#with the ugliest waterfall known to man | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

attemptsonherlifepdf · 3 years

Text

fantastic mr fox: humanising animals, animalising men, and an exploration of masculine identity

‘this story is too predictable.’ / ‘predictable? really? what happens in the end?’ / ‘in the end, we all die. unless you change.’

mr fox, the titular character of wes anderson’s 2009 stop-motion adaptation of roald dahl’s children’s book, is a portrait of two conflicting manifestations of masculinity. he is built to demonstrate the crossover between tradition and modernity, between wild and civilised. characterised as a charming gentleman, almost renowned for his recklessness, mr fox combines his undomesticated instincts with a carefully crafted domestic life. he appears to spend more time manufacturing a perfect home and family than he does actually participating in it. the events of the movie serve to strip away his facade and present both the audience and protagonist with a harsh reality to deal with: the juxtaposing aspects of his identity that he must contend with in order to survive his situation. these aspects are demonstrated through the use of anthropomorphic animals. in essence, the text attempts to convey the message that while you can associate your actions with animal or human traits in order to characterise and frame them, you cannot change their value and their consequences. it serves as a critique of how the nature of male identity is exploited to shunt responsibility, and the movie specifically promotes a more collectivist mentality.

there are four key scenes that mark mr fox’s journey in terms of his identity. initially, we first see his identity openly questioned once he has moved into a new home (a large and expensive tree), just prior to him revealing his ‘master plan’ to kylie, who becomes his assistant of sorts. he asks, ‘why a fox? why not a horse, or a beetle, or a bald eagle? i’m saying this more as, like, existentialism, you know? who am i? and how can a fox ever be happy without, you’ll forgive the expression, a chicken in its teeth?’ he attributes his identity with the ability to fulfil his base desires, like he could in his youth. aspects of his later life such as employment, family, and safety restrict his ability and leaves him feeling untethered from himself. the movie opens with his youthful vibrance and recklessness, and is quickly contrasted with his dissatisfaction with his job, home, and life in general.

MR FOX

i dont want to live in a hole anymore. it makes me feel poor.

MRS FOX

we are poor, but we’re happy.

MR FOX

comme ci, come ca...

does anyone actually read my column?

having been moved out of the hole and into an expensive tree, mrs fox asks her husband:

MRS FOX

do you still feel poor?

MR FOX

less so.

constructing the ideal domestic space for himself and his family does not satisfy mr fox and he yearns for more, which is where is existentialism and ‘master plan’ come into play. domesticity was never going to satisfy mr fox, as he yearns for something youthful and risky and dazzling, adjectives not usually applied to a quiet and content home life. the consequences of this dissatisfaction are drastic and almost immediate.

soon, having been forced out of his new home and underground by an attack from the farmers, mr fox is faced with a situation he cannot charm his way out of. he attempts to apologise to his son and recite a speech to raise the morale of his family, and both of these attempts are shut down by those around him. the facade of his elaborate home, his monologues, even his suits, are abruptly stripped away leaving him with only his actions which he cannot charm his way out of. the reality is that he and his family, his neighbourhood, is stuck underground with no means of food as a result of his selfish actions. this prompts yet another key scene; his argument with felicity, which begins with her viciously hissing and scratching his face.

MRS FOX

why did you lie to me?

MR FOX

because im a wild animal.

MRS FOX

you are also a husband, and a father.

MR FOX

im trying to tell you the truth about myself.

MRS FOX

i dont care about the truth about yourself. this story is too predictable.

MR FOX

predictable? really? what happens in the end?

MRS FOX

in the end, we all die. unless you change.

mrs fox’s physical attack on her husbands face serves as a display of genuine animal ferocity, making mr fox’s claim to being a ‘wild animal’ appear as a flimsy excuse for his behaviour. his chicken theft, which he was insistent upon regardless of the consequences, was motivated not by animal instincts but a selfish desire to feel a particular version of his own masculinity. disregarding the safety of his family actually seems like a natural byproduct of his master plans because he is trying to reclaim his masculinity from a time before his family existed, and in his eyes, restricted him. the very recent loss of his tail, combined with this conversation with his wife, is a harsh reality check for mr fox in terms of the dangers of his masculinity.

the audience sees the outcome of this conversation later on, in the waterfall scene. here mr fox admits to his insecurities and suggests sacrificing himself to the farmers to save the local community.

MR FOX

darling, maybe they’ll let everyone else live!

…

MR FOX

foxes traditionally like to court danger, hunt prey and outsmart predators, and that’s what im actually good at…i guess at the end of the day im just-

MRS FOX

i know. we’re wild animals.

the difference between this admission to animalism and the one from his argument with felicity is that here, both parties gain some acceptance of their animalism without using it as an excuse for their behaviour. the inclusion of others in animalism – ‘we’re’ wild animals, rather than ‘i am’ a wild animal – contributes to illustrate how wildness is not specific to masculinity. it is not femininity vs masculinity but animals vs man.

the movie also questions the nature of an animal in the final key scene known as ‘canis lupus.’ wes Anderson referred to this scene as ‘the reason im making this movie.’ throughout the movie, mr fox alludes to his ‘phobia of wolves’ and shuts down any conversation surrounding them:

MR FOX

scared? no, i have a phobia of them!...a wolf? what’s with all the wolf talk? can we give it a rest for once?

arguably, these reactions are representative of mr fox’s aversion to competitive masculinity. he shuts down any opportunity for those around him to discuss something he sees as more masculine than himself in order to feel secure in his own masculinity. critic shana mlawski argues that ‘the wolf is described as the wildest, most frightening, and yet most beautiful creature in the world. mr fox fears the wolf and yet wants to be exactly like him. we can thus say that mr fox fears pure, wild masculinity yet also yearns to own it himself.’ the scene holds an eerie familiarity to it; mr fox is recognising something that he thought would be a reflection of himself, but the wild animal is no longer familiar to him anymore. he now accepts his role as a husband and a father and no longer fights to overtly express his animalism in the same way as the wolf. the most he can offer the wolf is raising his fist in solidarity. he calls out to the wolf, ‘i have a phobia of wolves!’, which is an interesting moment to admit this in. it’s his acceptance that allows him to admit this. the scene is entirely compromised of male characters: mr fox, kristofferson, ash, kylie and the wolf. mr fox’s admission to his fear allows him to be vulnerable in front of these people he cares about, and to use this as a teaching moment for the young boys.

