Chapter 9
Awakenings
The first thing she knows is that she feels like she hasn't slept in her entire life. The second is she is covered in palm leaves and has a weight on her chest. A warm, mildly heavy weight. She feels a very soft stirring of air to her right side. She shifts her eyes. Black, curly, and bristled hair is near. And ruined skin, peeling, chafing. A hooking nose. The man who calls himself the dog!
She gasps, swallows. Her throat and mouth are curiously moist.
Shifting, stirring. A rough grunt.
"Uh—wh-"
"Ah-"
The huge frame fills her vision as it pulls itself upright. She can't help but notice it is barren of all clothes, but is most certainly not barren of hairs.
And now, two eyes blink and focus straight on her. They appear black in the low light.
"The bird is awake," the voice grinds. "She surprises the Dog."
"I've awakened you," she says, a touch of embarrassment in her tone.
"Many, many times, aye," the man grates. "What do you want? You need to take a piss? I do. Mind waiting? Won't be long."
He turns away in a snap, and moves deeper into the darkening catacombs.
She tries to roll to rise. Her body aches. She whimpers. To her horror, she realizes she is barren as well. She struggles to move again and grunts in pain.
"Eh! What's all this, girl? Leave ya 'lone fer one minute and ya tangle up yer nest," he barked, scoffing. Hands close around her waist and scoop her up from above.
She yelps.
"Please put me down," she begs. Shame colors her skin.
"Not yet," he returns.
He begins poking her, much to her shock. Her forehead, her temples, down her ribs….her ticklish toes….
She eeks out a giggle—so girlish in sound. A trickle of urine leeks out.
A sigh.
"Come," says the man tonelessly, cradling the babe in his arms.
"Where are you taking me?"
He doesn't answer. He trudges on then puts her down, but keeps supporting her.
There is a crevice in a stone formation. She gulps. He stares.
"Go on, bird. Finish it up."
"Finish what?" she asks, afraid of the answer.
"Fuck, pissing, child! Are you that stupid?"
"No, I'm not, I-"
"Can't stand a dog watching?!"
"Yes!"
The truth came out wide-eyed and aghast. The man glowers, darkness woven with gall.
"Don't care. You're weak. Piss now or hold 'til your gizzard blows!"
Strangely enough, the stream comes. She feels disgusting, like a farm animal. Though she isn't paying any mind, the man twitches a peculiar half grin and nearly chortles.
He carries her to the pool spring, and readies to clean her privates; she squeaks.
"Pfft, you mouse! It's nuthin' I've not dous'd before."
The child simply stands stone still, allowing the water to be scooped up and splashed on her unmentionables.
"I am weak, I know. Arry always told me so."
"Who the fuck is Arry?"
"My sister."
He pauses, frowning. His face twitches. He thinks, something he scarcely does anymore.
"Well, her name's Arya. She was named for one of our great grand's, or I hear," she prattles. "But we called her Arry."
"We? The bird has a family? How did she fly out here alone?"
"I didn't. I came with a friend. But he died…."
"Died?"
"Yes," she said flatly. "He drowned."
His eyes drop at this. The tip of his tongue peaks out, licking his lower lip. He overwhelmingly feels the urge to bite himself if it might relieve his agitation. But it would surely upset the child, and would only half abate such prickling thorns in his craw.
During their silent thoughts, she becomes curious. Why is he wiping her down with palm leaves? Why does he take the time to clean her? Why the sudden change toward her? It didn't quite make sense.
"Don't you hate me?" she inquires pointedly, confusion all too plain.
"Don't like anyone," the man who calls himself a dog says.
"Why bother with me, then? Your disgust is plain."
He scoffs, and half laughs.
"I'm the dog. You are not. You are a peeping chick!"
"A chick?! I'll have you know I'm 10 and 3!"
"An older fledgling chick, then! Not much diff'ur'nt!"
"You're horrid!"
"I'm honest. It's the world that's horrid!"
Her chin wrinkles, and her lips purse. Her eyes widen, alert, challenging. She cocks her head.
"Perhaps, but does it always have to be? Might it not alter? I mean, if people try their best to make it so?"
The man blinks, stops for a beat. To him, she knows nothing of the real nature of anything. Who does this newborn babe think she is to bleedin' say this?!
"Did ya come from a bloody fairy story? Ya spinnin' one of yer own, eh? How would you have the world, then? All fairies and birds and rabbits? Dogs and cats gettin' on?"
"You do love to mock, don't you, not-a-sir?"
An outright guffaw and cough resounds from him this time.
"What a fucking riot you are, girl! More fun than good wine and a whore," he pants out, rolling.
She rolls her eyes and sighs, deciding to keep her mouth shut. She knows she rather dislikes him now if he takes delight in laughing at her beliefs and ideals.
Silence builds up between them. The giant beast moves away suddenly. He comes back, bearing her pitcher, which is filled with water and places it close to her.
He gazes openly at her, eyes studying, searching, almost probing with wonder. He quickly licks his upper lip, then taps his ear. He sniffs.
She doesn't return the open attention. She keeps her eyes elsewhere and low. Her head is back and inert. She is quiet.
He is moving again; this time he brings back fruits….and….oh, goodness….large fish. He lays it before her in a line, adjacent to the water. He backs up, giving space. He looks back at her; he waits. His eyes are large, twitching about. He seems to grow anxious, and starts tugging his ear. His mouth twists. He licks his lips once more, always lightning quick in doing so.
He grabs an apple of pine, tearing off a chuck. Kneeling close, he extends his lengthy arm and wide palm, instructing:
"Open your mouth."
She turns her face away.
"Not hungry, then. Is the little one thirsty?" he inquires, all seriousness.
"No, thank you, she is not," she murmurs lifelessly.
"She does not chirp her normal song. Is she not feeling righ'? What's the matter?"
The girl resumes her mute ways. The man who calls himself a dog becomes frustratingly tense. It is palpable in the air, coiling. She silently swallows her nervousness in a fraction.
SCARS. That is what now overwhelms her entire vision. She can't stop herself. She flinches and instantly crumbles into sobs. She is so sure they hurt him still. She can feel the depth of the excruciating pain.
He can't stop himself. He threads his tree trunk arms around her waist, bringing her up against his lower neck and upper chest. He exhales a shaky breath against her brow.
"Here goes the little bird again, weepin' her'self sick! Is it so bad still? Surely not, now tha' she's awake, hmm?"
The girl freezes, gasps. One desirable thing happens—she does not cry anymore. But that's the only one thing. Now she screams. He drops her. He disappears into the darker ends of the cave, totally silent.
There would be no sleeping for either of them on this night, and neither would either dare to dream.
