Myths of Origin

When I first went down from the granite cliffs, when I despaired of my Beast, when I had lost the trail of its scent (bayberry and sulfur with an underwaft of jimson weed) in the Butterfly Forest, I had meant to go to Camelot. After all, where could I find better maps, better records of past hunts, better genealogical archives which might have recorded sightings long since forgotten by the peasants—in short, I meant to go for the purposes of research. I say I meant, for Camelot did not rise to meet me, as the tales assure one that it does, cresting the hills with its golden turrets to the sound of trumpets and of flutes—I found darker places before I found Camelot, places of red smoke and hushed voices. The path which was supposed to lead up the fabled hill until Camelot itself took hold and laid itself out before the weary traveler—me—li

ke a new bride lost itself, curled on itself like the tail of the Beast, and swallowed me up. I hardly knew the pebbles underfoot had changed before I could no longer guess at the geography of England, could no longer spin my compass to the capitol.

Around me, before I could draw breath, was a town of oak-shacks and dark seal-heads floating grim in the morning, a town full of trickling wells and streets that blew dust at themselves. I could see no one, only the murk of dun and gray creeping along empty, plantless ways. I rode into the Underworld on the singing angle of my golden sextant, eyes open, charts asplay, and yet, and yet. I suppose I ought to have known. The place wore all the vestments of hell: smoke closed around me, red as eyes—floats of yellow-gold flared and sputtered in the waft, and my feet crushed the moss, and my fingers groped for a gate. But there was no gate, no lock like a gape-mouth slavering for its key. There was no dog—I was quite hoping there would be a dog. I would have liked to scruff it behind the ear and call it a nice pup, a good chap. I would have liked to take dictation, to note down its long tale of service and meals of damned marrow thrice daily. But there was no asphodel, and no moon-eyed wolf. I lay down on a couch of flesh, and there was a discord of music, a silvern jangle that slid over scales as though cut by them. Smoke vomited itself from glass pipes, from ivory lips, from pools of paint like open veins. I fell, I fell so far, and the green fields of Dover frayed into emerald string, into the spines of serpents corkscrewing in the airless sky, slips of tongues like letters snapping through their phonemes. I seemed to see a woman’s face above mine, her black hair drawing its curtains around my jaw, and she put a flute of whalebone into my throat. When she blew, I filled with her white exhalation, fat as bellows, and my navel burst in a spray of star-sputum.

I fell. I fell so far. And the Beast was there at the bottom, a belly as big as the world, banded in nacre, rolling on his back, a beached turtle on black sands.

He did not look at me—of course not. I was a mote in his perfect eye, flashing in the dim, yes, but no more than a flash. His forelegs clutched at the downbreath of Stygian air, mottled green and yellow as cholera—his bunched hindlegs flexed lazily, muscles bulbous-blue. As if in water, his jaws opened and shut, clacking together desultorily, without hunger or malice. At last I saw the pink of his cheeks, his gullet, his marvelous tail slapping heavily on some unguessable floor. A leathery plume sprouted braggart-red from his head, and oh, it was so like the plumes of those poor, ruined dolls winding down their clockwork way, fused to horses, prancing in a jerky sort of grace towards their fossil-frieze.

It was so like the plumes I wore.

Beast! Oh, Beast, when you leave me, I am so lost. I cannot paste the pages of my manuscripts together to make anything like your shape. If you were to look at me—I do not ask for more than a glance!—I would be young again for you, a boy hunting his favorite lizard across the hot stones, pricked over with bright burrs. I would be gray of eye and gold of hair for you, the height of scientific fashion. I would be hotheaded and rash, I would forget the cubic measure, I would forget, even, to note the circumference of your jeweled skull. I would be just your own lagging lord—but what is a Beast without his Huntsman?

Surely we are connected, the Beast and I, surely within that geologic musculature he knows he is mine, my Quarry. Surely his bones know that he is captive, that we are locked together in step and follow—it cannot be that he has ambled on his way and never heard a desperate pant not far—not far at all—behind.

I fell. I fell and he never glanced up, never heard the whistle of my descent, of the air through all my ticking instruments. I only fell, and fell into him, into the globe of his stomach, and the skin, the spotted, spackled, glowing skin, only gave a little before breaking under the needles of graphometers, refractometers, hydrometers, cliometers, galvanometers, and azimuths, all bristling from me like natural defenses, and they tore into him, they opened him up like an egg, and I went down into the swim of his viscous self, I went down through the banded gate, and my face was erased in the acid of him. He saw me then I am sure, I know it. His eye rolled downward to me, expressionless, yes, but he witnessed my rapture, I am certain, I am certain. In his entrails primordial I was helpless, and his black blood pooled around me like a sea lapping against a ship whose loss is forgone. But he saw the wisps of my hair and the earnest gleam of my study, even proud—he must have been proud!—to allow me to finish my work, intimate, close.