MR FOX

what a beautiful creature. wish him luck out there, boys.

here mr fox openly admits his admiration for someone else’s masculinity in front of others without showing signs of his own insecurity. he can admire the wolf for what he is without seeing him as competition. the scene allows the audience to see and directly compare two forms of masculinity and animalism, and to understand that there is no one true expression of either of those traits. the wolf has connotations of violence and ferocity, whereas mr fox and his suit and display of multilingualism are entirely modern, but both are masculine animals who are valid in their own right. either way, both animals rely on violence for survival at times.

kupfer frames violence in three ways: symbolically, structurally and as a narrative essential. there are various forms of violence within this narrative, namely mr fox killing chickens and squabs, and the three farmers’ attack on the animal community. symbolically, mr fox’s chicken theft is attributed to his masculinity. while it is often presented as thought-out ‘master plans’, his desire to enact this violence in the first place supposedly stems from his ‘wild animal’ instincts. he associates a time where he felt secure in his masculinity with his actions at the time (violence). structurally, we see the potential for this violence in the opening scene, where mr fox takes his wife chicken-stealing and they become trapped. he is stuck in a fox trap with his wife when he receives the news of his impending fatherhood, a relatively obvious symbol for his view of fatherhood in general. the news of his wife’s pregnancy disrupts his ability to continue stealing chickens, not just on this specific occasion but through the coming years as well. mr fox appears to view family life as an unfulfilling, less raw expression of his masculinity, and is shown to be wholly dissatisfied with his life.

the violence on the farmers’ behalf is almost always in reaction to mr fox’s violence, already giving it a structural framing. boggis, bunch and bean are referred to early on in the film as the ‘meanest, nastiest and ugliest farmers on the side of the river.’ their violence against mr fox and subsequently the local animal community is an attempt to gain back power and status. mr fox’s actions are “humiliating’ and the local news coverage of this exchange between the farmers and animals raises the stakes as now the reputation of these farmers is on the line as well as their power. violence here serves as a narrative essential because it drives mr fox into a situation that forces him to confront his issues with masculinity and splitting between his animal and human traits, giving the text/movie a fulfilling arc. violence is

introduced as inherently masculine, but is decoupled from masculinity by the ending. mrs fox also plays a small but significant role in this; at various moments in the movie she exhibits her own displays of aggression equal in intensity to the men around her, suggesting to the audience that forms of violence should be categorised as human vs animal rather than male vs female. examples of this behaviour include her clawing at her husband’s face, and a parallel between her and a male human character wherein they both connect two wires and shout ‘contact!’, causing an explosion. while this moment is brief, it highlights a distinct difference between animals being violent and men. humans’ aggression is driven by the need for power, whereas that of animals is driven by the need for survival. the man paralleled with felicity only sparked the explosion to destroy mr fox’s home and assert the dominance of the three farmers, while mrs fox used the same form of violence to enact a plan to save her nephew’s life. petey’s song even alludes to this sentiment: ‘well he stole, and he cheated, and he lied just to survive.’

mr fox’s tail becomes a symbol of power; bean wears it as a necktie, and mr fox feels emasculated by his loss.

MR FOX

one of those slovenly farmers is probably wearing my tail as a necktie right now.

…

BADGER

i cant even imagine how painful, even just emotionally, that must be for you… oh but foxy how humiliating, having your tail blown clean off by-

MR FOX

can we drop it?

the use of the tail as a necktie is a symbol of the power that mr fox and the farmers end up jostling to achieve: at first it belongs to mr fox, then to the farmers, and is eventually reclaimed once more by the fox.

MR FOX

you shot off my tail.

[through gritted teeth] i’m not leaving here without that necktie.

when he reclaims his tail towards the end of the movie, it has been torn to shreds and needs ‘dry cleaning twice a week’ to maintain itself. this can be interpreted as a symbol for his evolved definitions of masculinity and power: his masculinity is no longer defined by impressing people or stealing or killing chickens, but in the quiet satisfaction of having a family. the final scene reveals that mrs fox is pregnant again, and instead of her glowing and her husband giving an awkward grin like in the opening scene, both of the spouses ‘glow.’ the structural framing of these pregnancy reveals bookending the events of the movie allows anderson to demonstrate mr fox’s growth and change in his priorities. the domestic life appears to be enough for him, and he no longer seems to find it emasculating,

what stands out as particularly modern about mr fox is how he unconsciously separates himself from both his wildness and his suburban self in his effort to combine them. he uses his ‘wildness’ as an excuse for his violence and selfishness, but is ultimately not willing to participate in truly wild forms of violence and selfishness, such has hunting. his chicken thefts always include infiltrating a human site, like boggis, bunce and bean’s farms, and the fun of it is in outsmarting them, rather than finding those animals himself out in the wild. the local animal community essentially functions as we would expect a rural village occupied by humans to function: everyone knows everyone, there is one local school and various small and quaint homes. while the setting reflects anderson’s signature style, it is also reflective of dahl’s framing of the community in the original text.

mr fox comes across as an individual who believes himself to be above the somewhat backward mentality of his village, that he is the most civilised and dazzling and original, and he exaggerates these traits in himself out of insecurity: ‘if they arent dazzled and blown away and kind of intimidated by me, then i dont feel good about myself.’this is also reflected in his consistent ‘trademark’, his whistle-and-click combination that he uses to set himself apart from other foxes. his home is also a reflection of this:

MRS FOX

you know, foxes live in holes for a reason.

MR FOX

[grunts and tilts head in disagreement]

yes and no.

this insecurity and desire for outsider approval and individuality is inherently human, a quality of his that cannot really be associated with his animalised parts. this precarious sense of identity and self doubt separates him from his ‘wildness’ as it stands, which is only intensified by the fact that he compensates by exaggerating his human traits in order to be liked and feel worthy, as those are the traits he believes have the most value. towards the end of mr fox’s character arc, he is forced to admit that his need for external validation is flawed and unsustainable. when the façade of carefully constructed grandeur is literally washed away by bean, he is left with nothing but his actions and their implications for those around him. foxy reconciles with the relative insignificance of an identity based on other’s perceptions of you when rat dies soon after, reacting to the suggestion that he redeemed himself last minute by revealing ash’s location:

MR FOX

redemption? sure. but in the end, he’s just another dead rat in a garbage pail behind a chinese restaurant.

this moment is also used to inadvertently allow the audience to evaluate the significance of motivation and intention to the value of an action. although rat did reveal useful information to aid the group in saving Kristofferson, mr fox recognises that he only did so because he realised he could not win this fight.

MR FOX

would you have told me if i didn’t kill you first?

RAT

never.

mr fox’s own motivations throughout the movie have devalued his actions as they have mostly been self-serving. as his motivations evolve to centre around his family, he gains the perspective to understand why one’s intentions are so important. while intention does not entirely dictate how good one’s actions are, they certainly characterise the person who’s action it is. your actions have value and consequences as they are, and that cannot be changed by dressing them up or animalising them to distance yourself.

in essence, fantastic mr fox is a lesson in the value of including those around you in your mentality and worldview. it paints masculinity as something that is inherent and complex in nature, but promotes the idea that it is not stuck with its traditional connotations of violence and egoism. mr fox’s emotional development throughout the text mostly centres around his own insecurities surrounding his masculinity and how that causes him to overcompensate in ways that harm those around him. by the end he recognises that more tame and domestic forms of masculinity are just as valid, and that basing his self-worth on how ‘dazzled’ his peers are by him is immature and not constructive. his family now liberates him and allows him to be vulnerable rather than restricting how he feels he can express himself, and as a unit the animals beat the farmers in their game of power-seeking. mr fox recognises and appreciates both his human and animal traits, without using them as a means to excuse his behaviour or to feel bad about his worth.

