Máiréad Casey
Máiréad Casey hails from Lough Gur and recently finished a Popular Literature M.Phil in Trinity College. She previously had
poetry published in The Attic but this is her first published short story. She likes tea and unicorns perhaps a little more than anyone should.
poetry published in The Attic but this is her first published short story. She likes tea and unicorns perhaps a little more than anyone should.
The Grateful Beasts
The painted pine wood still feels smooth and cool in my hands but smaller that I remember it. When I hold the carved homunculus between my thumb and forefinger, her stands a man, one inch tall with a moustache, peak-cap turned backwards and a thousand-yard stare. Turn him on his side and he becomes a beaver, the man’s feet become his tail, his peak-cap a round nose and buck-teeth; the thousand-yard stare remains. I remember putting this in your palm and then scrambling to my mom’s car, sure that I was to see you every day of my life from that moment on, plotting our adventures. I go over that day a lot trying to iron out the inconsistencies because I know I some of it had to be just my stupid kid imagination.
I think a part of me chipped off and remained there in that day, sitting on a bench in the post office, legs swinging, head pointed towards the floor, Beaver-man toy in hand. I was six years old and already trying to become invisible. I know mom loved to drive down here on the most trivial of errands, supposedly to get away from the thin air, thick snow and the howling of wolves. I also know that that’s not the case when I come with her. To be good I keep my hood up and cords pulled tight so no one can stare. It doesn’t work. Once they know the deformity is there they stare until they find evidence, the chasm that gapes where my left eye and adjoining flesh, by rights, should be. Still, I prefer to have them search my face than desperately avoiding it, staring down my mouth or right shoulder as I try to talk.
I look at your feet as you walk in with your mom. Your shoes are weird, tan leather with no laces like the ones elves wear in my comic books. I check out your mom to see if the rest of her looks like an elf. She doesn’t, she looks like the lady I’ve seen with eyes deep in her skull and the low, hooked brow of an eagle. Twigs and pine needles stick to her hair like she’s rolled in the dirt. She barely noticed me but kept giving my mom this look, this probing glare, like she understood her better than anybody but hated her just the same. I never left so unremarkable.
You were chattering away to yourself like you were your own best friend, wearing a hooded coat a shade of red I’ve only seen on cars and lipstick to match those brilliant ruby eyes of yours. Years later I learned you were an albino. My uncle Wyatt told me when we were hunting in the woods one time and saw a wolf pup with your same hair and eyes. He said they hardly ever find a mate but as a predator in winter, they’re invisible. Until then I just thought you were a beautiful goblin. Cheerily you shouted “I squish you!” to the lady behind the counter as you winked one eye and pretended to crush your head with deceptively giant fingers. I didn’t need to wink to replicate it. You see me join in and I reflexively face away. When I turn back your face is five inches away from mine. I curl up like a snail until you back up a few paces. Without knowing what else to do I flick between the alternating guises of my Beaver-man carving to show and you coo with delight. I feel like flies thighs.
You asked if I wanted to go play outside. My mom tensed and pulled me near; she never did that in public before. She finally met your mom’s glower and said “Sure… go ahead”, then tightened her jaw like she was accepting some sort of challenge.
I felt like I was about to walk on stage knowing that once more I would disappoint in the same play, same character as before. This held the same promise and the same threat as that horrible day I tried school. Luckily you had enough confidence for both of us. “Like my coat? My mamma says it brings out my eyes,” jutting your chin forward and trying to flutter your pale eyelashes by enthusiastically blinking. You built a snow-cat and I managed to keep the cords of my hood tugged tight even as I clapped your innovative artistry.
Then came the inevitable queries. “Why you keeping so wrapped up?” I hugged my shoulder to imply I was chilly. “Don’t you talk?”
I nodded.
“Are you telling a lie?”
I shook my head. You kicked the soil with a frustration I understood all too well and through clenched teeth implored “You don’t want to be my friend, do you?”
“No, I do!” I shouted louder than I intended but compensated with the next sentence. “I’m just scary.”
You giggled. “no, you’re not. And anyways I never get scared by anything ‘cause I’m a tough girl!” flexing your bicep and baring your teeth. You looked pretty tough.
Gingerly I lowered my hood.
“Not scary,” taking your hand and gently patting the inside of my face to prove it. “Now can we just play?” When I think of that moment I feel awake and strong and clear, like there’s icy water running through my veins.
The rest of the day was an easy blur of climbing trees and snowball fights. Then it was time to go home. Mom grabbed my hand and dragged me to the car but I turned fast, ran back to you and gave you this little guy. I wish I hadn’t been too shy to tell you I’d carved him myself. My mother screamed, “Benjamin!” , and we realised we hadn’t exchanged names. You oozed out each syllable, “~Ben-ja-min” and nearly forgot to mention you were “Alix”, with an ‘i’.
My mom yelled my name again and when I finally stepped into the car she told me you were one of the Yeagers from the very apex of the mountain and I’d hopefully not see the likes of you again until I knew better. I pulled my hood up again, leant away from her and cried, glimpsing outside the car window. And this is the part I could never figure out: I look behind us and there you are, chasing us and somehow managing to keep up with my mom’s Volkswagen. When you see me seeing you, you stop and wave goodbye with the Beaver-man toy clenched firmly in your fist with a smile full of gratitude and eyes full of defiant promise. It doesn’t make sense to believe it what could only be a daydream but I know you’d make good on it.
