Swan-Viciousness in Beauty
Floating elegantly in the middle of the lake sits a spotless white swan. Neck curving like smoke from a candle just blown out, it moves gracefully across the sheen of glasslike water, toward the bank where I stand, almost ankles-deep in mud. I feel ashamed to be standing before such a beauteous thing in such a wretched state, until I remember that it's just a bird. An over-sized duck, really. What does it care for muddy hemlines and soiled sneakers?
I recognize him—one of a gaggle that has resided here long before I was born. They lived among ducks and geese as residence of the park. As the prettiest, they were fed well, until visitors realized how mean they were. Aside from the playsets, they were a big attraction for the kids. My father has a framed photo of me around three years old, dressed in overalls and in pigtails, leaning from a rock over the water to sprinkle bread crumbles for a gathering of ducks, geese, and majestic swans. It sits in his office. All of his co-workers remark upon it whenever I stop by nowadays, asking where the pigtailed little girl has gone. With a forced smile, I usually shrug off their remarks.
Where had his companions gone? His mate? They do not survive alone well, swans? Are they dead, gone, or merely momentarily departed? Why had he been left behind.
As it nears, I see myself reflected in bright brown eyes. Swans, quite possibly the most violent birds. From history classes, I recall their use in ancient Rome as house guards—basically, Dobermans before Dobermans were conceived.
The bird carefully extracts itself from the water, shaking away beads of liquid with two shivers. Padding toward me, it blinks.
I freeze. Though ten feet from me, I have no doubt the stupid thing could easily catch up were I to run. My breathing halts as I wait for a reaction.
The wings do spread, but no hissing comes. From the scalloped-edged wings, the bird shakes again. They flap wildly, until a single, purely white piece of plumage falls to the mire. Laying among half-decayed leaves and the wastes of nature, it almost glows, angelic.
Without a sound, the bird trails back to the rim of the bank, sliding into the grey-green waters. Straightening with all the grace of a prima ballerina, it floats once more.
For all its grace and beauty, I cannot forget the reputation of the thing.
Beauteous, yet vile and cruel.
"Sarah, beware. I have been generous up 'til now. I can be cruel."
Like a swan. Something so very lovely. Yet dangerous. A paradox. A trick. Some thing evolution created for fools to adore. Not truly delicate. Not merely pretty. Strong, and complex, and fierce.
"I can be cruel."
Must everything remind me of this infernal man—fairy—thing? It was long ago, long gone, and yet haunts me still.
"Not fair," I murmur to myself. "Damn your notions on fairness. I've earned some peace."
"But it that what you truly desire?"
"It's what everyone desires." But the reply sounds weak, even to my ears. So what if everyone else wants it. Do I want peace? Will I settle for that? 0
"Sarah…Sarah…."
Fingering the plumage, I wonder. I wonder why the task has been set to gathering feathers. I ponder the possible outcomes. The poem did not detail my ultimate reward. Heck, I don't even know who send the note. Though, I maintain suspicions. There are only so many people I've met who can speak in a person's head, enchant animal to lose their outer layers, and make rhymes so terrible.
This is a childish thing! A fairy tale quest for children! Not something for college sophomores to pursue. Especially considering the unspecific terms.
Even so…two feathers have been found. Five more to go.
Peacock-Extravagance, Brightness
I leave the lake side to follow the sliver of a creek that ran though the park. Often the scene of my play acting, I allow memories to flood me of summer hours spent reciting poetry and fanatical prose along the paced waters. After my time underground, those hours had been given up for more practical activities. I came to the park only for personal refuge after long school days, or to entertain Toby.
Toby does love the park, but his fascination with it cannot match mine. He is content to spend the entire day indoors, while when I was his age I was known to throw a fit if not taken out to the swings, or the bridge, at least once.
It's when I reach the bridge that I see it-
Puffed up in bright excellence, the crown standing straight, the peacock shimmies its lengthy tail. There is no sun, nonetheless the jeweled tones shimmer. I am agape. If anything, this creature is certainly not native.
Strutting royally, the thing moves off the bridge, jumping to one of the supporting posts. It sits, allowing the luxurious tail to fold and rest, like an unused fan at a dress-ball. I approach quietly. Every inch sparkles, or glimmers, or shimmers. So bright is the plumage, I must blink several times before proceeding.
"You are quite out-of-sorts, fellow." The thing preens. I shake my head. "And what are you supposed to represent in this great play? Vanity? Of whom? Or the general immorality of it?"
My Ara, my evil fairy king, ought to be vain. Vanity is a sin, or something like that, right? Even so, it might add dimension. Well, if there is anything I get out of this silly venture, it will be a hearty cure to writer's block. Perhaps today I might find a cure to Ara's lack of depth.
Swaying its long turquoise neck, the peacock seems to hum softly. I tilt my head, following the motions closely with my eyes.
"You are a beautiful thing. It would be hard not to be vain, if one were as lovely as you."
He is perhaps vain. Judging by his elaborate costumes (Feathers, anyone? Leather pants?) it would not be a stretch to say so. Damn assumptions. With silks, brocades, fine leathers, polish boots, heavy jewelry… His hair ought to be evidence enough. I would hate to be the one to dress it…do they even have hair dressers, or stylists, in the fae world? Did he have goblin servants to do such things, or did he simply magic himself that way every morning? Do Goblin Kings even need sleep?
Five years after initially meeting him, and I had never had these questions before. No matter, for I doubt they will ever be answered. In fact, I dearly wish for them never to have a personal response.
"A feather, my friend?" I ask the peacock politely, feeling a little ridiculous. "Beauty so grand ought not be kept to one, but shared with many."
The bird consented to spread its tail once more, letting a single tail feather fall to the wooden beams of the bridge's deck. I scooping it up, cooing gratefully.
-XXX-
Edit: I've had a few reviews saying swans represent loyalty, grace, beauty, protection, etc.
To that, I simply have to say: Have you ever met one of these things? They are bitches. That's the simplest way to put it. Beautiful bird-versions of yappy lap dogs. They might "represent" those things according to wikipedia, but the reason they are associated with "protection" is because they are ill-mannered, agressive brats. Trust me, I had enough trips to the duck pond as a kid to know. I am attempting to represent these animals in a at least half-way realistic manner, and my interactions with swans are being reflected thus.