MR FOX

i guess my point is, we’ll eat tonight, and we’ll eat together. and even in this not particularly flattering light, you are without a doubt the five and a half most wonderful wild animals ive ever met in my life. so let’s raise our boxes – to our survival.

i.k.b

862 notes · View notes

chickenmcstucky · 3 years

Text

From the Shadows

Bucky Barnes x reader

Angst, fluff || ~2k

She’d been watching him. Always silent, always alone, the White Wolf carried on. When she overhears the plan to test his recovery, she is inexplicably drawn to the place where he - Bucky - will be tested. But the night won’t hide her forever.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. She shouldn’t even know it was happening. A hushed conversation in Shuri’s lab had fallen on carefully tuned ears listening from a vent above. She knew eavesdropping was wrong, but she was drawn to the long-haired man who couldn’t hide the sadness swimming in his crystal eyes.

***

To be honest, she wasn’t sure he even knew of her existence past stolen glances around the palace complex and gentle waves through golden grasses in the border lands where the man kept his home. She knew his story - how could she not - knew why he was there in Wakanda. He sought peace, healing. Safety. He - Bucky, her mind supplied - drew her in inexplicably. Perhaps it was the foreignness of his presence in her home, perhaps the quiet way he carried himself so as not to impose on the world around him, perhaps the wistful longing on his face when he thought no one was watching. But she was watching.

Sometimes, she felt guilty about it; shame for spying on this man’s life when he so clearly removed himself from those around him. Yet she was convicted - a man with such depth shouldn’t be overlooked. He deserved for someone to watch him, to notice him. Her heart broke watching him go about his life alone. She had always had a bleeding heart but this was something new even to her. They had never even exchanged words yet her day was incomplete if she didn’t rest her gaze on his lonely silhouette. She yearned to reach out and touch him, feel him, know him. She sensed a kindness within him and yet her fear of rejection, of overstepping kept her at arm’s length.

Until now. Until she was in the right place at the right time and learned what was planned for that night. All afternoon she agonized over it, terrified it would go wrong, that Bucky would hurt himself or others and retreat further into his shell, never to come out again. She thought part of her heart might die if she lost even this most tenuous connection with him.

***

Now, instead of holding her back from him, her fear spurred her forward into the warm night. The lump in her throat grew with every step along the hidden path to the clearing where she knew she’d find Ayo, find him. Every inch she stole closer to the distant fire brought fear anew she would be caught, reprimanded. Sent away from her blue-eyed boy. She knew she was intruding, was sure he would be angry that some young girl he barely knew was watching this ugliest part of him be bared to the starry sky. Still, she kept on.

Slowly, she crept to the edge of the trees, miraculously unnoticed by the two figures shrouded in flickering shadow. Suddenly the flame jumped, the small fire bursting into the air, and she saw his face. Framed by loose tendrils of chestnut hair, he was beautiful even as his expression twisted in pain. The calm voice of Ayo carried across the clearing to her ears as she realized the process had already begun. Her breath caught in her chest as she watched Bucky’s sobbing form. She ached to run to him, to take him in her arms and shield him from the danger, but the beast was inside him and she was helpless but to watch, and hope for his healing.

Tears cascaded down her cheeks as she watched Bucky’s face contort with pain and fear with every new word that fell from Ayo’s lips, and yet the warrior showed no fear. The girl began to believe it was working, that the broken man could become whole again.

His voice, thick with tears, cut through her reverie. “It’s not gonna work,” he gasped, defeat and terror in his voice. Her heart tore its way out of her chest, yearning to soar to him and revive his fractured soul.

Ayo continued, determined and confident. “Рассвет,” she intoned. “Печь.” Bucky’s chest heaved with gut-wrenching sobs; she could see the fight within himself.

“Девять,” the wretched man grimaced, thousand-yard stare boring into the flame as he battled demons she could not see. “Неопасный,” a fresh waterfall of salty tears escaped her traitorous eyes as she saw the pain etched on his face, saw the tears swimming in his eyes.

“возвращение домой,” Ayo’s voice grew stronger, louder. The moment of truth approached as the flames flickered across their faces, one composed and determined, the other fracturing infinitely. “Один.”

Bucky bared his teeth as she crept forward, her feet moving without permission, inching her closer to the freedom of the clearing. “грузовой вагон,” his glassy eyes spilled over, tears running down his ruddy cheeks.

His body shook violently, his piercing gaze never leaving the fire, as if he feared what he might see if he looked up. His beautiful face scrunched in agony as Ayo’s final word hung in the air, its specter holding the girl’s breath hostage. Enraptured and terrified, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scene.

Ayo’s graceful expression gave way to a small smile as she uttered salvation. “You are free.”

This man, this beautiful broken soul that she knew held fathoms of love, kindness, and pain, this brave warrior, crumpled. Disbelief twisted his face as he sobbed, his teary eyes bright in the fire light. Finally, he raised his head as his gaze met Ayo’s in cautious joy.

“You are free,” the kind warrior repeated, and the girl’s heart soared. It had worked. She let out a breathy sob, slapping her hand over her mouth as she realized what she had done. It seemed the pair didn’t notice, and she peered on as Bucky broke down in true sobs, no longer reigning himself in. His heart clear on his face, she saw the relief in his eyes, the agony in his tears, the joy in his red cheeks. This defeated man had finally reached the promised land, and it was tearing him apart. It was tearing her apart; she felt her soul rupture and rebuild around his. Though merely an uninvited witness to this sacred moment, she felt part and parcel now of his new beginning. She felt hope grow within her, and, closing her eyes, she willed it to him.

He clenched his fist to his shaking lips. Hope glimmered in his crystalline eyes; she wondered if it was hers.

An eternity passed as she beheld his reckoning. He racked with sobs, a man brought back from the dead and given a new life.

***

“You can come out now.”

She should’ve known she wasn’t unnoticed. The sharp voice tore her from the trance Bucky’s salvation had put her in. Ayo’s command left no room for running or pleading. She stepped forward into the clearing, revealing herself to the pair.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. Shame pierced her to her core as his eyes met hers across the flames, confusion in his still shining eyes. Then - recognition. Her shame gave way to warmth.

His sweet lips formed her name, and she was reborn. She had never allowed herself to believe he might find her worthy of the same courtesy she had granted him, that he would see her and ache to know her. Yet the care with which her name left his lips left her with no explanation but this. A strange sensation of being known came over her, and she wondered if he shared in it.

Drawn forward by the promise of his teary eyes, she made her way to his side. The heat of the fire licked at her skin, yet she was chilled by the prospect in the air, the idea she might finally share a moment with this man she’s warped her life around these past months of his recovery. Until this moment, neither had realized how deep the other had burrowed themselves, irrevocably building a home in each of their broken hearts.

