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Beasts
Alison Balaskovits
Gran-ma-ma would fill my head with any number of tales, each one similar to the one that came before: the hapless heroine, played by yours truly, would end up the glorified meal to some toothy, touchy beast.
I imagined Gran-ma-ma greatly desired to be devoured herself by some fierce and frenzied creature, though I would never utter such a thing to my austere matriarch. When she spoke of that rough beast, the paper-thin skin on her fingers and hands stretched and fluttered. Her wrinkled cheeks flushed, and her eyes, oh, her eyes, became so bright...
“But why must it always be a man-beast?” my mother said, lighting her pipe. It had at one time been my grandfather’s. Mother, in a fit of young temper, had taken the pipe, lit, from grandfather’s frosty lips and plopped it in her own. Within the year she had appropriated all his pipes in a similar manner. This one, her first and his largest, was her favorite.
She wrapped her lips around the small end and furiously sucked, her cheeks becoming emaciated and full in successive rhythm. She said, “Don’t the bitches of the forest have to eat as well? In fact, don’t they do the most of the work?”
Gran-ma-ma shushed her with a quick, jerking movement of her hand. “It’s always been a man-beast. Always.” She scoffed, her throat rioting up into a hack. “Can’t tell the story right,” she said once she was in control of her voice again, “unless you tell it like it’s always been. Oh, put that out! It bothers my throat.”
Mother moved to the window.
When Gran-ma-ma went back to her house in the middle of the forest (accompanied by my father, not because grandmother needed an escort, my mother would say, but because she was prone to tripping and breaking her glass-bone hips) mother would sit me at the table – me to her right, herself reclining regal at the head – and tell me, her voice all reason, that if I ever met a man-beast in the forest I should simply gut him and be done with it.
“But what if he is a kind man-beast?” I asked. “What if-”
She tapped her pipe on the table, a dull resonance that demanded my full attention. “There is no such thing. All man-beasts will eat you, no, destroy you, if you give them half a chance.”
Mother was always optimistic like that.
One day, my father was out gathering berries to make his daily fruit pastry with. You’d never seen nor tasted anything more delightful than the rows of tarts, cakes, pies and sweet buns that adorned our sills, our counters, our tables, and when finished with this task, my mother would take his berry stained fingers to her lips and wrap her tongue around the fleshy digits, saying what a good boy he was. Mother called out to him to get some blueberries for a pie, then sat by the window, puff-puff-puffing on her pipe.
“You should visit your grandmother,” she told me. “I haven’t heard from her in days. She’s probably got the flu again and hasn’t deemed us worthy of a call.” She indicated the phone with a dismissive wave.
“But, mummy,” I said, “Gran-ma-ma usually forgets how to use that ‘inane contraption’”
“Pah!” my mother spat in the flowerpot on the sill. “Stubborn old bag.”
In spite of my complaints, mother had packed a large, wicker basket of day old fruit tarts (blueberry and raspberry, yum), a bit of hard, black bread, cheese and a bottle of wine. As she packed that, wrapping the heavy bottle in a checked cloth, she told me I had better not drink any.
“But it’s bad for Gran-ma-ma!”
“Pish posh,” said mother. “It might give the old hag a thrill.”
She wrapped me in my red wool cloak with the pointed hood that I’d gotten from Gran-ma-ma as a birthday gift years ago, and stuck a box of ammunition for Gran-ma-ma’s shotgun in the pocket. I did not tell her that it was unnecessary; Gran-ma-ma had never touched the thing after politely letting Mother show her how to use it. She also handed me her sharpest hunting knife – her favorite for gutting rabbits.
“Remember to twist it,” she said, placing the handle in my hand. “You need to really get it in there and twist it if you want to really do some damage, sweetheart.”
Mother was always practical that way.
I took off through the forest, passing my father on the way. He gave me a dazed goodbye, his eyes fixed on his basket of fruit. Cherries, today. He’d be making tarts again.
The forest path to get to Gran-ma-ma’s is lovely. It was the end of summer, so the trees were slowly beginning their beautiful rot. There were tinges of yellow on the greens, and the wind carried the scent of sweet decay, like a ripe apple just about to turn.
