Generally, the village people avoided Nimon. When he was a child, they used to call their own children inside, if he happened down their street. They would peer from behind half-closed doors and whisper among themselves. Now that he was a young man, they greeted him politely, but without warmth. They bought the marvelously clever carvings he hawked from door to door, utensils and ornaments, but no one invited him in to sit by the hearth and share a glass of cider.
With his tawny skin, jet hair and lithe body, he was a handsome man, and prosperous, too, by village standards. Nevertheless the village beauties never assailed him with flirtatious banter, the way that they did the other youths. They stood awkward and quiet, with eyes downcast, until he passed. No father had approached Grandma Moira, with whom he made his home, with offers of a dowry.
Simple people fear what they do not understand, and no one understood Nimon. The rumors had been repeated and embellished in the nineteen years since his birth. His mother Leileah, a fair virgin of good family, suddenly and inexplicably grew heavy with child. Disobeying her parents for the first time in her life, she refused to reveal the father. And when her time grew near, she shunned the attentions of the midwives, fleeing on her own to the forested hills. A week later she returned with her ebony-haired, green-eyed son.
The village folk, including Nimon's mother, all had hair the color of straw, eyes the color of sky. The babe was strange in other ways, too. He would stare at you for the longest time without blinking, his oval pupils huge and midnight black. His pudgy fingers were tipped with nails much longer and sharper than a normal baby's. He never cried.
After his birth, Leileah became as silent as her child. Her lovely flaxen hair grew long, tangled and unkempt. Her cornflower eyes sparked with madness. Within a month, she left her parents' home, moving into Grandma Moira's big, ramshackle house at the edge of the hills.
Her family pleaded for her to stay. Secretly, though, they were relieved to have their stranger of a daughter out from under their roof. It seemed natural for her to go to Moira, strange drawn to strange. No one saw much of Leileah or Nimon after that. The people normally didn't tend to bother Moira, unless they needed a healing draught for their cows, or a love potion.
When Nimon was two, the wasting sickness came to the village. Nimon's mother died early; her parents followed a few weeks later. Some folk said that Leileah was punished for taking a stranger to her bed, and her parents for rejecting her afterwards. But people always like to talk. In truth, many in the village died; were all of them transgressors?
Still, tales of Nimon's mysterious parentage were always popular around the winter hearth. The father was an Arab prince, some claimed, who had galloped by the village on his white stallion and ravished Leileah as she was working in the fields. Others said that he was the Lord of the Underworld, well-known for ruining innocent virgins and carrying them back to his subterranean kingdom. A forest demon, still others claimed. Hadn't Leileah fled to woods to give birth? Didn't the child have animal eyes and claws? Then someone would laugh, and change the subject.
So Nimon grew to manhood, orphaned, raised by a wise woman whom most people called crazy, shunned by the village. For the most part, he didn't care what the people thought of him. He roamed the forest, slinking along trails that only he could see, bringing colored stones or wild herbs back to his adoptive mother. He ran through the fields, naked and glorying in his strength, laughing when the girls busy with the planting or the harvest blushed and looked away.
Some nights, though, as he lay on the ground staring up at a ripe moon, he felt a kind of emptiness come upon him. He didn't recall his mother's face, but he remembered her smell, the warm, musky smell of unwashed female skin. It seemed to engulf him on these nights, drowning out the fragrance of honeysuckle and fresh-cut hay. These nights his penis swelled up hard as the oak logs he used for his carving. Touching himself was simultaneously pain and pleasure. He grasped his erection with both hands, squeezing and pummelling his flesh, desperate to release the demons that seemed to be warring inside him.
He remembered the women in the fields, with their skirts tucked up above their knees and their bodices damp with sweat. He tried to imagine them without clothes. But the images of rounded limbs and rosy breasts kept slipping away. Instead he saw only a whirlwind, swirling shards of darkness that circled faster the closer he came to the climax.
When he finally exploded, raining sticky seed all over his thighs and belly, the dark ebbed away. He still felt empty, but the ache was less. His body was light as the dried husk of a leaf. If he didn't hold to the earth, the wind would simply take him.
It was midsummer in Nimon's nineteenth year when the cattle began to die. Nearly every day, the villagers would find a bloodied carcass, some yards away from the bulk of the herd. Deep wounds scourged the poor cow's hide, marks of some powerful beast's claws. Whole chunks of flesh were torn away, leaving gory holes that soon swarmed with flies.
The headman of the village ordered sentries posted to watch over the herd as it grazed, but this did no good. Somehow the watchers always seemed to become sleepy, or distracted. They were roused only by the buzzing of the flies upon remains of the latest victim.
