Naiad

Clink.

Ah, yes. There he is. Daubing firkins on farl. Offal. That'd be sompin. He luvs da nutty gizzards, hencod roes. Kidney. Purr. Adventure.

The coals are reddening. I don't like tea. Singes me whiskers. Assam husk, toasted molasses, burnt grain, sallowed wood, tarnished Ceylon jam. Waste the milk and it's all buttery now. Tannic. Even.

Back and forth and back and forth, spreading bread with butter. A scraping sound, a scraping sound, almost like no other. He don't see me yet. Gatching round the kitchen table now, eireaball high. See me yet?

– Mkgnao!

Ah, yes. He sees me. Slink the table leg again. Scratch my head, sir. Yes. That is nice, sir. Milk? Of course I want milk. Mrkgnao! Twig. I understand him. He's nice to me. Saved some milk for me. Me can't read minds, dough. Bodies jaw and tussle enough. Tall as a tower is he. I could jump over him. Prolly. But willful waste makes woeful want, see. Bad enough odd times ye Peter O'Connor round that oinsceach upstairs. Like a chookchook she is. Lazybones.

I don't like chookchooks. Don't like mice either. I mouse a mouse, mousaire. Can't chookchook a chookchook, though. Can't.

– Mrkrgnao!

He draws toward the dresser, yes. He grabs the milky-jug, yes. He's pours. He rests the saucer on the floor, yes. Yes!

– Gurrhr!

Gotsta have the milks. Lap, lap, lap. Me whiskers. Lap, lap, lap. In the milk again. Lap, lap, lap. No bonny clabber for this pussens. Lap, lap, lap. Better than Seamus, that mutt. Lap, lap, lap. Barbs are for eating not drinking, though.

Wait. Where did he go? Ah. There he is. Pawing his trousers on the doorstep outside. Feeling for his potato. Tip toed right out the door. Don't wake the dose now. Don't lock the door, either. Sluagh come runnin'. They took Rudy, ya know. Wonder why, doncha? Been walkin' round all day wondrin' but . . . prolly wander all day today, like yesterday. A hero if he lasts til Wednesday.

The warm yellow morning light beams round the curtains, through the window, and on to the wooden planks. The eye of heaven, his gold complexion dimmed. Not too hot. Just right. The birds chant melody on every bush. Better to eat you, love. The snake lies rolled in the cheerful sun, better to claw you, love. The green leaves quiver with the cooling. Light twinkles now. I am dead, Horatio. No, just sleeping. Here awhile. Eccles street.

Thwack! What's that? Oh, yes. Just letters. The postie. Not Seamus, the clumsy cur. Oafing round the lamp posts. Pee as igh as you 'un. Let 'em know you matter, Seamus. Keep on winnin', ya lummox.

Creak. The door. He's back. Yawn. Purr. Sleep. The ace of spades went running up the stairs. Dream I do. Here comes everybody. The ineluctable modality of the visible. A pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas. Tweedle-Dee Dum and Tweedle-Dee Dee throwing knives into the tree. The rug's topography. The nurse who loved me. It's the same singsong and the DJ sucks. Makes me sad. The eater is purple, indiscriminate of the color of its prey. The prince is safe for now. U.P.: up. It was me. Tee-hee.

Screeeeee! Blasted kettle. But. What. Is. That. Giblets? No. Kidney! He's got a kidney. He's unwrapping a kidney. A lump of butter slides and sizzles in the pan. Here, I'll sidle against him. Not too desperate now. Perhaps a light mew now.

– Mew.

No, sir. I will eat pork. I don't keep kosher. True, I don't have a soul. I am a soul, see. I contain multitudes. I'll eat red fox. I'll eat hare, badger, pine marten, stoat, salmon. I'll sure as hell eat that kidney. Wait. He drops the paper! The bloodsmeared paper! Mine! Who needs pepper?! Gnash, tear, lick, flick. Swish, scratch, take, that. Chookchook. Chookchook. Chookchook.

The aroma of seared flesh wafts past my tiny nostrils. Not everything has purpose, but thrift, thrift, Horatio. The funeral baked meats did coldly furnish for the marriage tables.

Slap! He turns the meat over. Prods with fork and fizzle. Sizzle. The guest will judge better of a feast than the cook. After a good meat, I can forgive anybody, except Seamus.

Where'd he go now? Upstairs mayhap. Aye. Talking to her. Met him. Pike hoses. Is that smoke? Is he? Is he actually burning the kidney? Here he comes. Sailing to Byzantium. Stork legs bungle down the stairs. Flip the turtle would ya? He sits now. Scrape and carve. What's that? A scrap? Fling it. I'll take it. Burnt. I'll take it. Offal. I'll take it. Done now. He sops bread in gravy and eats it. He reads a letter. Smells. So. Good. The char stained my white spots. Calm now. Lick. Clean. Lick. Bristles on my tongue.

The paper. No blood left. Licked clean. Want to go outside now. Can I go out, sir? Mew. Wait here. If I wait here long enough the door eventually opens.

bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarr

hounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk. Crackles in the air raise my fur. But she already fell and long ago. And yet, not yet.

He stands now fidgeting with his waistband. Time to turn the turtle. May rain. Peradventure. I'll go upstairs instead.

– Come, come, she says.

I curl up in a ball on her bed. She falls back asleep. She clutches a letter near her heart. She smiles. Devilish smile. And may it be that you have quite forgot your office? Shall even in the spring of love thy love-springs rot? Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous? You're gone, Penelope. The bath of the nymph will not save you. The damn Slaugh. Lock the door. Poor Rudy. Poor, poor Rudy.

The letter, smells of what? Perfume grease. Dandy musk. Flower petals. Not Mauve or violet. Not lemon soap. Impostor. Usurper. Liar. She's no invalid. Clench the stolen flower between your teeth, looking down her shirt. Predator. Cuckolder. Forgive them Father. They know not what they do. Elijah is coming. Throwaway. Tired again. Sleep. Dream.

Clink.