The Beast

Chapter Six

Ylvir's wings and back ached from the cramped position he held inside the cart and the restriction his thick cloak (a gift from his darling mother) held against them. He tried his hardest to move as little as possible, but his joints shouted to him for just a little motion to relieve the stress. The cart jolted—most likely a result from a large in the wheel's path—and he nearly bit through his tongue from the painful shock it sent trough his body. Just a little longer, he told himself repeatedly.

Ignoring the pain, he almost laughed as he heard his father whistling a merry tune, only to have it jolted like himself, but he held back. He couldn't make a sound, otherwise the whole escapade would be a bust. He experienced further difficulty with his one task of silence as a leaf tickled against his sensitive nose. He twitched it, fighting tearfully against the urge to sneeze.

After the feeling thankfully passed, Ylvir was able to focus again on the outside sounds of the cart. He couldn't make sense of all of it, but he was certain of the excited bustle that generated it. He recognized the laughter of children, the shouts and cheers of adults, the creaking of other rickety carts wheeled across the dirt, the different calls of various animals, and the rhythmic beat of jovial music, though not from any instrument he knew, but there were many, many other sounds. It was quite the clamor, even underneath all the vegetation that lay atop him.

The festival must be something spectacular to have everyone and everything so loud, he thought to himself. This is the perfect opportunity to experience something new. To see how these people live.

But Ylvir was also doubtful. Interacting with the people of the village was a huge risk for himself. His only experience with them had been that day with the children, which did not make a good impression on him in the slightest. But he was older now, and wiser, too. It was why he was wearing the tight cloak as well as a pair ill-fitting gloves on his hands and his father's old boots that barely held themselves together. He would just have to keep to himself as much as possible, though it would be difficult considering the amount of activity he was hearing, the fact that he had to both play and collect the money, not to mention he would have to also somehow manage to avoid his father. But he would do it. For his mother and father (despite his lack of agreement), he would find a way.

He was ripped from his thoughts as he felt the cart slowing down. He needed to get out fast, before it came to a stop and his father could discover him. Quickly and carefully, he slid out from under the cart's haul before it could stop completely. He glanced worriedly around to make sure no one saw, but they all seemed to be too busy with themselves to notice him, so he straightened himself and his dark cloak, keeping the hood over his face, making certain it revealed nothing incriminating. Once he did that, he was finally able to make a proper observation of his surroundings.

Colors, smells, and sounds overwhelmed his senses. It was almost too much for him, and he swayed on his feet, feeling light-headed. He found a wall and leaned against it, closing his eyes and taking time to adjust to the intense input his senses were amounting. When his head cleared a little, he opened his eyes again.

The festival really was something to behold, and unlike anything he had ever seen for himself. Some of the books he read would include celebrations like this in their pages, but Ylvir knew better than almost anyone else that reading and experiencing were very different. No matter how many words were used to describe a thing, it would never compare to the true reality of it. And the festival was a prime example of it.

His mouth watered at the many delicious aromas that drifted through the air. His foot almost tapped to the infectious music. His lips almost revealed his fangs in a grin at the people. The way they smiled in happiness, the way their steps held lightness in them like a dance, the way they held wonder in their own eyes at the wares of vendors and the various foods, jewelries, and knick-knacks they hawked animatedly.

But the smile was soon to fade. He wished to join them, desperately. To be part of the joyful fray. To dance and laugh and enjoy all the things they did. But he couldn't. A small part of himself still held to the morals of his mother's stories and the small hope they provided—that the people before him might actually accept him as who he really was and see past his beastly appearance, that perhaps that one day with the children was merely a fluke or simply childish behavior that lacked adult understanding. And then there was the other part that took in his father's words—that the tales weren't real and the world was harsh and cruel, that he would never be seen as anything other than a monster.

In the midst of his internal conflict, Ylvir failed to notice the small boy that approached, only noticing him after several tugs to his cloak.

"Oi, mister," the boy called him. "Is you alright?"

Ylvir tugged his cloak back away from the boy's hand, startled by his sudden appearance, as well as the fact he had just been addressed as 'mister'. "Fine, thank you."

He leaned forward off the wall, turning away from the boy, but he simply followed him skipping along in his wake.

"You sure? You don't sound fine. Has you got a cough or somefin, mister? Cos I know someone who could help ya wif that. Prob'ly lotsa folks 'ere could. There's people 'ere from all over. And not all of 'em 'ave even arrived yet. I heard there's a wossit comin', wif lotsa strange and magical creatures an' all, and there's also word of a mysterious piper or somefin from the woods a-comin'. Ain't that excitin', mister? I sure think so. I been lookin' forward to it fer ages. They sound lovely, even from the woods. Tha's wot me mum says, anyways. I wonder wot they'll actually be like, don' you?"

Ylvir was only slightly annoyed by the boy since he insisted on following him even with the evasive maneuvers he employed, but he was more fascinated than anything. The boy seemed as though he could be a good source of information—though Ylvir was unsure what he meant by the "wossit" coming—but his commentary involving Ylvir's practical alter ego gave him a very strange feeling, almost like a mix of pride and amusement. There really wasn't anything quite like having someone asking about yourself without them knowing it was in fact you they were addressing their questions to.

Ylvir was unsure how to respond to the boy's inquisition, or if he should respond at all, given the comment he had made about his strange voice. But as he was about to say something, he noticed the boy was no longer there.

He must have run off. Ylvir shrugged it off. So much for being a source of information.

Ylvir wandered around the village some more, straying more towards the edge of activity, remaining unobtrusive and inconspicuous. He had to duck and weave through the crowd only a few times when he thought he spotted his father. Slowly the sun started to blaze its way towards the horizon, but strangely, rather than dying out, it seemed as though the festivities were only becoming more intensive, as though everything before was merely a prelude for what was yet to come. It only made Ylvir more anxious. He knew he would have to play soon. He would not come home empty handed.

He removed the small metal instrument from his trouser pocket underneath his cloak, imagining he could feel the warmth of it through his gloves. He placed his gloved finger over the holes as familiarly as his father did, taking a slow, shaky breath to ready himself. He brought the whistle to his lips, and just as he was about to breathe life into, he was shaken to his core by a far more heart-wrenching sound than his pipe could ever produce.

It was a cry of pain, sorrow, and anguish—one that did not fit with the attitude of the festival, one that did not belong to any human.