Tag: Beaver
12:3
12:3
To all outward appearances the beaver was a cool as the proverbial cucumber. This could go many ways, but as long as he remained cool, he could keep the assemblage before him from seeing him dissolve into a slimy puddle; which was what he felt was likely to happen if his last ‘guest’ didn’t show very very quickly. He could see that noxious rabbit eyeing him and very soon he was going to open the unusually large trap he called a mouth and start tearing down this little ‘moment.’
And it looked, friendship or not, that Gareth was reaching his boiling point as well. The kid had always had a problem keeping his mouth shut anyway and this little gathering was obviously not sitting well with him.
The girl was cool. The beaver thought she might even be enjoying herself and Carline was too cowed to be a bother. If he could just hold the status quo for a few more minutes, this should all work.
If not… well there was always the big stick. And beavers’ knew a lot about big sticks.
11:18
11:18
“If you are going to serve me a drink couldn’t you at least make it a gin and tonic? Or a half decent whiskey.”
“Who the hell drinks a mojito!”
” Ah, old…friend. Don’t blow a bunny gasket. I thought you’ appreciate something soothing and relaxing after your long stressful wait. How was It know what you’d like to drink?” The beaver blinked his long black lashes at the outraged rabbit and continued. “Still, I suppose we could rustle up something you find more appropriate.”
Edward sputtered a little and began to retort. But barely an incoherent syllable had escaped his pink lips when he finally realized the bloody beaver was baiting him again. That stupid, impossible, oh-so annoying rodent seemed to have a knack for obfuscation through exasperation. He settled his weight back on his haunches and pointedly relaxed.
“My dear beaver,” he started again, “I am delight to see you well and in fine mettle. Shall I assume you think you have taken care of the more violent aspects of our situation and once again feel safe in your nubbly little black heart.”
The beaver quirked a slightly irritated smile and leaned toward the bunny with the new-fund attitude. But before he could snap off a retort the rabbit continued. “You are not you know. Safe I mean. You have done nothing to effectively secure the situation and more unforgivably you have gathered these people here as both unasked-for witnesses and fellow goats in your, once again, labyrinthine and tortuous plot.”
“Really, you should know better by now.” Edward seemed to swell, stood and moved across the living room with all eyes following him.
“If you have learned anything from our past… ‘encounters’ you should have at least learned that complications are to be avoided and that simplicity has its own rewards.” As Edward finished speaking he leaped suddenly to the side, moving towards the beaver while trying to ensure that no one could get between them. He was both surprised an not a little indignant when his leap ended suddenly, face first in a large fuchsia pillow with gold tassels.
Recovering, he turned his face towards the young woman wielding the offensive accessory and grimaced. “I see you’ve bought in to whatever sad tale this perfidious panderer has has been peddling. assure you young lady that your involvement is neither necessary nor requested and I would appreciate if you would move your obnoxious attempt at style from my path.”
Rowan stared back.
Edward sighed and swivelled his head back to the even-more-smug beaver who hadn’t moved at all during the preceding events. But, having lost his momentum, this time when he opened his mouth to speak, the beaver cut him off.”
“Silly rabbit; tricks are for kids…”
11:15
11:15
Edward couldn’t quite remember a time when he had been more astonished. There had been that affair with the Polynesians cannibals in the Egyptian ruins — well they hadn’t technically been cannibals, but they had tried to eat him — but he had already begun to suspect their presence before the unfortunate cookpot episode. ANd of course there was the time he had walked in on the peculiar mating rituals of the so-call Llama gods; that had been perhaps a bit less astonishing and a bit more disturbing, but nonetheless.
Still the sight of the beaver wrapped up in what looked suspiciously like a silk smoking jacket, sipping what could only be a martini and smirking pompously at him from a makeshift throne of cushions and blankets, could only be accurately described as astonishing.
Edward sat uncomfortably at the base of his “lordship’s” altar and looked around the room for the fifth time. It, in as much as Edward’s research had revealed, seemed that all the players of this little farce had gathered. He shook his ears vigorously with an audibly thwop and, for just a moment, imagined he saw that ridiculous beaver take a long suck from an equally ridiculous pipe. But as he quickly glanced back, the beaver’s hands held only what was most definitely a martini.
Seeing that he had Edwards attention, the beaver’s smirk broke into an open grin and he delicately drew the impaled olive out of his drink and plucked the briny fruit off the toothpick with his gleaming incisors and then downed the rest of the drink.
“Welcome old… friend.”
10:22
10:22
It was all too much. Too much sensory input, too much pain, too much light, too much noise, too much to remember and process and, unfortunately, too much still to do.
