DARKNESS. DEEP INSIDE the rock. Tunnel that never ends. I do not dare go any further. I hide in the corner, hoping he will not find me. I hear breathing at the cave entrance, step back a little further, touch something soft, almost scream but cover my mouth with my hand. The soft object moves and gasps. “Shhh,” I say.
After a few minutes, the creature at the cave entrance moves away, and I turn toward the soft thing behind me. “What is it? Who are you?” I ask.
“Just me, an old person here, just nothing, a thing, a piece of scrap, a used rag, hardly even a woman anymore, but still a woman, still with all parts of me intact and somewhat functioning. I am here to save you. When he comes for you, I will go to him, satisfy his desires, keep him from devouring you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I was once you. Someday you will be me.”
I don’t know what she means but I am quiet.
“Sleep now,” she says. “He won’t come back for a while.”
So I do. I sleep but dream of a caged beast, playing the bars as if playing a xylophone. He has forgotten to ask for his freedom. He just plays music.
The old woman shakes me. “Wake up, here eat something while you can.”
I take what she hands me, put it in my mouth. It is as hard as a rock. I take it out of my mouth with a gasp.
“Hold it in your mouth for a few minutes. It will soften. It’s just bread. I’m sorry I don’t have anything else. But there is water. He always brings fresh water.”
Once the bread is softened, it is not bad. I chew it and swallow it. I’ll need my strength. Somehow I’m going to get out of here.
“Tell me who you are,” I ask her.
“Nobody, really. He took me from my parents, brought me here when I was young. I’ve belonged to him ever since.”
“How terrible! Did you never try to escape?”
“At first. But, now, this is my life. I can help others, the young, the virgins. It is not your time yet. I will let him take me, and you can run away.”
A roaring fills the cave. Something dark is blocking the entrance. He is huge and terrifying, a dark shadow, a beast, he is death. “Is he death?” I ask the woman.
“The death of innocence, he is. But not death to life. He lets you keep on living. That is worse than death.”
He is moving towards us. I shrink back into the darkness. The old woman pushes me behind her and whispers, “Hide.” I go as far back as I can. I feel the earth behind me and find a blanket, crouch underneath it.
“Where is she?” he asks. “I want her. It’s her turn!”
“Not yet,” the old woman tells him. “She is too weak and tired. Give her a chance to get her energy back. You don’t want a limp rag. There’s no pleasure in that. Take me — I’m feeling vigorous today.” She moves toward him. He reaches for her and pulls her toward him.
“Shh, not here,” she says to him. “Let’s go outside, under the apple tree. Let her get her rest. And the fresh air invigorates me.”
He gurgles in pleasure, and they walk outside.
I crawl out of the blanket and creep to the cave entrance. I peer outside. The light blinds me. Where are they? I see grass, trees, sun reflecting off a pond. I scutter out, stand up, and run.
I pass an apple tree and hear grunting behind it. I cannot resist. I stand behind the thick trunk and look around it. The two of them, monster and crone, are entangled in each other, bouncing up and down, rolling in the grass, shrieking in laughter. She tears off his shirt, revealing rough skin; he lifts up her shirt— her breasts hang wrinkled down to her belly. He laughs as he caresses her. Then she looks right at me, over his head, and winks. She is singing a song:
Little girl lost, and little girl found,
Old girl cavorting on the ground,
Young and old, virgin and crone,
Statue or pleasure, together, alone.
I turn away and run toward the pond. I am so thirsty. I lean over and cup my hands in the water, bringing up cool satisfaction to my mouth, washing my face. I look at my reflection. Long, blonde hair. Pale skin. Bright blue eyes. So pure. A ghost.
I turn away from the pond, and walk back, tiptoe past the apple tree, crawl back into the cave. I cover myself with the blanket and sleep, dreaming of golden apples and soft grass. I feel myself growing old.
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* This story was inspired by an episode in Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene, Book 4, Canto 7.