Treasure Island

Nassy Fesharaki

(Dec 29 / Iran)

Knife and teeth


Sun had fallen. Plain was covered by the shadow of the heights. Broken stones laid on the rock and cliff-sides and she, all by herself, was caught, mesmerized by fear.
She took refuge between the pieces of stones at the skirt of a huge rock. That would be safe, safe, even from the howling hungry wolves that could be heard so early.
Her legs shook, tremors ran all of her face and into her sight. She could hardly see anything. The wolves were not far and the fear was near in all the cells of her blood.
He had his shoes out. The water ran fast heading to his farm. He had a shovel to removes the earth that stood in the way of water. He did the same to block the ways.
He too was afraid but could easily call his friends. They would run with their shovels and would scare the wolves away. The flame in his hurricane light danced; his light.
Breeze crawled through the mountain, his farm also plains. She felt it; he felt it, and possibly, the wolves too. No one crossed the borders set without words or writing.
“O… u…” the call declared, “Your time for water is over.” And he knew well; the water would be coming. He knew how long more. He knew well, some land remained.
She started to shout. She called for help. She felt the claws and the teeth in her skin. The wolves in pack, many and she was alone, no shepherd around to support her.
He heard. He could feel it. He knew it. She could be his goat left behind from the communal herd. It was something he knew, he knew well. He was raised to know this.
The light hung from his right hand. The shovel rested on his left shoulder, metal part, shoulder and blade and cutting edge behind; shaft and handle in front held in palm.
Firmly he walked forward. He walked toward the wolves, the shout and cry. Smart Wolves; afraid of light and aware of the man using a tool to fight; left in a blink; of eye.
Goat; soaked in blood, fallen on her side, was removed, saved for the time; carried home and taken care of. With fresh weeds and leaves that goat in care was fed; royal.
Napoleon Bonaparte says: “Love Travels through stomach.” She fell in love with the savior, the feeder or the owner; the Arbab till that night. Said Master: Come goatee!
Dawn away, when Goat heard the master ran to him. Both came out. She drank the water in bucket and no time, her legs tied she laid on the ground, then came, a knife.
“Saved my life, fixed my wounds and fed me well and good…” goat looked up and whispered, “…for this day to kill me; you butcher…” her blood gushed afar, soon it died.

Submitted: Wednesday, August 07, 2013
Edited: Thursday, August 29, 2013

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