Caught in a trance once more, neither of them noticed Ayo slip into the darkness, towards the path back to the city.

Still standing over his seated figure, she reached a hand to caress his wet cheek. His eyes fluttered shut as he gently leaned into her soft hand. It felt like a homecoming.

He placed his larger, calloused hand over hers, cupping her nimble fingers in his own as he pulled her hand from his cheek and grasped it tightly. He moored himself to her, no longer adrift in agony and unrest. He was found.

Slowly, he stood and her gaze followed him up, refusing to leave his. Her name left his lips again with a smile. “You’re still watching me, little one? After all this time?”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, but her eyes didn’t leave his. She had been found, right where she wanted. No longer did she need to hide from him.

“I thought you didn’t see me,” she whispered, disbelieving even as his blue eyes stared right into her soul that he would take the time to notice her, to know her.

“You’re all I see, now,” his voice caressed and grounded her as his hand clutched hers tighter, her own hand tightening in return.

Gently, she reached her other hand back to his face and wiped away the lingering tears, yet more took their place as he smiled into her touch. Suddenly he was in her arms as if the earth herself had moved them. His sweet face pressed into the crook of her neck as he sobbed anew, his arms clutching at her sides as she wrapped her own around him, caressing down his back and running her fingers through his unruly locks.

“It’s alright, it’s alright now,” she cooed, heart breaking and mending in tandem with his. She wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, as she gave him the comfort he so desperately craved. A celebration of his renewal, a mourning of his lost past. A vision of their now mingled paths.

Finally, he broke from their embrace. “Ayo...she’s gone,” he said, his voice raspy.

“The Dora do not often dawdle after a successful mission,” she replied. “Her job is done.”

“You are free,” she whispered. “Free,” louder this time.

And - oh. He laughed and her heart ascended to the stars, yearning for more of his sweet sounds.

“Thank you,” his soft voice was convicted.

“But..I did nothing,” she was bewildered. How could he thank her, when she’d merely stumbled upon a forbidden moment?

“I felt your eyes on me, felt you watching from a distance. You made me feel worthy even when I knew I wasn’t,” his voice broke. “You gave me the courage to fight, and to make it to this night. I found myself so that I could look back at you and feel deserving of your grace.”

“But,” she gasped, tears running down her cheeks once more, “how could you feel all that? How could you - me?” she breathed, her eyes widening with incredulity.

Not finding the words to answer, he simply leaned down and pressed his lips to hers with a gentleness that could move mountains. Her eyes drifted shut as he chastely kissed her.

“You,” he affirmed as he pulled back. “You.”

Now his turn to wipe away her tears, his hand lingered at her cheek as he leaned in once more for a soft kiss. Innocent, but filled with promise.

“May I walk you home?” his voice was sure, but the uncertainty lingered in his eyes.

Smiling, “It’s a long walk,” she laughed wetly, the tears not long gone.

“I’ve got time,” his own soft smile matched hers, and he lifted their clasped hands to his lips, brushing her knuckles. His lips met hers once more, and they walked on into the night.

***

#Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes x female! reader #Bucky Barnes fanfic #Bucky Barnes #Wakanda! Bucky x reader #mcu fanfic #Bucky Barnes angst #Bucky Barnes fluff #fatws #tfatws #fatws spoilers #falcon and the winter soldier #fanfic #fanfiction #Marvel fanfiction #Bucky Barnes fanfiction

165 notes · View notes

your-disobedient-servant · 3 years

Text

Voltaire’s Paméla Letters Translated: Intro and Letter #1

The letters that Voltaire rewrote in the vein of Richardson’s Paméla after his falling out with Frederick the Great have intrigued me ever since I first heard of them in November or December. Only discovered to have been a rewrite and not originals in the late 20th century, it’s hard to say how much of it is authentic and how much exaggerated or made up, but for me, the fact that they have been altered only adds to the fascination.

Six months into learning French, I’m still not sure I’m quite ready to use this as translation exercises, but I’m impatient, I found the book for very cheap, and besides, I feel that to translate Voltaire you must channel some of the hubris, so bring it on. Poetry (to my surprise, it turns out I actually enjoy translating poetry in some masochistic way) and all. In the end, I am proud of the result.

This is not a very juicy letter, but I’m sure one will come along soon enough. I’m not sure how many will I be able to complete because there’s about fifty of them altogether, but I hope I manage at least a few.

Big thanks to everyone who helped me out with the draft. The rest under the cut for brevity, English followed by original French.

FIRST LETTER

In Clèves, July 1750

It is to you, please, niece of mine, to you, woman of a wit superb, philosopher of the selfsame kind, to you who, like me, of Permesse, knows the many paths diverse; it is to you I now address this disarray of prose and verse, recount my long odyssey's story; recount unlike I back then did when, in my splendid age's glory, I still kept to Apollo's writ; when I dared, perhaps courting disaster, for counsel strike for Paris forth, notwithstanding our minds' worth, the god of Taste, my foremost master!

This journey is only too true, and puts too much distance between you and me. Do not imagine that I want to rival Chapelle, who has made, I do not know how, such a reputation for himself for having been from Paris to Monpellier and to papal land, and for having reported to a gourmand.

It was not, perhaps, difficult when one wished to mock monsieur d'Assoucy. We need another style, we need another pen, to portray this Plato, this Solon, this Achilles who writes his verses at Sans-Souci. I could tell you of that charming retreat, portray this hero philosopher and warrior, so terrible to Austria, so trivial for me; however, that could bore you.

Besides, I am not yet at his court and you should not anticipate anything: I want order even in my letters. Therefore know that I left Compiègne on July 25th, taking my road to Flanders, and as a good historiographer and a good citizen, I went to see the fields of Fontenoy, of Rocoux and of Lawfeld on my way. There was no trace of it left: all of it was covered with the finest wheat in the world. The Flemish men and women were dancing, as if nothing had happened.

Go on, innocent eyes of this bad-mannered populace; reign, lovely Ceres, where Bellona once flourished; countryside fertilised with blood of our warriors, I like better your harvests than all of the laurels: provided by chance and by vanity nourished Oh! that grand projects were prevented by doom! Oh! fruitless victories! Oh! the blood spilled in vain! French, English, German so tranquil today did we have to slit throats for friendship to bloom!

I went to Clèves hoping to find there the stage stations that all the bailiwicks provide, at the order of the king of Prussia, to those who to go to philosophise to Sans-Souci with the Solomon of the North and on whom the king bestows the favour of travelling at his expense: but the order of the king of Prussia had stayed in Wesel in the hands of a man who received it as the Spanish receive the papal bulls, with the deepest respect, and without putting them to any use. So I spent a few days in the castle of this princess that madame de La Fayette made so famous.

But this heroine and the duc of Nemours, we ignore in these places the gallant adventure; for it is not here, I vow, the land of novels, nor the one of love.

