after his daughter, who was to clean me. Salted water. There was as much of that flowing from my eyes as there was blood flowing on the floor, a little more of either would do no harm, I thought.

And then she entered, looking past me as she held a piece of crimson cloth and a decanter of man made tears. The sister of Aquarius. She delayed at the threshold but for a moment and moved closer until she was nearly by my side and stopped again, she looked away and harked. Then she was by me, feeling my arms and legs with her soft hand, the clotted, moist textile followed suit, burning away the reprieve that her warm skin brought, but not completely.

A man loves most when he is in greatest pain, another reason to turn yet again on my faithful guards, but my strength fails me now and they carry me forward, letting me drag my disobedient feet along the ground. Their hiss against the sand reminded me of the sound of her coming to my cell after my daily penance. I never saw her come, but with eyes closed and arms about my knees I heard her move and lapse until she was by me. It was always her first caress that made me open my eyes, that made speak, that softened me within yet hardened me without and made me neglect her latter touch.

'What do you listen to when you wash me?'
'I hear the wind pass through the cracks in the stones. I listen when I cannot touch it with my hands.'
'Do you ever look at them? The cracks.'
'No, never. I pass them without looking, only feeling them, when I come here. I touch them all by chance. They meet my left as I come here. Goodbye.'

The wash had finished and off she went, to go away and explore the other side of the wall, as I watched her trailing along the passage on, where my sight could not reach. It was my turn now to trail, as we neared the exit of the prison, and I could see the outline of the plaza and hear the murmur of the multitude gathered outside. She murmured too, sometimes, in the last days of her sweet visits.

'Who do you speak with?'
'With the Gods.'
'What do you say?'
'I ask them to let me see the wind.'
'And they?'
'They say that you too cannot see it, so there is little hope. But I will ask again.'
'How many times have you asked them this?'
'It's not how many, it is how much. Always. Father says this is why they won't let me see all else. You are finished, goodbye.'

Nearly finished, I counted but three days before today. I set myself to tear away a piece of cloth from my vile garments and washed it three times in the little water I was meant to drink, and rubbed it against a smooth stone that I found in the corner of my cell. It took me a whole day to fashion of it a parchment of sorts, a dirty yellow in colour, but light enough to be inscribed with my ruddy ink. This ink is now dripping slowly onto the ardent sand, and I can hear the clamour of the populace, demanding me to write them something epic and less dragging, and they shall have it soon. The altar's ready to receive all of my words, except the ones that matter.

I see her now in the crowd, staring intently, bluntly blind but keenly hearing all my thoughts, I feel. She will know where to look, to find my last words before the death of love. Mine. And if she finds, I promise she will have my last spark of sight.

'The wind is yours only to see.
From your Valentinus'