There was always a sense of calm danger in the forest, like you were forever walking on the precipice of a breaking dam. One wrong move, or perhaps even stupid chance, and your fortune would flip and the rushing waves of animal jaws would devour you whole. Gran-ma-ma always said that there were demons and spirits in the forest. They were once paid homage with ancient blood-rites and strange dancing, but Mother always brushed Gran-ma-ma aside, telling her to stop telling me such ridiculous tales.
After awhile, I began to notice that the forest grew quieter the more I entered its winding body. The birds stopped their bell-like twittering, the crickets ceased rubbing their musical thighs, and even the leaves were still against the tranquil air; this was the archaic, intrinsic indication of danger, of change. The fine peach fuzz stood up on my neck, and I felt my less-than-musical thighs quiver in expectation.
Then, like the rise of a primeval god of the forest, I saw him.
He was large, feral and strange; a black figure with yellow, glowing eyes, his long teeth a sparkling gleam, while his rough, red tongue ran its wet length across his lips. And his lips, easily pulled back, easily shut, with a dash of red – blood? – by the dark bead of his nose.
Had he just eaten some young, pale deer that could not jump from his jaw in time? Or perhaps some white rabbit corpse lay not a few feet from me, its own blood staining its fur, its eyes trained, helpless and wide, toward inevitability. But this god, this demon, was lean, almost famished, and I knew that there was no homage of bodies at his altar, nor blood running from some adulation-chalice, and it was very likely that he thought me an offering.
I grasped Mother’s gouging knife with a trembling hand in the basket, ready to strike if he made the slightest move. But he did not jump at me, nor make any movement which indicated violence. Instead, he stared at me with something like amusement, that I felt very foolish. I let the hilt of the blade go, and it tumbled to the bottom of the basket.
The wolf lowered his head and approached me. I was nervous at his large form; it looked like he would tower over me if he went on hind-legs like a man. I dared not move.
He walked around me with his body so close that I could feel the whisper of his fur, rough and matted, against my hand, or brushing my legs. I shivered and squirmed when I thought I felt his long tooth slide across my arm, but was too terrified to look down to be sure. A growl escaped his throat, but it was soft and drawn out; a sigh of pleasure.
When he did not bite me, I grew to enjoy the feel of him close to me, his heat and soft panting just by my thighs. He continued his slow circle and I felt bold enough to reach my fingers out and brush them, as lightly as I could, on his thick-furred back.
Quicker than I could retract my hand, the wolf grabbed hold of my wrist in his teeth and bit down hard enough to leave nasty red imprints, but did not break the skin. I fell to my knees, and he shook my hand in his sharp maw. I cried out, “oh, please, oh please, I didn’t mean it! I won’t touch you again!”
This seemed to calm the beast, for with one final shake he released my hand, and instead took to sniffing me. He was most enraptured at the scent where my skin bore the mark of his teeth. As for myself, I felt inexplicably calm under his attentions, assured that I would remain safe so long as I did not touch him.
When I felt his rough tongue run across my neck, I did not breathe.
After awhile, the beast huffed and turned his back on me. When I saw that he was making to leave, I felt a coldness touch my legs, my neck, and my stomach; I was afraid of him, but I did not want him to go. I called after him, “I am going to my Gran-ma-ma’s house in the middle of the forest. She’s probably very sick, you see.”
The wolf did not turn to face me, but he stopped moving away, and twitched his ear.
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you again, if you want,” I said. “You’d need only follow the road.”
The wolf made a snorting noise and was gone, but I thought I would see his dark form again.
I arrived at Gran-ma-ma’s house just before sundown.
Something was wrong. I noticed the front door was open, and I could hear strange noises, so strange I could not even begin to describe them, coming from inside. The window seemed like the perfect place to spy, so I snuck up to it as quietly as I could. I peeped in and saw Gran-ma-ma’s prone form laid out in bed. She was wearing the blue and white lace bonnet and nightgown that my mother detests but which Gran-ma-ma treasured. I held my breath when I saw the wolf step up onto the bed.
I could hear Gran-ma-ma’s breathing begin to grow quick and deep, like the heavy panting our dog used to make before mother put the decisive end of the shotgun in his face. The wolf seemed taken aback at this, because his paw visibly shook, and he would put it on the comforter and take it off in twitches.
“Is that you?” came Gran-ma-ma’s wavering voice, quiet and earnest. “Oh, I’ve waited, I’ve waited. How I’ve waited!” She gave out a low, pitiful wail, like the caterwauling of a wretched cat in the peak of its estrus. “Why did you not come sooner?”
