Day 1981
Dear Herd,
The ocean called for you. It roared and sang and cried, thrashing the banks of sand in despair. “I can tell the waves are higher.” The Fool had said as we awoke. “The sky must be grey. Is that why the birds are quiet?” The birds have been quiet since, and a storm is approaching. We don’t have a lot of time to fix what happened, but we will not give you up. The first day after, it rained. I did not cry. The Fool did not cry. But the Island did. The Island is crying for you, Herd. Can you feel it? The clouds may be heavy today, but we can’t stall any longer. The goats are different. They have become ruthless and begrudging in their actions. While the Fool hid from the rain, I sat out to watch them just like we used to do. Mari isn’t feeding her kids. Ferdinand has already killed two. I’m sure you’re excited. You always liked the free food from him. The Fool says we can’t take their offerings though, “The island doesn’t get to give shit. It’s the reason we’re here.” I think the island wants to say sorry, just as we do, but the Fool won’t listen to me. You couldn’t listen, Herd, but you always did. I’m stalling again. The Fool is calling.
Always,
Dumb.
Day 1984
Dear Herd,
Has hunting always been so political? We paused to take a break. I paused to take a break. The Fool is insufferable. “No, not that one.” “Is it a boy? No, we need a girl.” “How big are the horns?” “How big are the ears?” Maybe, just maybe, it doesn’t matter. The Fool has been talking aimlessly since, blurting out everything he can, whenever he can. His voice is like chalk, you know? Grating and guttural. The way it’s so sharp it penetrates past the eardrum. It doesn’t latch onto the ossicles, no, it shakes and jangles and pierces them into a reverb of nausea and nonsense. You are lucky you never got to hear it. The way it sputters and digs into skin like a needle depositing bits of ink. You should know that feeling. I always loved your tattoos. The Fool is a fool for never being able to see their beauty. Don’t worry though, we are not stopping. The hunt will continue. And we will fix it.
Always,
Dumb
Day 1990
Dear Herd,
The Fool was talking to you. We are still on the hunt, but he was talking to you as if you were here. “Herd, what color are the leaves?” He had asked. When he was met with silence, he finally quieted. Thank you for getting him to shut up. I’ve tried to answer him, but he can’t sit long enough for me to spell it out. Life was easier with you, Herd. While searching we stumbled upon the crash sight. I never got to ask you what it was like to fly a plane. “What is it like to fly a plane?” The Fool must have had the same thought, “Do you think it was relaxing?” I placed my fingers on his hand to say yes. “Herd must have had a good view with the big window. Being able to watch as the clouds fly past in a never ending sea of blue tranquility. I wonder what sunsets would look like. Being able to feel the loss of warmth from the settling sun so high up. The way its colors shine onto walls in a glittery gold. I always associated sunsets with contentment. Another day is done, another day has passed in beauty no matter how things may have gone in an unappealing direction. Do you remember sherbet icecream, Dumb? Do you think sunsets would look like that? The way orange blends into strawberry. Or maybe a salmon? What color is salmon again? Pink and orange-ish? Would you eat salmon ice-cream, Dumb?” I placed a single finger on his hand to say no. Do you see what I mean, Herd? Whether I respond or not, the Fool continues to talk and talk and talk. We have yet to snare a goat. The Fools voice has scared them all away. We left the ruins of the crash, my throat always begins to sting and burn when I’m near it. I know the Fool’s eyes throb. He speaks of it every time we pass it. Did your ears ever begin to ache? I bet they did.
Always,
Dumb
Day 1996
Dear Herd,
Her lungs smelt of salt and the rampant decay of one's dying breath. She is dead, but Herd, oh Herd. You are not anymore. Herd, we fixed it. It wasn’t easy, the way she cried and seemed to scream in despair. She was calling for something, someone. You answered her Herd. I know you did. You heard her love, our love, calling for you. Now you are here, now you are back. The precious insides you left behind for us had started to liquify. The skin you left was no longer usable, having started to marble and bloat and blister. I’m sorry for our wastefulness, but we had enough to finish what we needed to do. The Fool could only direct me, having done many surgeries before, but he was no fool back then. Herd, did you know a real connection can be made with nature when deep enough inside to reach their soul. To feel their life? I felt it, Herd. I felt that beating cacophony, warm and exposed, parade itself around the being she was no longer meant to be. It bled into my grasp, she knew this was her end. Her calling. The same way a caterpillar accepts their fate, trading its bulbous and dull form for one that glimmers and shines within light, a colorful being that can sing and dance in the wind. Herd, you are our butterfly, and you are beautiful. With just a single swipe of the knife across her abdomen, her guts had pooled out below. It was easy to stop the bleeding using clumps of spiderwebs and moss. Finding the right organs were hard, the Fool could only describe them to me as I have never seen them before. The goats innards were a mess of fluids, bile, and blood. Her bones were sickly and pale. Her stomach was humid. But yours? Herd, yours were breathtaking. The way your body blossomed in colors as the Island sent its offerings of maggots and beetles and wasps, aiding you in your transformation. Your bones were not without color, but a trifecta of creams and tans and marbled browns. A piece of art laid out upon a bed of leaves and sticks, tucked into the trunk of a dying and hollowed tree. The way a dryad would be so delicately placed within an Evelyn De Morgan painting. With my utmost care, you were plucked and opened and exposed. Threads of your hair were braided and pulled through the miniature pokes of a cactus thorn. Then you were completed. You are back. Your tongue now lies in her mouth, so you can never not share your voice. Your eyes lay within her skull, so you will never not be able to see. Your eardrum was stuffed inside hers, so you will never not be able to hear. And your heart. Herd, we give her your heart for life. You are no longer dead, Herd.
We give you life.
Always,
Dumb
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