Work Text:
There is a musing to be had.
There is a fact that must be reckoned with
(It is terribly embarrassing.)
…
It starts something like this:
Enoch is in the barn, or at least, a fraction of him is. Some fraction of his sum. It is, in the absolute least, where his eyes are. Something like eyes.
Enoch is also, at a similar time, stalking a mouse in the field. That is where his whiskers are. Bilateral existence can be something of a pain to explain.
Regardless, do nevermind all that business of where, when, and why, and what he is where and when, because nonetheless, Enoch is, in enough of a manner to warrant speaking of, in the barn. One of his citizens has entered.
He must have opened the doors when Enoch was not fully looking with the eyes that are, in fact, located on the maypole. Because when he clears his throat (or whatever it is a skeleton clears, do not think on it too much), Enoch starts, more of himself falling into his Maypole, pooling up and into it.
“Enoch!” calls up his citizen, “Are you, well, home?”
What a fascinating way to refer to part of his collective body. A home.
Thaddeus Church, is the man’s name, but that is less important than the tail of the mouse his cat-thing has between its jaws.
“Of course,” says Enoch, despite the fact that he was, perhaps, not entirely ‘home’. He tilts himself down, ribbons pooling across straw and somewhat dusty furniture.
Perhaps it has been a bit since he has inhabited this form. It is, technically, for special occasions. To be the Heart of Pottsfield Town, more than the Mayor.
“Well!” says Thaddeus up at him, “I have brought you a gift.”
A gift.
Now, Enoch is not one to complain, a gift is, of course, a fabulous thing to receive. But gifts are not oft awarded to a mayor whose primary duty is catching mice / driving the turkey plow / allocating finances / being or playing or existing as patron of this place.
He tilts to the side. The wood creaks beneath him. “Is that so? What a wonderful surprise.”
Thaddeus holds out a basket full of hand-carved trinketry, as well as a quartet of cat-sized shoes. He wraps ribbons around it pulls it into his self. He feels, somewhere within the enormity of what he is, touched.
“Thank you, but I must ask.” He withdraws it into his whole, ribbons retreating into his mass. “What is it for?”
“Ah, well.” The man scratches the back of his gourden head, hay of hair falling to the ground. “It's a bit of an anniversary! 100 years since I was dug up, ain't that wonderful, Enoch?”
And Enoch is struck with the fact that, of course, it absolutely is.
….
It may have also started like this:
“Neighbor,” says the Night. He leans against their fence. Elbow resting upon fencepost. His cloak is askew, mud all up his twiggened legs. He is beautiful in the daylight. Light catching in his bark, oil within shining against the sky.
His antler is across the leyline. He does not seem to mind.
“Do you ever find yourself thinking about time? How it is for the humans?” The Beast asks, tilts his head to the side. His Lantern is hooked on his other antler.
It burns in the light still, like a second sun come down to visit him.
“I can't say I have,” replies Enoch. He reaches out, winds a ribbon or two about the Beast's antler. Besides a sideways glance, his neighbor ignores his antics. Enoch takes this as permission to continue. “Why, Neighbor, have you?”
“The humans. They do all sorts of funny, pointless things. I had a couple, recently, who took to my roads to celebrate some number of years they'd spent together. They do that sort of thing. Often. Celebrating time spent.”
Enoch listens, half interested in what his neighbor has to say, half intent on tying as many bows onto him as he can.
“Yes. I do think I've heard of that.” He agrees, tying a third bow, delicate. “I do suppose it has something to do with how finite they are.” And a fourth, although with somewhat too large of loops. He begins a fifth.
“Perhaps,” says the Beast. “Or perhaps they are just looking for a reason to celebrate.” He pulls from the fence, just out of a ribbon’s distance. Enoch mourns. “All the same, it makes my hunts all the easier, to have them miss it.”
The Beast pauses.
“And, Enoch, must you always make a fool of my antlers? It is not exactly threatening to have them there, so nicely done.”
Enoch laughs, and laughs some more.
He will not stop. He doubts The Beast truly wishes him to.
…
It could have even started like this:
It is in the the cutting and clearing a patch of trees from the westmost border that time, for the first time Enoch can recall in any sort of vividness, makes itself known.
Enoch is supervising as a cat. Much easier to maneuver as a cat, much quicker to run than to amble upon four legs than on a trail of a thousand ribbons.
A large old oak is felled. Enoch hops to the stump, and well, there are quite more rings upon it than he had expected.
It feels as if it had only been a season or two since his neighbor had sown these trees to grow. He had watched. The saplings were coaxed from their seeds, made certain to grow by his neighbor’s whim.
He lays himself down, stretches paws and tail as his citizens work. Decides to count the rings. The years.
Centuries had passed. By the rings on the tree, centuries.
He had not felt it.
Not at all.
…
It is a sweet gesture, how humans lean into time, how they celebrate its going. How they mark its passage with gifts. And Enoch wonders: Why should he do otherwise?
It is a sweet thing. And, as Enoch has come to muse upon, a long, long time has passed since he and his neighbor had settled into their patterns.
And in all this time, insomuch as it shames him to say it, he has not given his neighbor a proper gift to mark time’s passing once.
He feels quite selfish over it!
Time has certainly passed, and things, of course, have certainly changed.
There was a time when his neighbor was chased off by a mere glance of catslit eyes.
There was a time when all discussion between them was regarding the border, naught much more.
There was a time when the Beast was only a creature of work and pattern, when he did stop to chat, it was never for long.