It is a shame, for the country seems made for the princesses of Clèves: it is the most beautiful place of nature and art has further added to its position. It is a view superior to that of Meudon; it is a land covered in vegetation like the Champs-Élysées and the forests of Boulogne; it is a hill covered in gently sloping avenues of trees: a large pool collects the waters of this hill; in the middle of the pool stands a statue of Minerva. The water of this first pool is received by a second, which returns it to the third; and at the foot of the hill ends in a waterfall pouring into a vast, semi-circular grotto. The waterfall lets the waters spill into a canal, which goes on to water a vast meadow and joins a branch of the Rhine. Mademoiselle de Scudéri and La Calprenède would have filled a volume of their novels with this description; but I, historiographer, I will only tell you that a certain prince Maurice de Nassau, the governor, during his lifetime, of this lovely solitude devised nearly all of these wonders there. He lies buried in the middle of the forest, in a great devil of an iron tomb, surrounded by all the ugliest bas-reliefs of the time of the Roman empire's decadence, and some gothic monuments that are worse still. But all of it would be something very respectable for those deep minds who fall into ecstasy at the sight of poorly cut stone, as long as it is two thousand years old.

Another ancient monument, the remains of a great stone road, built by the Romans, which led to Frankfurt, to Vienna, and to Constantinople. The Holy Empire devolved into Germany has fallen a little bit from its magnificence. One gets stuck in the mud in the summer nowadays, in the august Germania. Of all the modern nations, France and the little country of Belgium are the only ones who have roads worthy of Antiquity. We could above all boast of surpassing the ancient Romans in cabaret; and there are still certain points on which we equal them: but in the end, when it comes to durable, useful, magnificent monuments, which people can come close to them? which monarch does in his kingdom what a procosul did in Nîmes and in Arles?

Perfect in the trivial, in trifles sublime great inventors of nothing, envy we excite. Let our minds to the supreme heights strive of the children of Romulus so proud: they did a hundred times more for the vanquished crowd than we solely for ourselves contrive.

In the end, notwithstanding the beauty of the location of Clèves, notwithstanding the Roman road, in spite of a tower believed to have been built by Julius Caesar, or at least by Germanicus; in spite of the inscriptions of the twenty-sixth legion that quartered here for the winter; in spite of the lovely tree-lined roads planted by prince Maurice, and his grand iron tomb; in spite of, lastly, the mineral waters recently discovered here, there are hardly any crowds in Clèves. The waters there are, however, just as good as those of Spa or of Forges; and one cannot swallow the little atoms of iron in a more beautiful place. But it does not suffice, as you know, to have merits to be fashionable: usefulness and pleasantness are here; but this delicious retreat is frequented only by a few Dutchmen, who are attracted by the proximity and the low prices of living and houses there, and who come to admire and to drink.

I found there, to my great satisfaction, a well-known Dutch poet, who gave us the honour of elegantly, and even verse for verse, translating our tragedies, good or bad, to Dutch. Perhaps one day we will be reduced to translating the tragedies of Amsterdam: every nation gets their turn.

The Roman ladies, who leered at their lovers at the theatre of Pompeii, did not suspect that one day, in the middle of Gaul, in a little town called Lutèce, we would produce better plays than Rome.

The order of the king regarding the stage stations has finally reached me; so my delight at the princess of Clèves' place is over, and I am leaving for Berlin.

***

LETTRE PREMIÈRE

À Clèves, juillet 1750

C'est à vous, s'il vous plaît, ma nièce, vous, femme d'esprit sans travers, philosophe de mon espèce, vous qui, comme moi, du Permesse connaisez les sentiers divers ; c'est à vous qu'en courant j'adresse ce fatras de prose et de vers, ce récit de mon long voyage ; non tel que j'en fis autrefois quand, dans la fleur de mon bel âge, d'Apollon je suivais les lois ; quand j'osai, trop hardi peut-être, aller consulter à Paris, en dépit de nos beaux esprits, le dieu du Goût mon premier maître !

Ce voyage-ci n'est que trop vrai, et ne m'éloigne que trop du vous. N'allez pas vous imaginer que je veulle égaler Chapelle, qui s'est fait, je ne sais comment, tant de réputation, pour avoir été de Paris à Montpellier et en terre papale, et en avoir rendu compte à un gourmand.

Ce n'était pas peut-être un emploi difficile de railler monsieur d'Assoucy. Il faut une autre plume, il faut une autre style, pour peindre ce Platon, ce Solon, cet Achille qui fait des vers à Sans-Souci. Je pourrais vous parler de ce charmant asile, vous peindre ce héros philosophe et guerrier, si terrible à l'Autriche, et pour moi si facile ; mais je pourrais vous ennuyer.

D'ailleurs je ne suis pas encore à sa cour, et il ne faut rien anticiper : je veux de l'ordre jusque dans mes lettres. Sachez donc que je partis de Compiègne le 25 de juillet, prenant ma route par la Flandre, et qu'en bon historiographe et en bon citoyen, j'allai voir en passant les champs de Fontenoy, de Rocoux et de Lawfeld. Il n'y paraissait pas : tout cela était couvert des plus beaux blés du monde. Les Flamands et les Flamandes dansaient, comme si de rien n'eût été.

Durez, yeux innocents de ces peuples grossiers ; régnez, belle Cérès, où triompha Bellone ; campagnes qu'engraissa le sang de nos guerriers, j'aime mieux vos moissons que celles des lauriers : la vanité les cueille et le hasard les donne. Ô que de grands projets par le sort démentis ! Ô victoires sans fruits ! Ô meurtres inutiles ! Français, Anglais, Germains, aujourd'hui si tranquilles fallait-il s'égorger pour être bons amis !

J'ai été à Clèves comptant y trouver des relais que tous les bailliages fournissent, moyennant un ordre du roi de Prusse, à ceux qui vont philosopher à Sans-Souci auprès du Salomon du Nord et à qui le roi accorde la faveur de voyager à ses dépens : mais l'ordre du roi de Prusse était resté à Vesel entre les mains d'un homme qui l'a reçu comme les Espagnols reçoivent les bulles des papes, avec le plus profond respect, et sans en faire aucun usage. Je me suis donc quelques jours dans le château de cette princesse que madame de La Fayette a rendu si fameux.

Mais de cette heroïne, et du duc de Nemours, on ignore en ces lieux la galante aventure : ce n'est pas ici, je vous jure, le pays des romans, ni celui des amours.

C'est dommage, car le pays semble fait pour des princesses de Clèves : c'est le plus beau lieu de nature et l'art a encore ajouté à sa situation. C'est une vue supérieure à celle de Meudon ; c'est un terrain planté comme les Champs-Élysées et le bois de Boulogne ; c'est une colline couverte d'allées d'arbres en pente douce : un grand bassin reçoit les eaux de cette colline ; au milieu du bassin s'élève une statue de Minerve. L'eau de ce premier bassin est reçue dans un second, qui la renvoie à un troisième ; et le bas de la colline est terminé par une cascade ménagée dans une vaste grotte en demi-cercle. La cascade laisse tomber les eaux dans un canal qui va arroser une vaste prairie et se joindre à un bras du Rhin. Mademoiselle de Scudéri et La Calprenède auraient rempli de cette description un tome de leurs romans ; mais moi, historiographe, je vous dirai seulement qu'un certain prince Maurice de Nassau, gouverneur, de son vivant, de cette belle solitude, y fit presque toutes ces merveilles. Il s'est fait enterrer au milieu des bois, dans un grand diable de tombeau de fer, environné de tous les plus vilains bas-reliefs du temps de la décadence de l'empire romain, et de quelques monuments gothiques plus grossiers encore. Mais le tout serait quelque chose de fort respectable pour ces esprits profonds qui tombent en extase à la vue d'une pierre mal taillée, pour peu qu'elle ait deux mille ans d'antiquité.