The beaver closed his eyes and pictured that beach in Tahiti, with its swaying palm trees and coconuts rolling gently on the beach. The, with a sigh he opened them up again and smiled up at Rowan.
Time to get to work.
10:19
10:19
I remember. I remember the blood: the salty-sweet taste, sticky and thick, yet somehow running like water across my skin, into my eyes, my ears, my mouth … I remember …
The cage and the curious vets and zoo keepers and the bright, bright lights …
Lights. Light. Streaming in from the ceiling, dancing and playing and then that sound, that tiny moment of blinding, deafening, overwhelming noise that seemed to go on and on and on yet was gone before I could recognize it. What was it? The light dancing; the noise smothering; I remember…
I forgot? How did I forget? How could I? I …
Where am I? Where was I? The police. The people, the crowd screaming. No one had ever looked at me like that before. No one had ever treated me that way. They kicked me, stepped on me, tripped over me in their selfish panic. They treated me like nothing, an animal; and the blood. Leaving me lying in the pool, drowning in someone’s life.
What the hell happened? Why don’t I remember? Why am I remembering?
What …
10:17
10:17
The sharpness of the shadows that danced across the dingy ceiling of the old apartment was broken down by the tiny hills and valleys of the chipped and stained stucco. No longer a coherent whole, the luminous artifacts had become something different, something reminiscent of…
The beaver craned his neck up and slowly turned, following the graceful white pathway that spiralled round and round, up and up until it ended in the bright glass skylight that seemed to dance and swirl with the intricate architecture, the light and the shadow performing a lively Troika. Mesmerized the beaver continued to turn, becoming entwined in the movement and the joy of Mr Wright’s architectural masterpiece; it was all he had hoped it would be and he savoured the moment.
All too soon the disconcerted fluids in his inner ear informed him that if he didn’t stop they would soon force the issue and the beaver slowly settled to a halt and lowered his eyes to drink in the rest of the Guggenheim’s unique and, in his opinion, unsurpassed glory. His head spinning and the wild abandon of the dance of light and shadow still swirling through his mind, the beaver drank in the moment and committed the composition to memory.
It had taken some doing — it had taken too much doing — but the beaver’s love of structure and form had finally found its apotheosis. Here was the embodiment of the art of architecture. No simplistic and haphazard dam of mud and wood, no grandiose cathedral, a monstrosity born of ego and venality, no, this was calm and smooth, born of a desire to express the beauty and simplicity of man’s true role in the cosmos. This, this… magnificence, and it truly was worthy of the name, was as human and as personal as any intimate experience yet was formed from nothing more than the freedom of space and light and the shapes of nature: as wild as the forests and as untamed as the seas.
The beaver sat and drank it all in, leaving himself lost in that sweet anticipation and refusing to acknowledge the hustle and bustle of the people around him.
And because he was not truly there in the centre of the lobby on the first floor of New York’s Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, the feeling was all that registered at that moment; not the reverberating and ear-rending bang, not the acrid odour that threatened to choke him of his breath, not the iron taste of the warmth that spattered across his face and left him half blinded and disconnected from his surroundings.
At that moment the beaver was entirely alone with his thoughts and utterly disconnected from the hell that had mere seconds ago been a peaceful and beautiful backdrop to the archetype of everything the beaver believed good in the world.
10:11
10:11
The beaver was at home here. It reminded him very much of his roots, felt safe and, for all it’s insignificance in the shadow of the soaring rockies, when perched atop one of the many summits on the edge of the hills watching the carpet of grass roll out endlessly in front of him, it always made the beaver feel like he was on top of the world looking down on his many problems like they were random collections of dirt and detritus, like dust bunnies to be scooped up and swept away.
For him, this traditional pause at the edge of the mountains wasn’t just a a moment to reflect, it was a respite from far too many memories: failures, unfinished tasks, unrecoverable losses and all of the reminders of the world’s mortality that he wore embedded in his hide like tiny glass shards.
The beaver often returned to this exact spot, high above Longview and the vast sprawling ranches that lay south. There was always something ironic about this spot, accessible only by passing through the foothills along the Highwood river valley then curving south at the very bases of the first of the limestone monsters hemming him in on both sides before emerging once again on the western edge of the foothills. A quick crossing of the frigid and fast Livingston river and a long winding trek up the backside of grassy humps left him atop one of the tallest and last of the foothills with an unimpeded view that left him imagining he could see the frosted waves of the Atlantic lapping against the east coast’s shores.
To achieve the goal one must give it up freely. The hope is always that you will emerge from the emptiness with a reward greater than the sacrifice. In the case of his beloved foothills, they had yet to fail him in this respect.
9:27
9:27
“Hi.”
