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The Dead Vulture Rains Printable Version PRINTABLE VERSION
by Morgan Whitfield, Canada Sep 23, 2003
Culture   Short Stories
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atmosphere- I frolicked in all the numb festivities. I approached the corpse and bowed at his feet. The bush was set afire; the mourners gleamed. To them I had already died.
I turned to the villagers and laughed. They heard the mortal tinkle; they shivered with the deadly ring. I had been underestimated.

I giggle (even now) as I recall their shock when my throat opened up to the sky. I screamed into the sun, roared sacred and profane words. I clapped my hands and the thunder applauded me. Tears overflowed in my eyes and the clouds mimicked me. The smoke funneled around me, a pregnant pause gave birth to the belated monsoon. The lightening echoed- the night received- the black dog whimpered- all feathers levitated- and the lotus bloomed. Fingernail deities could rule at last.
The rains poured pitchers into the earth. The pyre was doused. The storm swept away the mourners, the admirers, the curious and the perverted onlookers. Haha! The Whip watched incredulously as rain poured onto every field to the horizon, fat droplets in every field, excepting his own.

And the Dead Vulture Rains washed me away. I drowned.
The next incarnation began. I had polluted Parvati and scarred Sita. On the edge of the reclaimed river I ripped out my hair, renting my head smooth. I grieved not for The Goat, oh no! I mourned myself. The black snakes were released into the river, mingling with fresh seaweed.

I ripped off the sari. Henna faded from my hands. I left my village, I left my grandmother, I left The Whip, I left The Goat and I left my treacherous female body. I fed off my own destruction and reclaimed my life. I stole Shiva’s strength. I would not be beaten, I would not be married. I danced the storm into creation and swam away with webbed toes. Donning the chooti hidden earlier in the morning I wrapped myself in new identity. I would spend my life pretending, but this mask was preferable to cursed face I was born with. I would be the next Vishnu, the warrior Arjuna, the opulent Ganish: I was a god.

Reincarnated as a man.

The next day, in the cool drizzle of monsoon, a dark young boy was found wandering in the mud. His feet plowed through the field, his lips smiled at the strangers and his eyes, undisguised, searched out their own fate.
The Dead Vulture Rains
Morgan Whitfield

The meticulous planning for my husband’s death was nothing compared to the detail and research invested in my own demise. You may be impressed at his sticky sweet termination, but remember that this is not a mundane story of petty revenge, his life just happened to be somewhat entwined in mine. His murder was not a crime, rather an inevitable and predictable event, though not- obviously- forgettable or forgivable.

I killed him in the twelfth year of my life (the word ‘kill’ seems harsh, doesn’t it?) Rather, I assisted him in reaching enlightenment; I set his slow and stupid soul free from earthly entanglements (believe me; if I hadn’t nudged him along he would have been eternal, too ignorant and lazy to get on with the business of dying). Besides, without ending my husband, how could I end myself?

At this point, you politely raise your eyebrows in concealed shock at the suicidal tendencies of a child murderess. I am not a violent or morose person (we just met, and you can tell this right away, my grin is too frank and my toes are too honest). You are curious to ask what propelled my morbid inclinations, I will tell you: The Goat, The Whip and The Drought.

You are curious about The Goat, already vaguely alluded to, I’ll try to explain.

An explication on goats: the fundamental characteristic of any goat (as you can probably attest) is its careful and devout attention to urination. Urinating goats are visual treats when your eyes are lucky enough to happen upon one. The goat’s back is arched and proud as it liberates its urea in a strong and continuous waterfall, which streams into yellow rivers and pungent tepid lakes. Splayed front hoofs are acrobatically forward and hind legs are squatted low, while the indolent goat’s urinating-face has a peace the envy of Buddha, a perfect expression of vapid bliss.

There is nothing aberrant about these insipid animals. You probably would find them amusing and harmless. However, you were never married to a goat. I was.

Ah! You pity me now! You empathize with my tragic and bestial situation! But don’t get ahead of yourselves, be patient. Let us now begin with The Whip, because he is intrinsic to my own beginning.

The Whip was the original source of my discontent (he was also my father). The nickname of his youth went beyond his sharp flinging shadow and frayed ears. My father’s thin body was the tangled rope around my feet, the hangman’s noose around my neck and the bonds around my wrists. How could a child born of this seed, inheriting his long neck and leather lids, be blithe? His airy cracks seeped and slithered in my fingertips. The hour of my birth commenced our animosity.





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