2007 ~ 2012 |
A NEW CAMPUS AND THE BIRTH OF SASS
Painted Fur
Jayson Ho
106
But I remember
the whisper of
her gentle yip,
and the soft
rasp of her
tongue on
my cheek.
The fox was about to embark on another hunt in the
dark. But first, she had to paint herself. Will you still remember me, she asked, if I was
just a fox and nothing else?
I watched as she dipped her tail into the stream, her
fur undulating in a gentle swirl. The moon’s reflection
was a silhouette shimmering on the water, undisturbed
by her dainty movements. With a patch of rice powder
she found, the tip of her tail became a paintbrush,
which she then used to dab across her face. I cannot recall what I said that night – it might have
been a simple yes. Or if poetry had possessed me, I
would have said I could never forget a creature whose
beauty was more exquisite than the night itself.
In all of my travels, I have known foxes to be
resourceful creatures. They use their tails for many
reasons – from fans to rid themselves of the summer
flies to attracting other foxes in the dance of courtship.
But now I was in the presence of an artist – a fox artist
who knew how to transform herself into a moving
piece of art. She was a master of the brush, a dancer
who created symphonies with each of her strokes.
You enjoy watching, do you not? The fox seemed to
wink. There is no need to be ashamed; I can tell.
And then it was finished, and I glanced at the maiden
kneeling tenderly beside the stream – her body supple
and naked. But the look in her eyes was as wild as
a fox’s. Her face, her neck and hands were white,
as though she had covered herself with the first
snowfall. Dark was her hair, and her lips redder than
cherry blossoms.
Yet she allowed me to help her slip into her kimono,
another treasure from her honest pilfering. I lowered
her collar, careful not to smudge the white on her
nape. I could see where the paint ended and her
tangerine fur appeared – a thin line separating fantasy
from reality. Her fur smelled of tangerines: sharp,
sweet and subtle.
She drew away slowly, her tail shielding her painted face.
But I remember the whisper of her gentle yip, and the
soft rasp of her tongue on my cheek.
Anata wa aishiteru.
She spoke in the old language, but it was clear who
she wanted to give herself to.
Lying by her side that night, we shared for the first
time a love as beautiful and fleeting as butterflies
dancing in spring.
I awoke to dawn’s first light. There was an empty
space where she used to be, filled with the lingering
scent of tangerines.
Where did she go? Perhaps she was not yet back
from her hunt. Or did she have cubs of her own to
feed? The memories of the night before drifted by like
mist – light, but with brief moments I could touch. I
brushed them aside before I went on my way, knowing
somehow that our paths would cross again.
When I arrived at the village, I was greeted by the
hustle and flurry of noises. Something was going on.
I must have stumbled into the midst of a festival, or
some sort of celebration. Good. I would find some
breakfast, served with plentiful helpings of courteous
gossip. However, upon a closer look, it was not
happiness that I saw on the townspeople’s faces.