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Authors: Claire Branson
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the deepest autumn. Her hair, her eyes. Such eyes . You are not as I am, and would only dimly appreciate the intensity of feeling, as you are without the clarity of perception of a bear. Still, you may imagine it.
It all began with her . I did not know then where it would end. I do not know, even now.
I only know that I must set it down, for she is the most precious thing. My story, once so secondary to me, now bears a primary importance. It is also her story.
***
“Brother Luca?”
I turn slowly, my mind returning to the present. The prior of the monastery is standing at the door. I smile at him. He is a friend.
He walks in wearily, and sits by me, lays his hand on mine. I can see he has not been sleeping well; his eyes are set in deep wrinkles, his face rumpled.
“Prior?” I ask.
“I am concerned about you, my brother.”
“About me?” My voice rises in mild surprise.
“You are not yourself. All day you spend writing. I have not seen you for weeks.”
It is true. I have been elsewher e. Sometimes here in the library writing. Sometimes in truth I have been in the woods with her. That is another story. We will come to that.
Now, I smile at the prior. I believe he sees the signs of sadness in my face. He pats my hand.
“Tell me. Whatever it is. You can trust me, brother,” he says.
“Thank you.” I mean it.
He is the closest thing I have to a friend, always opening the monastery door with no questions asked about my absences. And he is learned. We have spent hours in lively debate. Like me, he has been to the East, to the Holy Land. We have much to discuss.
“I miss our talks.” He seems to read my thoughts.
“I too, Prior.” I smile, my eyes still weary.
“My door is always open.”
“Thank you.” I bow my head. “There is much I would like to tell you.”
“My ears are open, whenever you wish to speak.”
With that, his hand pats mine, and he is standing, wincing as he settled a hand against his back. He throws a last smile to me and leaves.
I watch the door after he has gone. So much I would like to tell him. And it is all of her. Kiryla.
***
As I sit here, musing and writing, my mind takes me back to the first day I saw her…
Her hair hung loose, and spread out around her pale shoulders like cloth of gold, her eyes golden mirrors, brighter than all the coins of Byzantium. A rounded body with full breasts, soft as Oriental silk. She was then, and is still, profoundly beautiful. I feel a stab of desire, a physical ache, even as I think of her. And my heart aches worse.
I stood in bear form when I saw her, engaged in collecting nuts and readying myself for hibernation.
I heard singing.
Music truly comes to life for a creature. The senses mix and you can see a song. This song danced purple, like the night skies above Damascus. It wove its way through the forest like a spell. I sat up on my legs, and listened closer. The song stopped.
I waited for a moment, then shrugged. Even as a bear, I am essentially Epicurean. I turned back to the nut-tree and sampled more of its goods.
Another huge advantage of a creature-form is that you can feel a presence without needing to turn round. I felt that. Turned to face it.
She appeared tiny in form, standing below the nut tree. Why is she not afraid ? People fear bears, especially tall male bears, when alone in the forest.
She remained unafraid. In fact, she stood perfectly still.
I wondered what she might have been thinking and what had happened in her life to make her so unafraid. I can feel much more than a person’s presence if they allow it. It’s possible to feel their memories, their entire life. I had longed for the chance to know her story.
Her eyes finally met mine. The blank surprise in my head became a throbbing buzz, and I heard her voice.
Hello, it said, pleasantly. I'm Kyrila. Who are you? What are you doing today?
I can tell you, nothing can describe what I felt. I sat down on my haunches, astounded. I
It all began with her . I did not know then where it would end. I do not know, even now.
I only know that I must set it down, for she is the most precious thing. My story, once so secondary to me, now bears a primary importance. It is also her story.
***
“Brother Luca?”
I turn slowly, my mind returning to the present. The prior of the monastery is standing at the door. I smile at him. He is a friend.
He walks in wearily, and sits by me, lays his hand on mine. I can see he has not been sleeping well; his eyes are set in deep wrinkles, his face rumpled.
“Prior?” I ask.
“I am concerned about you, my brother.”
“About me?” My voice rises in mild surprise.
“You are not yourself. All day you spend writing. I have not seen you for weeks.”
It is true. I have been elsewher e. Sometimes here in the library writing. Sometimes in truth I have been in the woods with her. That is another story. We will come to that.
Now, I smile at the prior. I believe he sees the signs of sadness in my face. He pats my hand.
“Tell me. Whatever it is. You can trust me, brother,” he says.
“Thank you.” I mean it.
He is the closest thing I have to a friend, always opening the monastery door with no questions asked about my absences. And he is learned. We have spent hours in lively debate. Like me, he has been to the East, to the Holy Land. We have much to discuss.
“I miss our talks.” He seems to read my thoughts.
“I too, Prior.” I smile, my eyes still weary.
“My door is always open.”
“Thank you.” I bow my head. “There is much I would like to tell you.”
“My ears are open, whenever you wish to speak.”
With that, his hand pats mine, and he is standing, wincing as he settled a hand against his back. He throws a last smile to me and leaves.
I watch the door after he has gone. So much I would like to tell him. And it is all of her. Kiryla.
***
As I sit here, musing and writing, my mind takes me back to the first day I saw her…
Her hair hung loose, and spread out around her pale shoulders like cloth of gold, her eyes golden mirrors, brighter than all the coins of Byzantium. A rounded body with full breasts, soft as Oriental silk. She was then, and is still, profoundly beautiful. I feel a stab of desire, a physical ache, even as I think of her. And my heart aches worse.
I stood in bear form when I saw her, engaged in collecting nuts and readying myself for hibernation.
I heard singing.
Music truly comes to life for a creature. The senses mix and you can see a song. This song danced purple, like the night skies above Damascus. It wove its way through the forest like a spell. I sat up on my legs, and listened closer. The song stopped.
I waited for a moment, then shrugged. Even as a bear, I am essentially Epicurean. I turned back to the nut-tree and sampled more of its goods.
Another huge advantage of a creature-form is that you can feel a presence without needing to turn round. I felt that. Turned to face it.
She appeared tiny in form, standing below the nut tree. Why is she not afraid ? People fear bears, especially tall male bears, when alone in the forest.
She remained unafraid. In fact, she stood perfectly still.
I wondered what she might have been thinking and what had happened in her life to make her so unafraid. I can feel much more than a person’s presence if they allow it. It’s possible to feel their memories, their entire life. I had longed for the chance to know her story.
Her eyes finally met mine. The blank surprise in my head became a throbbing buzz, and I heard her voice.
Hello, it said, pleasantly. I'm Kyrila. Who are you? What are you doing today?
I can tell you, nothing can describe what I felt. I sat down on my haunches, astounded. I
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