On the thirtieth of August and a day - Vesta
fiction ☆
fiction ☆
On the thirtieth of August and a day, the earth lays bare its fine array. Deep in death-dark forest flits furry fauna; rabbit, deer, badger, dormouse. Over soft-trodden paths do these creatures glide, returning to their barrows and boughs in crepuscular shadows. A long day they have worked, world-weary, to ease their passing into autumn’s chill, the world’s yawn prefiguring wistful sleep.
In the heat of day, they would not pluck a well-ripe berry from its leafy tray. Helios’ burning passion wanes as he nears the end of his journey. As he slows his chariot the day begins anew for these little creatures. They deign to choose for the finest of foods, the cornucopia overflowing in the early harvest light. Blackberries glisten in the twilight hour, gooseberries and raspberries. The leaves wrought in verdant fibres, green with the very being of the land.
There is one amongst them who chooses not for berries, nor leaves, nor even writhing worms in loamy soil. For this beast the choice is life, blood at its warmest, tense flesh of nervous varietal. She stalks between birch and elm; gaze fixed on the future. A hundred heartbeats reflect in her keen ears, clinking of glass goblets and shuffling of dancing feet. Cloven hooves resound in numbers, moving across the forest floor, over decomposing leaves and discarded seeds.
It is rabbit first who catches her eye. Shallow breaths; tension taut as lyre-strings. Yet the trap is sprung, the beast has already come too close, no respite for the little creature. A flash of silver under the rising moon, and the jaws of the beast embrace the frail neck of the rabbit. She holds tight to its soft fur, grazing on her bloodied lips as she lays down a moment. The rabbit lacks fear in its final moments, her long journey now near home. Once thumping legs stop and slow, its breath becomes even, heartbeat in tune with the beast. Then, a blackness, silence overwhelming for the little creature, and frigid embrace.
The beast enjoys her apéritif, calmly grooming the somewhat clumped fur of her quarry. In a moment, she rends the gamy meat from the bone and continues on her festal day. Cloven hooves pounding louder now, as though the forest has alerted all the lives within that something new hunts tonight. Shouts and screams, of ecstasy and fear, linger through the combs of branches. The deer that stands before her is a proud creature, crowned with a laurel of bone. It stands defiant of the present interloper, wary still of its own demise. The beast waits to exhaust this forest-king’s pride, and sits patiently on its paws, tail flitting quietly about. Her eyes maintain connection to this hind and gradually sees its courage fade. At the point of its rapidly-decided flight, the beast leaps effortlessly onto its back, digging in razor-claws to its back. A final honk signals the deer’s defeat.
The beast takes careful attention to her next course, biting through to the waning heart and devouring it in gentle turns. She grants the rest as a sacrifice to the forest she has invaded, where flies and ravens already cluster. Her eyes move faster now, flitting and bouncing between the treeline and the birds which alight out of her reach. They spectate the display, the revelry of blood in which she divulges herself.
Her maniacal eyes land upon a lazy badger, aching with age and waddling through to its forgotten burrow. She walks slowly up to the creature, which seems to notice her not at all. The badger seems half-blind, unworried footsteps winding around its lifelong home. It is just beginning its nightly haunt, unaware of the frenzied beast which now is fully fixated upon it. It is but small fright once the badger sees the abyss eyes of the beast reflecting its age back to it. The badger recognizes itself, moves but for a second closer to witness to its new features of its old age. Then, once it is satisfied, lies down in front of the beast, preparing but for a longer sleep. The beast leans willingly towards the badger and grabs the body. She takes it to a ridge she saw earlier, where trees part just right for the moonlight. Silver light suits her just fine, and the subtle warmth of a well-lit night provides company for her meal. She consumes the whole of the badger. The aged meat is somewhat sobering to the beast’s frenzied demeanour, and she ends the meal thinking of her kindly feast.
Her work done, she lays her head near the remains of her prey. The kind sleep of Hypnos overcomes her, and blood-drunk dreams fill her head with memories of warmth and images of her patient mother keeping her fur well-groomed. After some time, she awakes to a little patter upon her head. She shoots up quickly, roused from so comforting a sleep, and sees a small mouse has fallen from her head. It does not run but stands itself on tiny legs to sniff closer to the beast. The beast bows her head down, and the mouse inspects her blood-soaked jaw. The mouse then moves its head down, having received its fill of knowledge from the beast, and looks for dropped berries amongst swords of grass. The beast watches the little mouse go on its way, either resigned to its fate or of little wisdom to fear it.
The beast hears screams of an unnatural sort, from far off in the forest, and thinks only of its home. Diverging from the path of the brave mouse, the beast returns to a glade within the forest, where drunken creatures of a strange sort move about in the darkness. Haphazard music accompanies the flat-footed dancing, and the beast only looks to a purple-clad man in the middle of the glade, resting on an apt stone. She moves slowly closer to the man, watching his subtle moves, his voice, his laughter, and comes within a leap’s distance of his whole body. Her legs then take her the rest of the way, and she curls herself up next to the man. A soft hand greets her head as she returns to her dreamful sleep.
Vesta is the pen name for a trans medievalist in Bangor, Wales. Vesta is in the midst of her PhD studies in medieval hagiographical literature. Dabbling in both poetry and prose in English, Latin, and Welsh, she enjoys themes of Gothic and Weird fiction. When not thinking about writing or studies, she obsesses over fountain pens, paper, and other assorted stationery. You can find Vesta at the newly minted @voxvestae on Instagram.