The wolf’s soft ears flattened and he lowered his head, as if asking for forgiveness. The beast opened his slick jaws, and each shiny pointed tooth was visible. I was afraid for Gran-ma-ma, and the feeble warning was about to issue from my mouth when the beast drew out his long, red tongue, and ran it slowly up her neck, ending on her pale, thin lips. Gran-ma-ma did a funny thing then. Her breathing came out in erratic huffs, like she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs, and then released a high pitched whine, like the one my father makes at night sometimes, accompanied by my mother’s heavy grunts.
“Oh, what a sweet tongue you have!” she said.
I was enthralled. I imagined that heavy tongue running across my own sensitive neck again, or my lips. Perhaps even my tongue would dart out, quick and shy, and meet his lips, or his fuzzy snout.
In the midst of my fantasy, I almost did not notice the wolf cringing back from my Gran-ma-ma. His soft whine filled my ears, and I felt pity for the dumb beast when he began to lightly paw at Gran-ma-ma’s still form.
Her dull eyes and that plastered, adoring smile said enough. My stomach tightened like when I wore the corset Gran-ma-ma gave me to put on one summer before my mother expressly forbid it. I felt like vomiting.
The wolf, skittish by his own realization, looked as if he would bolt. I cannot really explain it, but I did not want the wolf to leave. So, quick as I could, I slammed Gran-ma-ma’s only window shut. The beast was petrified at the bang. I could see his base animal coming out as he growled and pulled back his lips to show those trembling, vicious teeth. I ran to the door, shouting loudly as I did. The trick worked, for the wolf, terrified at the screams and bellows backed up to the dead fireplace and hid, best as he could, in the nook.
When I’d entered the house, making sure to lock the door behind me, the wolf seemed confused; his sharp teeth were weary. Without making any sudden movements, I put the basket on the ground and raised my hands in supplication, palms outward. The wolf lowered his head, but his teeth and eyes glowed in the fading light.
“I mean you no harm,” I said quietly. “I only thought that you’d like to stay a little longer. Must you leave so soon? The forest is cold at night, and it is very warm here.”
The wolf made a vicious noise, like rocks grinding in his throat, and moved to the back wall. I knew he wanted to escape, but I could not allow this. After all, the beast had come for me. I had asked him to come. It was not fair that Gran-ma-ma should be the only one to enjoy him.
I indicated the basket. “Would you care for something to eat? I’ve packed things for my Gran-ma-ma...” I looked to her still body, and I hoped the wolf understood that she would not need it anymore.
The wolf paced back and forth, nails clicking on the wood floor.
“Perhaps you’d like some wine? I bet you’ve never tried wine before.” Slowly, very slowly, for the wolf had stopped moving and was watching, I reached down and picked up the bottle of wine and showed it to him. He seemed interested in it, so with my eyes on him and his eyes on me, I went to the cabinet and took out one of Gran-ma-ma’s breakfast bowls. I poured half the bottle in the bowl and set it on the floor.
“Come now, it’s safe. And very tasty.” I knelt down and dipped my fingers in the wine and brought them to my lips. “It’s just like the blood of a rabbit.”
Tentatively, the great beast made his way over to the bowl. He growled at me, and so I moved away from it, but remained crouched, watching. His tongue darted out and tasted the wine. He must have liked the taste, or really believed it to be blood, for he began to lap it up. He got his whole snout in that bowl, and when he pulled his head out the blood by his nose was gone, replaced with the lighter, thinner wine.
When he had finished the bowl, I was unsurprised to watch him stumble on wobbly legs to the foot of the bed and collapse. I quickly went to work.
Using some of Gran-ma-ma’s rope, I tied a tight collar around his thin neck, and tied the loose end to the bed, silently thanking my Gran-ma-ma for having had it nailed to the floor. With another bit of rope I tied a sloppy muzzle around his snout to keep him from snapping at me when he woke. Pleased, I brushed his coat. It was rough and warm. I could even feel the strong pulse of his heart through the thick skin. It was comforting, so I lay my head down on his stomach and rested.
