Ivan Pentchoukov

The Taming

And then again there were nights that he thought it would not befriend him. Peeking through the brush at high moon, the massive trunks glistening in the dark, he saw it curl and turn thinking. Has his offer been accepted? He doubted that he could sneak to the altar and check. Has it taken it up, looked at it, puzzled over it, smelled it, licked. Or did it leave it there for the night creatures to carry away. Did it tarry around the platform, moving its lids slowly down, casting a protective glance at the darkness? Or did it pass by as if nothing was ever there, unaware of the scent he had left. Could it see red? Was it all in vain because the two bloods were incompatible. He crawled back through the brush to check on the remaining coals. Turning the coals on their red face, pecking the stick at their white bellies, he wondered. Suprisingly there were no memories, only a feeling of defenselessness and rogue volatility. Would his small, squirrel-like limbs last him through the cold season? Was there anyone left of the broken race? Would he grow another one and give it again to that which he shivered to befriend? Was it still beating?