vanish
It was not out of the ordinary for children to possess both a pathological fear and an insatiable obsession with the four-legged Beasts of the past. The pre-Vanishing ecosystem was seldom spoken of, and only in hushed tones. Sometimes, if an older relative grew drunk enough to feel absolved for any improper remarks, a certain sense of dark humor kept the topic tolerable, and children would ask questions about the Beasts. It was rare enough an occurrence, normally suited to post-festival gatherings. One drunkard, oft battle-scarred, slurring a diatribe about trading Beasthide as little cousins sit attentive, hugging grass-stained knees to their enraptured hearts. [6:58 PM] ’Uncle, what of the Beasts that didn’t vanish, those who were already meat or leather?’ ‘Yes, yes! Did we bury them? Did we give them rites? What sort of rites befit a Beast?’ ‘Children, children, your dear old uncle has had too much wine and fermented fish. I shall answer in the morning, I shall regale it to thee you plainly, as my grandfather regaled it to me.’ Of course, when the morningdove crowed, the family’s children would find rolled-up bedcot and the sound of grown-ups arguing over missing silverware, no sobered-up old soldier in sight. Next time you find yourself in the Crescent, go to a tavern. A nice one, don’t get yourself slashed. The kind full of young grownfolk, 20 winters or older. As them about “the Vanishing Uncle”. It has become somewhat of an archetype to the natives, much like the linen-silk trickster of the East, or the bruin-hugging Gaul. Do take care who you say this to, some don’t admire the bravado. We all knew him, or knew someone who knew him. Everyone had a story of irresponsibility and embellishment. When speaking of this sort of man, we would preface: “Now, these are the thoughts of a distant uncle, not I…” In some villages, this is still so. In some villages, gossip on the matter is acceptable, but anything more is offensive. For brevity: It wasn’t discussed. A rule, an unspoken rule akin to covering your loins and boeing your when a woman or widuu enters the baths — if you were raised correctly, you never had to be told outright. Adults were never to discuss the specifics of the Vanishing around children. Especially not Adel and Utor. As a boy, Adel was fascinated by the Beasts of the past. From hulking grey brutes with coarse skin and horned faces to the cherubic mutants ancient men kept as soft-furred companions, every child had a favorite. Children often had encyclopedic knowledge that would soon wear off as they lose interest and enter middle childhood. At 6 and a half, Adel was no different. His favorite vanished beast was the Dog. Adel's best friend, Utor, favored the common Horse. Utor was a sensitive child. He played nicely with boys and girls, yet preferred to play alone. Usually polite, he had an occasional defiance streak, and a strong sense of justice. Regarded, perhaps prematurely, as a precocious sign or intelligence or virtue, this judiciousness was encouraged by the village tutors. Utor was the only child who played with Adel. The two engaged in imagination-play, crawling around on all fours, imitating sounds that could have been. What it must have been like to be them, to see them, the four-legged Beasts of yore. They spoke of many things, but the Vanished Beasts sparked many conversations. Arguments, too. Utor’s parents and Adel’s mother never had to intervene, not until one day in Spring. While weaving crowns of daisies in the field, just ever so slightly out of the watchful eye of the his overworked mother, Adel stole Utor's ring of daisies and crowned his own head with a triumphant display of listless bluffing. To Utor’s shock Adel slapped his hand away. Far harder than a friend had ever slapped him prior. The kind of slap reserved for the lowest of disciplining. Utor clutched his aching hand, dewdrops of tears welling up in his eyes. Silence became tensions as they watched the wheels in each other’s expressions start to turn. Utor thought carefully, as carefully as he could think with a stinging hand. "I see why you like the Dog. It was the most meanest four-leg of them all." It was the first insult he could think of. A cogent retort, or so he thought. Adel was being cruel. Adel loved the Dog. Utor only liked the daisy chain, but Adel hurt him physically. In young Utor’s mind, this exchange of blows was Hammurabian. Surely, they would resume playing. To his surprise, Adel retorted instantaneously. “The Horse carried meaner men than any Dog.“ Though it was mumbled with unmet eyes, its tone was as if Adel had been waiting say this all year. A new, foreign kind of humiliation thrummed in Utor’s chest. His fair-skinned face burned ruddy. It chemical-burned from rejection into rage. It burned so much, made so much pressure in his skull, he was screaming like screaming kettle he said, “when hungry, the Dog would eat the…. raw.” Utor’s shaking voice snagged on taboo, yet still, he elaborated. “The raw pulp of their own. Of fellow dogs.” Adel was never an expressive child. (He had not even cried at birth, even as the midwife chanted a hearty mantra, unsheathed her stiletto, and severed the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck.)
"Dogs ate their masters." "That's not true." "Dogs ate their masters even when they weren't hungry. Dogs bit-“ Utor’s vision eclipsed into sudden darkness as Adel’s left-hook struck him. A slap, why- every child has been slapped. That was life in the Crescent. This was not a slap, this was a balled-fist strike. Utor stayed in a heap on the ground, even as the teal-green sky phased back into sight above him, quick tears quickening the kohl to run from his eyelids to his snot-dripping chin. Finally, he manages: “You hit me. You HIT me! I’m telling your mother! I’m telling hyr!” No response. Just heavy breathing from Adel, looming above him with an uncharacteristic scowl. The whimpers continued. “You’re no worse, no worse at all, than a vanished dog,” he cried. Adel’s mother heard the exaggerated wail of Utor from nearly sixty strides away. Hy wished it to be a playful holler, waited a pinch. Alas, another scream. More anxious than agitated, hy gathered up the hem of hyr silks and headed for the field. What a horrid boy, hy thought, just like his father. Year ago, when the midwife cut the noose around his neck, Adel drew his first breath as a sort of trade. He began to cry. And cry, and cry. His mother bled, and bled, and bled until she passed, became his foremother. His father cried too. His father, hy cried so hard, that the soul of the foremother passed into the gouge in hyr heart. That must have been why, they thought, that Adel’s father became Adel’s widuu mother. This was what the villagers gossiped, anyway, and continue to do so.