I awoke to a wet growl in my ear and my head thumping on the floor as the wolf moved out from under me and stood. There was never was such a sight as that animal yanking and wrenching at the rope. He was like a bird throwing itself at the bars of his cage, or the fox gnawing at his leg in the steel trap. I was enraptured. The fullness of his rage and power struggling against such little thin strips of rope made my stomach clench. I salivated when the ropes held. I wanted to run up to him and throw myself on him, to rub my body against his as he struggled, to bring some of that passion into me.
It was painfully beautiful to see his neck and snout rubbed raw by the course twines, and to hear his grunts and groans turn to breathy whines, but I steeled myself from pity. It was the only way to keep him.
When he’d tired himself out, lying prostrate on the floor and following me with his cold, yellow eyes, I took stock of the house. I am ashamed to say I had forgotten all about poor Gran-ma-ma with the business of the wolf, and looked with curiosity on her now. She looked peaceful with that queer smile still gracing her face, her wide eyes staring at nothing. With Mother’s determination in me, I went about covering her body with the blanket. After, I did not know what else to do with her. There was no way I could carry her outside and bury her all by myself, though I did consider getting some flowers to lay on her. But that seemed too sentimental; it’s not like she’d appreciate them anyhow.
The wolf did not move the entire time I strutted around the house, and I found myself admiring his bound physique more often than not. What was missing from his bones was meat, and so I tried to tempt him with the foods Mother had packed, but he would have none of it. I spoke very softly, as one would speak to a child, and told him how yummy the bread and cheese and tarts were, but he would not take it. He only turned his head away or swiped at me with his paws.
As the days drew on, the wolf grew more and more haggard. I could only get him to drink water, and even then I had to wrestle him down and open his jaws as far as the rope would allow with my hands and funnel the liquid down. This task grew easier as time passed and his strength diminished.
The other problem was Gran-ma-ma had begun to reek. I had no idea that the body began to decay so quickly, but the smell, at first just a faint whiff of rot, soon grew unbearable. Almost convinced that I would have to drag her body out somehow, even if it would take all day and night, I came upon a realization - one that would solve both of my problems.
With trembling fingers I removed the muzzle from the beast. Thinking he would snap at me, I backed away, but the most he did was stretch his jaw. It made a terrible cracking noise. Untying the leash from the bed, I tugged at him until he stood up and followed. I made him climb on the bed by slapping the mattress, as one would with a dog. Uncovering Gran-ma-ma and trying not to look at the grotesquerie of her sunken cheeks and rotting eyes, I lifted her hand to his mouth.
Gran-ma-ma would have wanted it this way.
Several hours later he vomited her up.
I soothed his growling stomach by feeding him soft breads and fruit and milk. After a few half-hearted attempts at resisting, pure survival instinct kicked in, because he ate in a daze. His eyes became dull and glossy, like the doll’s eyes that Mother had given me when I was a girl. I’m not even sure he knew what he was eating.
I knew he was a carnivore, perhaps even carnivore embodied in flesh, so I attempted to get him meat by trapping rabbits like Mother had shown me how to do with snares of wire or rope. I always cooked the meat before I gave it to the wolf, and he would knock it about with his paws, seemingly dejected when it made no movement. Still, he did eat it.
Soon he grew healthier, and there was a definite pudginess to him. His coat grew shiny and strong, and he never resisted when I put my hands through his fur, which I confess I did often. Eventually I was able to leave the muzzle off, and even the leash when I wasn’t off in the forest hunting. Whenever I came back it was always the same: he’d be where I left him, staring at the dancing fire in the hearth, his body in a chair, his head and front paws prostrate on the table.
I would like to have said that I was happy, but I was not. He no longer was that fine demon I had first met, but some sorry lump of flesh and fat. I tried to plead with him, I burrowed myself into his soft fur and cried, I offered my arm to him and told him he could bite me if he wanted to, rip me to shreds and eat me as a sacrifice to his once-might, but he just looked away or rolled over onto his side so I could put my head on his growing belly to sleep.
And though he was warm and soft, his dull eyes horrified me. There was a nothingness in those dark, wide spheres (and oh, what large eyes he had!). I could feel myself being drawn into them, helpless in an ever widening recess which no amount of my presence would fill.
The only thing to do was to let him go. Perhaps if he was back in the forest he would be as he was, as I wanted him to be. When I cut his leash with Mother’s knife and threw the door open the damn thing just sat there staring at the greenery beyond the door like something he once might have known, which was now foreign and strange.
When he would not leave, I took the rifle Mother had given Gran-ma-ma and shot him.