Un autre monument antique, c'est le reste d'un grand chemin pavé, construit par les Romains, qui allait à Francfort, à Vienne et à Constantinople. Le Saint-Empire dévolu à l'Allemagne est un peu déchu de sa magnificence. On s'embourbe aujourd'hui en été, dans l'auguste Germanie. De toutes les nations modernes, la France et la petit pays des Belges sont les seules qui aient des chemins dignes de l'Antiquité. Nous pouvons surtout nous vanter de passer les anciens Romains en cabarets ; et il y a encore certains points sur lesquels nous les valons bien : mais enfin, pour les monuments durables, utiles, magnifiques, quel peuple approche d'eux ? quel monarque fait dans son royaume ce qu'un proconsul faisait dans Nîmes et dans Arles ?

Parfait dans le petit, sublimes en bijoux, grands inventeurs de riens, nous faisons des jaloux. Elevons nos esprits à la hauteur suprême des fiers enfants de Romulus : ils faisaient plus cent fois pour des peuples vaincus que nous ne faisons pour nous-mêmes.

Enfin, malgré la beauté de la situation de Clèves, malgré le chemin des Romains, en dépit d'une tour qu'on croit bâtie par Jules César, ou au moins par Germanicus ; en dépit des inscriptions d'une vingt-sixième légion qui était ici en quartier d'hiver ; en dépit des belles allées plantées par le prince Maurice, et de son grand tombeau de fer ; en dépit enfin des eaux minérales découvertes ici depuis peu, il n'y a guère d'affluence à Clèves. Les eaux y sont cependant aussi bonnes que celles de Spa et de Forges ; et on ne peut avaler de petits atomes de fer dans un plus beau lieu. Mais il ne suffit pas, comme vous savez, d'avoir du mérite pour avoir la vogue : l'utile et l'agréable sont ici ; mais ce séjour délicieux n'est fréquenté que par quelques Hollandais que le voisinage et le bas prix des vivres et de maisons y attirent, et qui viennent admirer et boire.

J'y ai retrouvé, avec une très grande satisfaction, un célèbre poète hollandais, qui nous a fait l'honneur de traduire élégamment en batave, et même vers pour vers, nos tragédies bonnes ou mauvaises. Peut-être un jour viendra que nous serons réduits à traduire les tragédies d'Amsterdam : chaque peuple a son tour.

Les dames romaines, qui allaient lorgner leurs amants au théâtre de Pompée, ne se doutaient pas qu'un jour au milieu des Gaules, dans un petit bourg nommé Lutèce, on ferait de meilleurs pièces de théâtre qu'à Rome.

L'ordre du roi pour les relais vient enfin de me parvenir ; voilà mon enchantement chez la princesse de Clèves fini, et je pars pour Berlin.

#this nearly murdered me #i mean swearing at Voltaire is nothing new for me but #i open the book as soon as i get it and the first letter containd FIVE POEMS #dramatic little bitch (semi-affectionate)#anyway onto no. 2 #Paméla letters #my translation #Voltaire #Frederick the Great #Mme Denis

26 notes · View notes

boomerangst · 7 years

Text

even at the turning of the tide » i

title: even at the turning of the tide

relationships: sango & kohaku, slight mirsan

rating: I raised it to T because I made everyone a few years younger but Miroku is still Miroku oops. It’s solidly PG though, I promise

prologue | AO3

i. white wing

The village woman gave Sango a strange look when she asked for directions to Lady Kaede’s shrine. It turned out to be located a half hour’s walk from the village, at the second-highest point on the island. “Walk north out of the village and keep heading up,” said the woman once Sango managed to convince her that yes, she really did want to go there.

Sango reached up to stroke Kirara, perched on her shoulder, and considered flying instead of walking to the shrine, but ultimately decided against it. If this was to be her new home, she might as well get used to the terrain. A Taijiya never knew when home field advantage might be enough to tip the scales in her favor in battle—it was one of the first lessons Sango’s father had taught her.

The thought of her father plunged Sango back into melancholy, and she was dwelling on that, and not the terrain, when she nearly collided with a red-clad figure. She recovered quickly, scrambling out of the way and stammering an apology, her face warm—it did not do for a Taijiya to be so unobservant and clumsy.

“Keh. Watch where you’re going, why don’tcha?” said the figure. His voice was familiar to Sango, and when she looked up, she found she could put a name to his face. They had known each other for only a short time, as young children, but with those peculiar golden eyes, those distinctive dog ears, and that attitude, this could only be—

“Inuyasha?” blurted Sango in surprise.

The hanyou, who beneath the strange ears had the form of a boy about Sango’s own age (albeit one with an imposing set of claws), blinked at her.

“You Sango?” he asked, leaning in to sniff at her hair. “‘Cause you sure smell like her.”

Sango nodded. “It’s been a long time,” she said, with a small, hesitant smile. Inuyasha had come to live with Lady Kaede on the island (not the island they were currently standing on, but the island) only a few months before everyone had left it, but it would have been hard to forget such an unusual person. After all, Sango didn’t know anyone else who was half dog demon.

“Good,” said Inuyasha, without smiling back. “The old lady sent us to get you.”

Us? Sango looked down to find a small face peering around the edge of Inuyasha’s robe. It was attached to a dark-haired girl of seven or eight, who stepped eagerly forward when Inuyasha prodded her away with a gruff, “This is Rin.”

“Hello,” said Rin, who was clad in a sunny yellow and orange kosode. “Are you really a demon slayer? Have you killed lots of demons? What’s that big thing on your back? Is it heavy? Do you use it to kill demons? Do you like melons? There’s a whole field of them behind the village. Are you going to stay with us forever?”

“Knock it off, Rin, she just got here,” said Inuyasha before Sango could decide which question to answer first. He turned abruptly and began to stride away from the cluster of houses, glancing over his shoulder at Sango and Rin. “You two coming, or what?”

