Halexandrey Walton/Season 3 Interview
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The deer hide.
The rabbits hide.
The sun hides.
The trees sleep. No snow.
I am hungry. The night is forever. I am hungry.
The wind speaks. No prey.
I smell fire. Fire destroys. Fire feeds me. Fire panics the prey.
I run to the rocks I know. The rocks are tall.
Deer cannot jump them.
Rabbits cannot dig them.
I smell fire here.
A rock is gone.
The rocks are always here.
A rock is gone.
The wind speaks. I smell fire and Rangers.
Rangers are not prey.
Rangers are not death.
Rangers watch, always watching.
I see the rock is gone.
I smell the rock is gone.
My paws feel small stones. Warm stones. The stones are new.
I see the stars in the gap in the rocks.
There are Ranger furs near the gap in the rocks.
I have never seen Rangers without their fur.
A stick smells like the Rangers.
The stick is smooth.
The stick has no leaves.
The trees have no leaves. The trees sleep when the sun hides.
The wind whispers sky.
The wind whispers dirt.
I paw at the stick. It rolls towards me. I see the stick is made of night and snow.
The wind speaks “Sky. Dirt.”
I nose at the stick, and my fur prickles like when storms bring fire from sky to earth.
The stick is good, I think.
The wind says to me, “The sky is the earth.”
I test the stick with my jaws. Maybe the stick will feed me, when rabbits hide for too long. The stick fits between my teeth like it has always been there. I forget it wasn’t.
I look up. A Ranger stands by the gap in the rocks. It nods. I shake out my mane and worry at the stick. The Ranger nods again. I blink and the Ranger is gone.
The Ranger smell is not from the Ranger. It comes from the furs by the gap in the rocks. I stalk the fur, pounce. The furs come apart beneath me, a splash of blood in a pile of dirt.
The wind sighs through the gap in the rocks. “The sky is the ground.”
The blood does not smell like blood. The blood does not run. The blood is the shape of a pine tree, hollow as a wasp’s nest. It rolls away, stops, rolls back to me.
The fur has no meat within it. It is camouflage protecting nothing, soft and dry and clean. No blood.
The fur feels right. The blood feels right. My paws rake over the fur, and where I touch I feel their whispers nip at my ears.
I should wear the fur. I should wear this fur. This fur is my new fur.
The stick in my mouth tingles, and teaches me its name.
The wind speaks, and finally I understand.
“As Above. So Below.”
I put on my robe and wizard hat.