Time has passed. Time has changed. Time has differed them both.
And Enoch… well! Certainly, they should celebrate it! Their companionship, the company they’ve spent in each others time. This all.
If word got out he had not… at least in his town, well, it would be an embarrassment.
Regardless, perhaps the Beast would enjoy a gift.
…
It is the acquisition of a gift that Enoch stalls. There are a few requirements he must fulfill, but they are hard ones.
It must be meaningful.
It cannot be a simple thing, a trinket to discard.
He must enjoy it.
He must… It must be something he does not have, as certainly, there are many things his neighbor does have, within his woods.
A meal does not suffice. A new cloak would only be discarded in no long time, as his neighbors’ woods would tear it to yarn fluff in only a dozen short years.
But what to give?
To be physical is to be discarded, he decides. His neighbor is not the type to hang on to objects, not for as long as such a milestone that this may represent.
So what, Enoch wonders, would his neighbor enjoy as a gift?
…
He need not hurry. The trees may be felled, houses may be built, time may pass more yet, but to construct a proper gift takes time.
The Beast is not waiting on it, in any case.
…
He is a small thing, the Beast. This has never escaped Enoch. As small as he is, he is a loud thing, an... impactful sort of thing.
But he is… small. Enwoodened and fragile. Enoch is far too aware of this, for he has shown up with shattered antlers and splintered limbs. Never much to mention it, he does like to play such a thing off as nothing, but when pressed, claims it no large issue. That he has dealt with the problem, and that please, Enoch, may we discuss business?
(Enoch, of course, would disagree, for he would very much like to shatter whatever harmed his neighbor in turn)
(He is fair, and such a deed should be punished as is only fair.)
The Beast is the Lantern, Enoch knows, and so long as its flame does burn, as does he.
But the lantern. The flame within. It is small, bright, yes, but small.
He is a small thing.
But he is also grand, proud, brilliant and cunning. Devious at times, downright manipulative others.
It is fascinating to watch.
Compelling.
(wondrous)
..
The Beast is charming. And he does sing so very well. Enoch can hear it, hear him, calling down the hills, past the straw and stover. Past the fields. His preysong, his leading siren voice to those within his wood. It carries, and..
It is a reminder.
That He is there, within the woods, always there.
Perhaps, Enoch muses, he should write his Beast a song in turn.
…It has been oh so very long since he picked up a fiddle.
Perhaps, Enoch decides, such a thing is the only gift that could possibly be up to standard. Money is no object, nothing expensive will do, but a song, from him to his Neighbor?
Such a thing would be, perhaps, a good gift.
(A priceless one.)
….
Enoch is not a cat. Enoch is not a maypole. Enoch is something far grander than these two things, both but together, separate, and unassociated.
His Beast is but a flicker of light.
A fire.
Enoch is not that. Perhaps he himself could be more likened to a mountain, the ground, or perhaps the yield itself.
That being said: This is a life of nine. There have been before, and there very well may be after. There was a time before he was Mayor. A time before he had conceived of Pottsfield. Was that another life?
He might say it is, but it may have very well been a before, perhaps an after, or an adjacent thing he went off to do in a fit of peregrine wandering.
He had played fiddle then. Badly, at first, though he would rather not have admitted it.
When that was? Who could say. But musical talent persists.
And so Enoch composes.
….
Enoch would not call this a love song.
(Anyone who heard it would.)
…
“Enoch,” says the Beast. He stands at the fence, cloak drawn close about him. “Why have you— and it must have been you, or one of yours, do not deny it, I know your work when I see it—left so terribly many paper notes along the pathway here?”
“I would never deny my meddling,” Enoch purrs, denying that he denies meddling, which is a thing he does do quite often. “Perhaps, Neighbor, it was to lead you here? I do miss you, your company and voice.”
The Beast’s gaze is sharp. Cold. Bright. Unbelieving. (Beautiful, he has beautiful eyes) “No,” he says plainly. “It will have been more than that.”
Enoch laughs, stands, places his paws on the fence. “Do you recall,” he asks, “When we spoke of time?”
“We have many a time, Neighbor.”
“Well, yes.” He did not realize that. “But ah– more specifically, the time we discussed mortals, and their penchant towards celebrating time spent. You brought it up, I believe.”
The Beast looks at him. “Yes?”
It is such a simple sentence, impatient, but Enoch forges on. Time will pass anyway. If his Neighbor is to spend it impatient, who is he to fault him?
“We have shared a fence for a long time, Neighbor,” Enoch begins, “A very long time. You are— I... I do care, Beast, of you, and the time of yours that you lend me. I— well. Beast, I have taken it upon myself to pen you a song. A gift, to you, from me.”
The Beast stares at him, then stands back, tilts his head to him, nods, amused.
Amused, but altogether? Fond. Albeit, if Enoch is to be honest, somewhat shocked.
“Well then, Neighbor.” It is certain now, Enoch can tell, he is fond. “Do show. This had better be good, to pull me from my woods.”
Enoch is apt to ask what it is exactly, that is so important, but he does not, Instead, he retrieves his fiddle, and begins to play.
A gift from one to another. What an inexplicable thing.
…
Among the fields of straw and stover
Clocked in 'til the work day's over
Time's a gentle stream, longer than it seems
Patient is the night
How I long to see her face now
Her starry, moonlit gaze now
I know she's never late, still anxiously I wait
Patient is the night
I know she's never late, still anxiously I wait
Patient is the night