Rin resumed her cheerful barrage of questions and commentary as Sango fell into step beside Inuyasha, who was as silent as their companion was loquacious. Every so often Sango managed a half-hearted answer to some question or other, but it was draining trying to keep up with the mostly one-sided conversation. She was glad when Kirara poked her head out of her hiding place in Sango’s hair and leapt down to sniff at Rin, who made a delighted fuss over the cat-demon. Soon the little girl had skipped ahead of Inuyasha and Sango, Kirara trotting along at her heels with a funny spring in her step as though buoyed by Rin’s mood. Sango watched the two of them and was soon lost in thought again. Kohaku would be much the same age now, if only…

“Well. Here we are,” said Inuyasha, more to the ground than to Sango as he kicked at a rock. Sango looked up, expecting to see a simple, open-air shrine like the one Kaede had tended on the other island. Instead, she immediately understood why the woman who’d given her directions had found it so hard to believe that anyone would want to come here.

Kaede’s shrine was not a shrine at all, but a shrine-temple, a jingū-ji—Sango recognized a small bell tower and all the other hallmarks of a Buddhist temple complex beside it. This in itself was not so extraordinary, but it was certainly the strangest and ugliest jingū-ji Sango had ever seen. It was set into the top of the steep hillside, but not in the usual, elegant manner of shrines and temples—instead, the buildings had been erected practically on top of each other, the Shinto and Buddhist structures intruding on each other's space as though vying for attention. It was also in a sorry state of disrepair, thought Sango as she followed Inuyasha and Rin up the steep, crumbling steps. Lord Takeda would never have allowed any of the shrine-temples on his lands to fall into such shabby condition.

Old Lady Kaede was waiting beneath the the temple gate at the top of the steps. Sango had barely finished her respectful greeting before a wizened hand grasped her chin, tilting her face up for Kaede’s inspection. After a few uncomfortable seconds of one-eyed scrutiny, Sango decided she preferred Inuyasha’s sniffing.

“Yes, ye certainly are Sango. Ye have grown to resemble your mother. This way,” pronounced Lady Kaede, turning to make her way through the bizarre cluster of buildings. Sango, Inuyasha, Rin, and Kirara followed.

“How fares your father?” asked Lady Kaede over her shoulder. “I was surprised to hear from him.”

“He’s well, thank you,” answered Sango. “He sends his regards.” She caught up to the old miko and handed her the letter Father had written. She watched as Kaede tucked it away and wondered just what was in it—how much had he told Kaede about why he was sending Sango to her? The temptation to read the letter during the long, dull crossing from the mainland had been great. Even now, a small part of Sango wanted to snatch it back.

Lady Kaede’s tour of the jingū-ji was mercifully brief. There were only two monks living in the temple section, she explained between pointing out the various buildings. Sango was surprised to find that behind the complex, which had seemed from their approach as though placed on the hillside with its structures crowded together out of necessity, was a wide expanse of meadow and a small, neat garden. The hill was not so much a hill as a plateau, the top of a great shelf cut into the slope of White Wing Island’s peak, a long-dormant volcano. The island’s only freshwater stream ran behind and along the field, trickling into a small waterfall behind the monks’ residence before splitting in two—one fork leading down to the village, the other flowing over the cliffs and into what Inuyasha called “our cove.”

Beside the garden was the jingū-ji’s only well-kept building, the simple hut where Kaede resided with Inuyasha, Rin, and now Sango. Sango knew how Inuyasha had been taken in by Lady Kaede after his mother’s death, but wondered who on earth Rin was and how she had come to live in this odd place. It didn’t seem polite to ask—perhaps she could get the story out of Inuyasha later, although doubtless coming from him it would be very brief and free of any detail.

When Hiraikotsu and Sango’s other things had been safely stowed in the hut, Kaede led the others back to the main complex, muttering “Where is that useless drunk?”

“She means the old monk,” explained Inuyasha. “He’s probably passed out somewhere in the main hall.”

“At this time of day?” Sango couldn’t hide her surprise.

“Yeah. Now that he’s got me and Miroku to take the boat out and do all his work for him, the old geezer never stops drinking.”

“Mushin-sama says that with the uncertainty of tomorrow, it’s important to live each day as though it’s our last!” piped up Rin before Sango could ask who Miroku was.

“Keh. One of these days it really will be his last if he keeps drinking at this rate,” scoffed Inuyasha.

The monk in question, Mushin, was portly, bald, red-nosed, and had indeed passed out in the main hall. Once he’d been shaken awake, he ignored Kaede’s scolding and Inuyasha’s rolling eyes and greeted Sango with warm curiosity. He at least doesn’t seem to know why Father sent me here, she concluded. Drunkenness aside, he didn’t seem like such a bad person. He interrupted Rin’s constant stream of chatter with occasional affable observations of his own as the five of them set about preparing their evening meal.

“Someone had better go and fetch Miroku,” said Kaede when the food was nearly ready. Sango had by now gathered that Miroku was the second, younger monk.

“Yes, where has that troublesome boy got to?” wondered Mushin.

“Hell if I know,” said Inuyasha. “He was going to come into town with us, but he disappeared. Maybe he took the boat out, after all.”

“In that case, ye had better check the cove, Inuyasha,” instructed Kaede. “Sango can search the temple. It will give her a chance to become familiar with her new home.”

Sango wasn’t certain she liked the idea of wandering around the jingū-ji in the near-dark until she bumped into a strange man—she already felt like enough of an interloper here. Still, she could hardly refuse Lady Kaede.

“You have my permission to search wherever you see fit,” said Mushin as though sensing her hesitancy. Sango nodded and reluctantly set off to look for the mysterious Miroku.

The sun was sinking beneath the treetops, casting the shrine-temple’s structures into sharp, imposing relief. Sango stepped gingerly in and out of long shadows, not comfortable enough to call out the name of a stranger. The monks’ residence, which had seemed like the logical starting place for her search, was empty. So were all of the other places she tried. She was running out of buildings when she thought to check the shōrō bell tower—it was of the style that had walls, although small and dilapidated enough that at first it had hardly seemed worth checking. He’s probably at the cove anyway, Sango reassured herself as she approached. Her hopes were dashed by a rustling sound from behind the tower—and an unexpectedly high-pitched human voice. What is a woman doing here? Sango wondered. Surely Lady Kaede would have mentioned it if the jingū-ji had a seventh occupant.

When Sango rounded the corner of the bell tower, it became apparent that the woman she had heard was no resident of this temple. The fading light was enough to illuminate a strange, humped shape that rapidly separated itself into two disheveled people at the sound of Sango’s footsteps. One was the owner of the voice she’d heard: a tall, pretty girl in her late teens, most likely someone from the village, Sango guessed. The older girl hastily rearranged her clothing, flushing the same deep pink that Sango could feel rising in her own cheeks as she turned her attention to the second person. She could scarcely believe that this was Miroku the monk, the man she’d been sent in search of—and caught nearly in flagrante delicto within the premises of the jingū-ji, on sacred ground! The man appeared supremely unconcerned at having been caught in such a compromising situation. He stepped out of the shadows and Sango revised her assessment to boy—he couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, only a few years older than she was.

Sango realized that in all this time she had said nothing, had in fact stood by in a shocked stupor, gaping like a fish. She scrambled for some appropriate thing to say, but could only manage, “I—I’m sorry. Kaede-sama…she sent me to…”

“To fetch me for dinner, I’d imagine,” said the monk. His female companion muttered what might have been a goodbye and made a hasty exit through the temple gates.

