Paul

I’ve stood here for ages, much longer than the current population gives me credit for. They look up at me in amusement, not caring how such a prodigiously sized figure came to be here. It seems a natural human instinct to mentally gloss over things that can’t, logically, be explained. At least, not with normal logic. It all seems infernally logical to me…

Anyway, I’ve had a lot of opportunity to think as I stood here observing the frolic and pause of time. Mostly I think about women. Sexy women, plain women. Little girls with dollies and old women with great grandchildren. I enjoy the play of light on their skin - not that they expose much flesh in a climate like this. Even so, the golden September sunshine caressing the vibrant scarlet leaves of a maple reminds me of a sanguine fountain dribbling on coppery flesh. It’s the colors that get me.

. . .

I remember walking through the forest. It was a much different forest than the one that I was used to. Before I was surrounded by vast oceans of bamboo and inundated with the lusty calls of musk deer, counterpointed by the deep trumpet of an elephant. I was worshipped there. The simple people of the land would throw their virgins and courtesans at my feet when I came through a village. Some of the people are more cultured and civilized than the rest. These found meaningless deaths after they convinced themselves that they could and should withstand my blade. Idiots.

But, that kind of absolute power can become indescribably dull after a few centuries. Or so I thought. I went looking for new places, new challenges. It seems incredibly trite, now, to think how stricken I was with such a “the grass is always greener” mentality. Over the years I’ve seen so many youngsters suffer this same flight of fancy. They leave, searching for opportunity and real life beyond the borders of their current understanding. They usually return once they realize that there is nothing better out there. Those that don’t return sometimes visit so they can refresh a smug sense of superiority. But I digress. Forgive me. One does like to milk a thought when one has nothing but time to kill.

I left my former home and traveled in a random direction for an arbitrary amount of time. That is how I came to this brand new kind of forest. At first I was fascinated by the new shapes, smells, and textures, but that didn’t last long. I was searching for a challenge and nothing is more challenging than humans. They have the most delightful superiority complex.

A new type of people existed in this clime, a quaint hunter-gatherer sort of people. They seemed absolutely precious to me. I have seen large cats toying with small prey and I’ve always found it so wonderfully amusing. That is how I started with this people, playfully. I would catch a small one out by itself and sneak it into the communal stew pot. Or, tempt it with sweets and berries until it could be induced to slit another’s throat. All in good fun. Eventually, I grew tired of this. I started demanding tribute and, at first, they gave it to me willingly. I still remember the first.

She came to me with giant, stupid calf eyes, willing to do whatever I bade. Her hair was long, well past her waist, and had a distinctive, healthy black sheen. It was the same color of the black glass made inside volcanoes and just as silken. It glinted in the light. I told her to spin and I watched it float through the air. I told her to lie on the grass and I stroked it until it became oily with my sweat. This dulled it considerably so I moved on to her skin. It was almost as silken as her hair. All except for her hands; they were the hands of a woman who has scraped deer hide and woven blankets. They were rough and unbecoming of her. I removed them and tossed them aside. This freed her glorious, warm blood and I let it spurt onto my chest and run down my body. She was lovely; she sated me for two days before I needed another.

The next was very young. She was perfectly innocent and still had a sweet childish lisp. I had her sing to me and we played with the red squirrels. I whispered to her for days and taught her such amusing games before I sent her home to her people. Women have a much deeper capacity to influence their social groups than men.
I was just getting a taste for this beautiful, new population when they sent me an old woman. She was very small, I remember that. Her hands were painfully crooked and she limped. Her breath stank. This little, shriveled person bespoke age and infirmity in every detail, enough to make me forget myself. These people were so fascinating and simple that I was lulled into an illusion of security. I forgot what else may come with age besides a crooked back.

This old woman did not have a name. She also did not have a pleasant voice, but I asked her to sing to me. I did not pay attention to the words; I was too intrigued by the wispy rise and fall of her tones. The reedy, gasping high notes and the toad-like lows. When old women sing, you can here the regret of their youth and the labor of their middle years. They weave in experience and embroider with the silvery ghost of forgotten laughter. It is beautiful to realize that you don’t have to feel the pain that they felt. I was completely swept away. She completely transfixed me before I could realize that it was in more than the metaphoric sense.

. . .

The current group of “natives” have progressed past simply ignoring me and have turned me into a kind of folk hero. They have an entire mythos built around me and I have even heard that likenesses of myself have been erected in other places. I guess they thought I looked lonely because I now have a cerulean companion that they have integrated into my story. I don’t mind; it opens up completely new possibilities for the time when I finally can stop watching and act. Over the years I have watched the populations shift around me. New colors and shapes pass by, but I can’t touch; I can’t command. But, I can still whisper.