"Magic," the villagers muttered among themselves. "Witchcraft." Some even wondered if the mysterious Nimon might be responsible, but didn't dare voice that thought. Besides, several times he had been seen selling his wares in the market at the same time that the alarm was raised out in the pastures. The fencing the village raised around the grazing ground did not stop the predation. If anything, the carnage increased, two calves slaughtered in a single afternoon. Finally, the headman had no choice. Carrying his best hat, he walked out to Moira's rambling homestead at the edge of the hills.
The withered old lady met him at the gate with a smile that seemed polite and sincere. "Well met, Yarnor. It has been many months since I have seen you. What brings you to my door?"
Was there irony in her voice? Yarnor couldn't afford to worry. "Well met, Grandmother Moira. I come seeking your help."
"The cattle." She didn't really need to ask.
"Yes, Grandmother. We've tried everything, but we haven't managed to glimpse the predator, let alone catch it. We fear that there's some enchantment here, that this beast is something unnatural."
Nimon, perched on the porch carving, looked up.
"Do you have any idea what kind of beast it is?"
"None, only that it is cruel and gluttonous and can wrap itself in some kind of glamour to prevent us from seeing it."
"So? Why do you come to me?" Moira did not completely hide her amusement. Yarnor swallowed his annoyance and discomfort.
"Lady, we know you are wise and have some knowledge of things unseen. We hoped that you might give us some clue as to how to catch the beast."
Moira laughed. "Me? I am a healer. You need a warrior." A sly smile twitched at her lips. "But perhaps Nimon can assist you. He is tall and strong. And he also has some acquaintance with the invisible world."
"Nimon," she called over her shoulder, "would you attend us, please?"
The young man unfolded his limbs and stretched, then glided over to the gate. His movements had an almost unearthly grace. He stared at Yagnor for a long time with those dark, wide-pupiled eyes before he spoke.
"Good afternoon, headman. So you need my help to protect your assets?"
"Goodman Nimon, it is said that you know the ways of the wild things, that you are familiar with the forest and the hills. Perhaps you can find out this creature's secrets, track it to its lair, and dispatch it. If you can help us, we would be very grateful."
Nimon could see how much it cost the headman to ask for the assistance of a outcast like himself. He found the man's unease oddly satisfying. He waited for a while before responding, just to watch Yagnor's discomfort intensify.
"Goodman Yagnor, I do not know if I can catch your cattle-killer. But if I do, what will be my reward?"
Yagnor was already prepared for this question. "Each family in the village will give you one of its cows. You will end up a wealthy man."
"Cows!" Nimon snorted. "What would I do with cows? I am, as you have said, a man of the forest and the hills, not some cowherd to haunt the pastures. And I already have enough wealth, and more, from my craft, to keep Mother Moira and myself in bread and beer."
Yagnor looked desperate. "Please, then, Nimon, do it for the good of the village that you belong to." The plea sounded hollow. Both men knew that under other circumstances the village would never claim him as its own.
Nimon turned the possibilities over in his mind. Perhaps if he succeeded, the villagers would be more willing to acknowledge him and include him in their society. But was that what he wanted?
Yagnor feared that the long silence meant that Nimon was about to refuse. He was well-aware that even as he parleyed here on the outskirts of the village, the beast was probably enjoying another bloody meal.
"Nimon," he blurted out finally. "If you can catch and kill this thing, I will give you my daughter Freyda to wife."
Now there was an offer! Nimon knew Freyda by sight, though they had never spoken. She was rosy-cheeked and merry, one of the most boisterous of the maidens when teasing the other young men. When he passed her, though, admiring the ripe flesh hidden under her bodice, she blushed silently.
Nimon gazed into Yagnor's eyes and saw fear, fear that Nimon would accept, and fear that he would refuse.
"Very well, I will make an attempt. Tomorrow afternoon I will hide myself and try to discover what manner of creature is wreaking havoc with your herds. When I know this, I will know how to attack it."
"Thank you, Goodman Nimon. We are all grateful."
Nimon laughed. "Wait to be grateful until after you have seen what I can do."
He stood with his adopted mother, watching the headman hurry back to the village. Moira laughed and ruffled Nimon's hair. "Well, son, fate seems to be playing on your side."
"Are you so confident that I can succeed in this task?"
Moira smiled affectionately. "You were born for it. Come inside. I have something for you."
The crone led the way into her dim workshop, where the mingled fragrance of herbs hung sharply in the air. She swung open the lid of a dark wood chest and rummaged among the contents. "I know that it's here... Aha!" She emerged holding what appeared to be the tooth of a large animal. It had been pierced at one end, and a thong of leather threaded through the hole.