The painted pine wood still feels smooth and cool in my hands but smaller that I remember it. When I hold the carved homunculus between my thumb and forefinger, her stands a man, one inch tall with a moustache, peak-cap turned backwards and a thousand-yard stare. Turn him on his side and he becomes a beaver, the man’s feet become his tail, his peak-cap a round nose and buck-teeth; the thousand-yard stare remains. I remember putting this in your palm and then scrambling to my mom’s car, sure that I was to see you every day of my life from that moment on, plotting our adventures. I go over that day a lot trying to iron out the inconsistencies because I know I some of it had to be just my stupid kid imagination.
I think a part of me chipped off and remained there in that day, sitting on a bench in the post office, legs swinging, head pointed towards the floor, Beaver-man toy in hand. I was six years old and already trying to become invisible. I know mom loved to drive down here on the most trivial of errands, supposedly to get away from the thin air, thick snow and the howling of wolves. I also know that that’s not the case when I come with her. To be good I keep my hood up and cords pulled tight so no one can stare. It doesn’t work. Once they know the deformity is there they stare until they find evidence, the chasm that gapes where my left eye and adjoining flesh, by rights, should be. Still, I prefer to have them search my face than desperately avoiding it, staring down my mouth or right shoulder as I try to talk.
I look at your feet as you walk in with your mom. Your shoes are weird, tan leather with no laces like the ones elves wear in my comic books. I check out your mom to see if the rest of her looks like an elf. She doesn’t, she looks like the lady I’ve seen with eyes deep in her skull and the low, hooked brow of an eagle. Twigs and pine needles stick to her hair like she’s rolled in the dirt. She barely noticed me but kept giving my mom this look, this probing glare, like she understood her better than anybody but hated her just the same. I never left so unremarkable.
You were chattering away to yourself like you were your own best friend, wearing a hooded coat a shade of red I’ve only seen on cars and lipstick to match those brilliant ruby eyes of yours. Years later I learned you were an albino. My uncle Wyatt told me when we were hunting in the woods one time and saw a wolf pup with your same hair and eyes. He said they hardly ever find a mate but as a predator in winter, they’re invisible. Until then I just thought you were a beautiful goblin. Cheerily you shouted “I squish you!” to the lady behind the counter as you winked one eye and pretended to crush your head with deceptively giant fingers. I didn’t need to wink to replicate it. You see me join in and I reflexively face away. When I turn back your face is five inches away from mine. I curl up like a snail until you back up a few paces. Without knowing what else to do I flick between the alternating guises of my Beaver-man carving to show and you coo with delight. I feel like flies thighs.
You asked if I wanted to go play outside. My mom tensed and pulled me near; she never did that in public before. She finally met your mom’s glower and said “Sure… go ahead”, then tightened her jaw like she was accepting some sort of challenge.
I felt like I was about to walk on stage knowing that once more I would disappoint in the same play, same character as before. This held the same promise and the same threat as that horrible day I tried school. Luckily you had enough confidence for both of us. “Like my coat? My mamma says it brings out my eyes,” jutting your chin forward and trying to flutter your pale eyelashes by enthusiastically blinking. You built a snow-cat and I managed to keep the cords of my hood tugged tight even as I clapped your innovative artistry.
Then came the inevitable queries. “Why you keeping so wrapped up?” I hugged my shoulder to imply I was chilly. “Don’t you talk?”
I nodded.
“Are you telling a lie?”
I shook my head. You kicked the soil with a frustration I understood all too well and through clenched teeth implored “You don’t want to be my friend, do you?”
“No, I do!” I shouted louder than I intended but compensated with the next sentence. “I’m just scary.”
You giggled. “no, you’re not. And anyways I never get scared by anything ‘cause I’m a tough girl!” flexing your bicep and baring your teeth. You looked pretty tough.
Gingerly I lowered my hood.
“Not scary,” taking your hand and gently patting the inside of my face to prove it. “Now can we just play?” When I think of that moment I feel awake and strong and clear, like there’s icy water running through my veins.
The rest of the day was an easy blur of climbing trees and snowball fights. Then it was time to go home. Mom grabbed my hand and dragged me to the car but I turned fast, ran back to you and gave you this little guy. I wish I hadn’t been too shy to tell you I’d carved him myself. My mother screamed, “Benjamin!” , and we realised we hadn’t exchanged names. You oozed out each syllable, “~Ben-ja-min” and nearly forgot to mention you were “Alix”, with an ‘i’.
My mom yelled my name again and when I finally stepped into the car she told me you were one of the Yeagers from the very apex of the mountain and I’d hopefully not see the likes of you again until I knew better. I pulled my hood up again, leant away from her and cried, glimpsing outside the car window. And this is the part I could never figure out: I look behind us and there you are, chasing us and somehow managing to keep up with my mom’s Volkswagen. When you see me seeing you, you stop and wave goodbye with the Beaver-man toy clenched firmly in your fist with a smile full of gratitude and eyes full of defiant promise. It doesn’t make sense to believe it what could only be a daydream but I know you’d make good on it.