He extended that elegant snout to me and his nostrils flared sulfurous-sere. I touched it—I touched it with awe, and the warmth of his tympani-heart barreled up beneath me, slamming a sun back and forth between its sixteen ventricles, and I was a part of that violent sway.

And then my face was wet, and the woman with curtaining hair was emptying a copper flask over me, and thin-lipped she dragged me to a veiled door. The Beast was gone, the vision detonated in a splash of algae-ridden water. His belly was sewn up without me, and I could not even find his scent in the murky air. There was no gateless void, there was no endless fall, and on my instruments there remained not one drop of precious blood to tell me its secrets. I stumbled, no better than a drunk bereft of tavern, and the black-haired creature flung me from the door, into the wood and the wold again, with nothing but mewling magpies flitting stupidly ahead of me.

Beast, when you leave me, I am so lost.

Lizards utilize a combination of high heat, fermentation and stomach microbes to break down their food. Dentition is a secondary mechanism, as the fiery interior of their bodies is fully capable of both killing and in some sense cooking their prey. Teeth are used only to crop large pieces of meat for ingestion and subsequent incineration.

The structure of their gastrointestinal system is similar to that of herbivorous mammals including a greatly enlarged, elaborate colon, almost baroque in its labyrinthine design. Seared flesh passes through the small intestine into the large, cup-like anterior colon. The lizard colon contains many folds and partitions which act to slow the passage of flesh, giving increased time to fermentation and cremation while allowing time to work on the ingested foodstuff by the microbial inhabitants of the colon (protozoa, bacteria and nematodes).

The interior of a dragon is a cathedral constantly engulfed in holy flame, and the flesh of the devoured lies within, consumed in that incorruptible holocaust.

The wood is cool and pale; ashes from my night-fire still comb through the air, delicate as sheets of vellum escaped from some celestial library. There is gooseflesh. There are cracked lips. I crouch in the crevice between granite and juniper, and my knees creak—of course they creak. That is the office of an old man’s bones.

It has been weeks since I found even a snapped branch that might tell of the Beast’s passing. I sold all my instruments in that strange and dreaming town, to the perplexed palms of a blacksmith who will surely melt them into slag, and then into horseshoes. Somewhere a horse will clop its way from stable to hall on hooves of golden calipers and brass clockworks. I am all that is left—but I am pure, I am ready for him, I have nothing more to learn—I only ask to be in the presence of that skin-heat, that baleful eye, to in truth be in his orbit, just a small, unassuming moon, content to radiate his verdant light.

In the black-cake soil I illuminate, monk-intent, the text of my Beast, his lymph-canticle, the scripture of his taxonomy. The loam is my bestiary, and he is the only inhabitant of my dust-opus. The curve of his spine is there, the web of his toes. In the mire, his plume is enshrined, his terrible belly is recorded for the rain and the fog to witness. Tales of his ferocity, of his mercy, of his depthless hunger, insatiable, incomprehensible. The folklore of his birth is etched in pinecone and birchbark, the fire-birth of the cosmos, and he a crystalline sphere of ineffable green. I am his lonely scribe, who was once—but who can remember now?—the scribe of that other plumed beast, that other strutting sire at play in his menagerie, galloping among the tigers and serpents and great, graceful deer, the dancing bears and the hoopoe, the salamanders and the cro

ws snapping at the tendons of winter.

I could not bear the noise. The contests of mating, the territorial screech. And in the end, I could not bear the meathouse slaughter, the shanks of wildcat piled red and dripping, the pearlescent feet pickled in so many glass jars.

The Beast is blessedly silent, he has no hooting language, no raucous claim. And if I have any fealty left in me, it is owed to the gilt-lined innards of the untouchable leviathan.

I will wait, and I will walk in the ash-strung wood.

And in the distance, there will be, before the end, a green flash in the mere.

IV THE HERMIT

Galahad

Then took he himself the Holy Vessel and came to Galahad; and he kneeled down, and there he received his Saviour.

—Sir Thomas Malory

Le Morte d’Arthur

Last night I was a lily, and very purple. I sat on the water with my toes in the silt, and my petals curled darkly up at the juniper forest. Thick violet lips reflecting the light of flickering fish deep in the lake, surfacing to nibble at my lily-flesh. But I do not taste like a dragonfly, and they never eat me entire.

A flower is very still, still in a way I can’t imitate in the suntime. I grow legs and fingers and breasts, and lost my purpleness. I begin to notice imperfections—my coffee cup is chipped, I haven’t made my bed in days, I stumble under the almost-raining sky like a doomed gazelle. And oh, the ocean here is not so wide or deep as I had hoped. It does not swallow me, or demand, or promise like the ocean I remember. When I am a lily I am not disappointed, the lake moves through me and I can let it.