“I—yes,” stammered Sango. The monk stepped closer. Sango did not at all like the way he was looking at her.

“And who might you be?” he asked.

Hadn’t Lady Kaede informed him that Sango was coming to live here? He was behaving as though her appearance was an unexpected, if not unwelcome, surprise.

“Sango,” said Sango, drawing back a little.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sango,” continued the monk. “May I ask how old you are?”

The question was such a non-sequitur that Sango was startled into answering. “Thirteen,” said her mouth before her brain could catch up to it.

The monk stepped even closer—close enough that Sango noticed the deep blue-violet color of his eyes. “Hmm,” he said, still appraising her in that discomfiting manner. “A bit young, but perhaps…” he seemed to arrive at a decision and, before Sango could flinch away, had seized one of her hands in both of his. “Sango, would you consider—”

“Oi, Miroku! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” snapped Inuyasha, appearing behind Sango. She took the opportunity to tug her hand free from the monk’s grasp. “Don’t tell me you were gonna ask her to bear your children,” continued Inuyasha in supreme exasperation. “Haven’t you flirted your way through every damn girl on the island already?”

“I thought I had,” replied the monk, still eyeing Sango appreciatively.

Wait a second—bear his what?

“Well quit screwing around and come on already, you’re holding up dinner,” groused Inuyasha. “You know the old hag won’t let us eat until you’re there.”

“I sincerely apologize for my thoughtlessness,” said Miroku (entirely for Sango’s benefit, or so it seemed to her.)

“Yeah, yeah. Hurry up already.”

The walk back through the jingū-ji was shorter than Sango’s hesitant, meandering walk to find Miroku, but no less uncomfortable. It did not escape Sango’s notice that, as they followed Inuyasha, the monk was edging closer and closer to her. It was hard to suppress the instinct to turn around and smack him, but aside from his earlier strangeness (had he really been about to ask her to bear his children?) he hadn’t actually done anything to deserve such treatment. Besides, Sango had no desire to offend her hosts. She would just have to be civil, she decided as they slid open the door to where Rin and Kaede were laying out places.

Her resolve to be polite to the monk was tested mere seconds after she came to the decision.

“Wouldja knock it off, bouzu?” snapped Inuyasha, swatting Miroku’s hand away from Sango’s bottom a few millimeters before it could make contact. “She’s here to live with us!”

Beneath her anger at the monk, Sango found she was oddly (and ironically) touched by the readiness with which Inuyasha seemed to have accepted her into the jingū-ji’s strange little family.

“Inuyasha is right, Miroku,” agreed Kaede without looking up from her task. “Sango’s father has placed her in my care for the foreseeable future, so I would appreciate it if ye would keep your hands to yourself.”

“Is that so? In that case, my apologies,” said Miroku amiably. “I’m afraid I sometimes lose control around beautiful young women. I meant no offense.” Sango found that last part hard to believe. She was a slayer of demons, not humans, but if he tried to grope her again, she might be persuaded to make an exception for this monk.

Luckily, Lady Kaede had seated her as far away as possible from Miroku, so there was no further unpleasantness during dinner. Rin, Kaede, and the two monks kept up most of the conversation, taking it in turns to tell Sango about life at the jingū-ji and on White Wing Island—the work that needed doing in the garden, the trips to the village, the new isobune boat Mushin was building.

The mention of boats reminded Sango of her strange crossing to White Wing—her glimpse of the seal-rock and the far-away landmass that might have been the island. She was wondering how best to bring up the subject of that other island when Inuyasha, who had so far kept nearly silent except for the occasional “keh,” smacked himself in the face.

“And just where the hell have you been, Myouga-jiji?” he asked, addressing the palm of his hand.

“Myouga-jii!” greeted Rin. She and Sango both leaned in for a closer look at the old flea youkai Sango vaguely recalled from her childhood.

“Oh, here and there,” said Myouga. He looked exactly as Sango remembered. “But when I heard Sango was coming to live on White Wing Island, I had to come and see for myself!” He hopped from Inuyasha’s palm to the crook of Sango’s elbow. “How was your journey, Sango?”

It occurred to her that Myouga might be just the right person to answer her questions. “It went well, thank you,” she answered. She took a deep breath. “Myouga-jii, do you know whether it’s possible to see Azarashi Island from any point during the crossing?”

The sounds of eating, shuffling, and fidgeting ceased. Sango looked up to find Kaede, Mushin, and even the young monk staring at her. Lady Kaede spoke first.

“Why do ye ask such a question, child?”

If she hadn’t been taught how to behave around important people, Sango might have shrunk back. “I thought I saw it on the way here,” she said. She lowered her eyes to her lap, but Kirara and Myouga were both there, gazing up at her.

“Well,” chirped the flea demon, “I suppose on a clear day and in favorable conditions, it is just possible to glimpse Azarashi from White Wing Island, or from the crossing to the mainland.”

“Keh. Today’s conditions were terrible. Old lady wouldn’t even let us take the boat out,” Inuyasha pointed out.

“I must have imagined it, then,” said Sango, aware that she had made the others uncomfortable. She knew she ought to drop the subject, but something wouldn’t let her. “Do you ever go there?” she asked, addressing the entire room this time.

Once again, they stared back at her as if she had just sprouted horns and transformed into a demon.

Miroku took pity on her. “Well, the shoals around Azarashi are great fishing, but…”

“No one goes there, child,” said Lady Kaede gently. “Not since the evacuation.”

Sango knew she should leave it at that—knew she had already caused a problem, knew it was wrong to talk back to her elders, but the words came out anyway. “Not since Kohaku, you mean.”

If she had thought the room silent before, she knew better now. It was so quiet, she could hear even Myouga-jii’s breathing.

“But why doesn’t anyone go there?” piped up Rin. Sango was surprised that the little girl had held her tongue all this time.

“Well, Rin, there are certain legends surrounding Azarashi Island,” said Myouga. “I suppose I could tell you the story, if Kaede-sama deems it acceptable.”

There was an almost palpable draining of tension from the room. The ordinary dinner sounds resumed as Mushin, Inuyasha, and Miroku went back to eating.

“Rin, you may listen to the story if you finish your dinner first,” said Kaede.

As if Rin needed any incentive to finish eating. Sango could scarcely believe the rate at which such a little girl inhaled so much food. Rin managed to finish her meal mere seconds after Inuyasha finished his, which was really saying something. While she waited for the rest of them to finish, she launched into a stream of praise for the food, just for good measure.

When the dinner things had been cleared away, Myouga hopped up to Inuyasha’s shoulder and settled down with a solemn, self-important expression.

“Very well, then,” began the flea. “This is the story of the demons who cursed Azarashi Island.”

#iy #fic #fic: mine #sango #inuyasha #rin #kaede #mushin #miroku #Not Happy™ with this chapter at all but w/e read it anyway losers ;)

7 notes · View notes