The girl stared at him like he was an alien. “Did you… Did you… say something?”
The beaver squeezed his eyes closed and tried to clear the sawdust from his brain. He’d spoken without thinking, but now was not the time to be engaging in conversations with strangers. Now was the time to regroup, figure out where Gareth was, confirm that this was indeed his female friend and get everyone the hell out of here.
He opened his eyes again and slowly blinked.
“Umm, hi. Did you… ” The girl paused and waited. “No. No you didn’t, did you. No. No, you shure did not.” She shook her head and pulled the hair back away from her lean face. “Well hi anyway my furry fella. I’m a going to guess that you’all are Gareth’s mysterious beaver friend. So jess you calm down and I’ll take good care of yus.”
The beaver let his eyes close and he worked on controlling his breathing. He’d come to consciousness fresh from a vivid, panic-filled dream and he needed to start processing quickly because he was running out of time. The last thing he remembered was slipping in the front door of the apartment building. He must of made it upstairs and somehow attracted the attention of this young lady.
It looked like he was partially swaddled in an old blanket, that must of been he suffocating part. As a rule, the beaver didn’t like much being trapped; probably a result of his genetic place on the old food chain. But now that he recognized his predicament he just settled back and focused on taking in his surroundings.
There was a lot of blood in his fur and even more soaking into the coarse weave of the blanket. That would account for this annoying light-headedness and likely the lack of memory of that last little bit. Speaking of that, just how long had it been since he arrived at the building? How much time had he lost?
The beaver frantically thrashed his head around trying to spot a clock and the girl’s face started to look alarmed again. Taking a deep breath, the beaver slowed his movements and tried again. There was a glowing digital display on the stove; after a few tries, he finally made his eyes focus and sank back into the blankets in relief. It had been less that an hour. Too long, not not a disaster. Yet.
He had to find Gareth, and quickly.
9:11
9:11
Rowan rocked back on her heels and carefully wiped her face. From behind her she once again heard Gareth softly talking in his sleep. He had been muttering unintelligibly all night except for that one, eerie moment when he’d quite clearly said “My beaver.”
It was moments like that always led Rowan to suspect that the universe had a sense of humour; or maybe there was a god, not eh big, white-bearded, sitting-on-a-throne guy, but more of an out-of-work hack with nothing better to do than create moments with no respect to linearity or continuity. I mean really… a half-dead beaver, a sleep-talking boy, a huge racket and a mysteriously empty hallway. It was almost enough to to make Rowan want to change into some tiny underwear and a tight white t-shirt and go wandering alone outside with a faulty flashlight.
Right now he seemed to be clearly talking about the lemon tree. Maybe this muttering really was rooted in something important. She smirked appreciatively at her own cleverness. Never an audience around when you needed one.
“Hey beaver! That lemon tree that everyone keeps fussing about. Maybe this is all ‘rooted’ in something important! Get it… rooted! It’s funny.”
“Want me to explain it again?” Rowan grinned sillily, then, glancing back over her shoulder at the sleeping Gareth, she shifted her weight back on to her hands and started to get up.
“No, it’s not and no, I don’t,” she heard in a weak and gravely tone coming from the sheets in front of her.
8:31
8:31
What’s that thumping? Rowan rolled up off the floor beside the couch where she had been wrapped up in a pile of old afghans and embroidered pillows and headed towards the hallway. They are going to wake Gareth up.
It must be 4 in the morning, she mused to herself blearily. What the fuck were her neighbours doing at this hour? As she approached the chipped front door she heard a long scraping sound and another thump. Peering through the peep hole told her exactly nothing. No one was playing games outside her apartment at least, but there was definite something going on in the hall.
I better put some pants on. If I have to go out and crack heads they might take me more seriously if I wasn’t wearing pink pyjamas with bunnies. Rowan turned her back to the door and took a step toward her bedroom when a heavy weight virtually smashed into the door behind her.
“What the…!” She swung around again she grabbed the door, flicked off the safety chain and threw it open. The vulgarity died on her lips as she gazed down at ratty pile of brown fur that seemed to be covered in blood and mud.
She glanced quickly down the hallway in both directions but there was no one else around. Looking back at the pile of fur she barely swallowed a shriek as it rolled over slightly and she saw that it was actually an animal, a very alive, very bloody animal.
The sight of this pathetic innocent creature started to make her very mad. Who the hell has been torturing animals in my building? And how did arrive at her door? She bent down and tentatively reached out to roll the poor thing over. The coarse fur was matted and unkept and as she pushed it on to its side Rowan saw its head for the first time.
“Oh my god, it’s…”
“My beaver,” came a voice softly over her shoulder.