Wild Thing

Posted by Clizia on September 16, 2003 at 22:45:17:

In the purple gloom between sunset and the kindling of great torches, there came an impatient knocking at the Keeper's door.
“Move yerself, old 'un!”
“What's ado?”
“Here's a wild and pretty thing for the Proctor's table this night.”
“Go home, lads! The hour is passed. Already six wild and pretty things are earmarked for his pleasure. Bring it again on the morrow, when there'll a better reward.”
But the hunters continued banging at the door and shouting, so the elderly Keeper sighed and slid back the bolts.
“Thank ye, old 'un. Now, what d'ye reckon on this? Think ye not the Procter will give handsomely for it?”
Without bothering to look their 'wild and pretty' thing over, the Keeper gave the hunters a barter stone - and reminded them to be back early the following morning if they wanted to collect a reward. He bade them goodnight and tugged the miserable captive - chained by its ankles and wrists – through the door of his Chamber. He cleared his throat,
“Ahem!” He peered into the gloom, “Good Cleaning Wench, where art thou?”
And an old Crone, that had been skulking in her cubby at the back of the Chamber, came slouching over. Holding up a spluttering torch, a snarl twisted on the pasty, pockmarked face of her,
“What d'ye call this?”
“It’s a late arrival for the supper.”
“And I've to start all over on it?”
“'Tis what thou'rt employed for, my duck.”
“It's in a rotten state. Just look at the filth on it!”
Indeed, now that the Keeper stood back, he could appreciate what the Crone had to say. The knees and elbows of the thing were all bruised, its feet and hands bloodied, its haunches caked in excrement and streaked with urine. No doubt the hunters had given it a long chase, and it had shat and pissed itself with fright when driven into their net. But on the positive side, the helpless, naked beast had beauty enough… long, sleek legs, a tight little rump, firm young breasts and a thick plait of jet-black hair curling into the clove of its dirty bum. He guessed it was from the Chocolate Hills. As the Crone fetched up her buckets and cloths, the Keeper decided to ask in its own tongue,
“Where art thou from, my lovely?”
The wild thing started with fright, peering for the first time into his grey, whiskery face. What a cheek! It seemed to forget the dire predicament it was in and cast the old keeper a haughty look,
“You speak?”
“But a few of thy words…”
The thing turned its head away from him. At that moment, the Crone started ladling cold water over its body. It cried out and tried to shake itself free,
“Help! Get this monster off me!”
“Hold still, she's only trying to clean you up!” The Keeper stuffed a few pieces of resinous leaf into the thing's mouth to chew. “Let her do the job in peace!”
Obviously hungry, the wild thing's teeth soon ground the leaves into a nice juicy ball. In spite of this favour, it continued complaining,
“This water's freezing, and the monster's hands are so rough on me!”
The Crone, too, was still moaning about the extra work,
“I've a mind to scrub it red raw!”
The thing, of course, didn't understand the crone's tongue,
“What's this animal saying? Can't you make it stop hurting me?”
The Keeper was careful not to translate the cleaning wench's words directly,
“She's saying how lovely thou art under the dirt, and that she'd open thy pores to the air if thou only gavest her the chance.”
The wild thing, which might never have been cleaned before, shook the excess of water from its goose-bumped hide and did its best to relax. As it got used to the cold, its face lost the red flush of anger and the resigned look of before returned. Meanwhile the Crone began scraping mud and excrement off its legs, dousing it with more water and tutting over her work,
“This one won't last long! They always do the skinniest first. The old Proctor will pass it on to his Scholars.” She pinched its bare thigh, “Look, hardly an ounce of meat on it!”
The wild thing shrieked and demanded to know what the Crone had said. The Keeper stuffed more leaves into its eager mouth, then stood back and stroked his beard,
“She is saying thou wilt make a fine sight at dinner. They shall find tasty bits to dress thee with - and a nice warm place to lie thee down.”
“Then what will happen to me?”
The Keeper pretended to discuss this with the Crone before replying. In fact he asked her about the Proctor's guest list. She told him Blue Boarsthead - that connoisseur of wild and pretty things - was guest of honour. He smiled,
“Thou wilt be stuffed with good food, toasted with strong wine, then introduced to the Proctor's friends. Thou'rt bound to be their favorite.”
“Then shall I be ravaged?”
The wild thing didn't look too worried by the prospect.
“Ravaged, my dear? There's no rapine at the Proctor's table, just eating and drinking!”
“So what shall I do for their pleasure?” It bit its lower lip in mock self-pity.
Again the Keeper pretended to consult the Crone about it, though the question he asked was genuine enough,
“Is there any other entertainment tonight?”
The Crone, having washed the thing's body, began rubbing it with seasoned olive oil.
“A couple of raw Pigmies for afters.”
The Keeper turned back to the wild thing. He patted her swarthy bum (now free of soil and glossy in the torchlight) and handed her a parsnip. An unmistakable gesture indicated what she should do with it,
“Thou wilt be in good hands - the Proctor's himself if thou'rt lucky. Don't worry my dear, the stories thou'st heard of the Academy's goings-on are all fairy tales. The Proctor is just a kindly old man who simply enjoys having wild creatures for dinner.”
The wild thing took the seasoned and buttered vegetable, twirling it in absent-minded fingers. With the resin of chewing-leaf coursing through its veins, its dark, brooding eyes had glazed over somewhat - so even the rough hands of the old Crone, as they rubbed oil into its swarthy flesh, now seemed to soothe and warm it. It ceased shivering, opened its thighs and eased the white parsnip between the pouting red lips of its bushy twat. Then the keeper stuffed another bunch of succulent leaves into its mouth. It chewed with more and more colour in its face.
At last, the Crone had finished her work and handed the chains to the Keeper. He bowed his head to the thing,
“There now, I told thee everything would be fine, did I not?”
It let out a long sigh,
“Oh, I feel do better!” The wild thing crossed its arms, cradling its bosom and raising the proud young dugs, “Perhaps I will enjoy myself here?”
“Be assured thou shalt! Come, let me walk thee in to dinner!”
Blithely adjusting the drape of its chains (which had so weighed it down before), the wild thing accepted the Keeper’s arm. He walked her along a gloomy, stone passageway that turned abruptly into the glow of the Proctor's Great Hall.