She laid the pendant in Nimon's palm. "I have been keeping this for you. It is a token from your father."
Nimon grew pale. "My father? My father is alive?"
"Alas, no. When your mother returned to his cave, ready to give birth, she found his life bleeding away, taken by hunters. She stroked his jet fur gently until the last light left his eyes. Then, brave woman that she was, she took her knife and hacked off this tooth, just before his body crumbled to ash and blew away. The birth pangs struck her immediately after."
"Fur?" Nimon gazed at the tooth in wonder. "Who was my father? What was he?"
"He was a man, and not a man. He could walk upon two legs, but his natural form was a great black panther, lithe and full of power."
"You saw him?"
"Once, from a distance. I came upon the two of them on one of my herb walks, entwined in an intimate embrace. They were beautiful together. I kept my distance, not wanting to disturb their tryst, but he caught my scent. Before I could call out reassurances, he had changed to his four-legged shape and bounded away."
"And my mother?"
"She was in some kind of dream. Her eyes were closed but she was smiling, ecstatic. I left her there in the forest. I knew that she would be safe with him watching over him."
"But he was not safe himself," said Nimon in wonder.
"None of us really are, are we?" Moira took the talisman and hung it around his nect. "Here. This should help you on your quest."
Something shifted inside Nimon as the ivory fragment came to rest against the bare skin of his chest. His sight became more acute; the workroom no longer seemed dim but as bright as the day outside. He sniffed and could distinguish all the separate fragrances that swirled in the dusty air: the moldy sweetness of rosemary, the piercingly bitter pennyroyal, the grassy scent of sage, the pungency of garlic, all mixed with smoky paraffin and stale beer and new-mown hay and rat excrement. "Go out to the pastures, Nimon. Don't wait until tomorrow. Go discover the nature of this marauder who has so unsettled our poor village."
Nimon was suddenly moved to kneel before her. "Bless me, Mother. Give me your benediction and protection."
The woman's gnarled hand rested lightly on his head for a moment. "My son, you already have my blessing. You have always had it. Go now, and find your destiny."
Nimon moved swiftly, loping through fields and along the dirt roads to the common pasture, which lay on the other side of the village. It was nearly sunset when he finally arrived at the rolling acres of green. All seemed peaceful. The cattle meandered through the long grass, unhurried and undisturbed. Their scent of dung and milk was strong in his nostrils.
Nimon climbed a tree, hiding among the foliage, and waited. He was more alert than he had ever been. He could hear the crickets in the sod, the beetles gnawing in the tree bark, the tinkle of the lead cow's bell, a faint gale of laughter from the village more than a league away. He grasped the panther tooth hanging around his necked and tried to quiet his breathing. He had to be patient.
He began to fantasize about Freyda, imagining her unclothed, her arms wide to welcome him. His penis throbbed pleasantly at the image. Then his thoughts slid away to his mother and her lover. What would it be like, to couple with a wild thing such as his father had been? Ecstasy, Moira had said. Certainly, it would have to be extraordinary...
A harsh shriek brought him back to the present. He realized that he had been drifting, lost in his daydreams, and cursed his lack of discipline. But it was not too late. Gazing through the leaves, he saw shapes moving in the dusk, far across the pasture. The cry came again, unearthly and haunting, mixed with the pained moans of a wounded animal.
He vaulted from his perch and raced across the field. As he came closer, he saw an enormous white bird, some giant eagle or falcon, hovering over a blood-soaked calf. The bird was as tall as a man.
Scaly black talons were buried in the cow's body. A hooked, razor-sharp beak tore away huge chunks of flesh, which disappeared into the thing's dark craw. Nimon watched, fascinated, as the creature ripped at the calf until its bones began to show.
The eagle's silvery feathers were streaked with gore. It looked up from its meal, fixing its golden eyes on Nimon and shrieking again, as if angry to be disturbed.
A thrill ran through Nimon's body. There was intelligence in those eyes, awareness. This was not some mindless predator driven by blind hunger. Drawn, he edged closer to the creature. All at once he was buffeted by a mighty wind. Grasping the half-consumed calf in its claws, the eagle beat its wings and climbed into the air above him, deafening him with another raucous cry.
Caught in the whirlwind, Nimon flung his arms over his head to protect himself. The eagle did not attack him, however. It flew off toward the western mountains, rising so high and so fast that he lost sight of it in a few moments. Even with his enhanced vision, he could not follow its path. He cursed and stamped the ground in frustration.
How could he hunt a thing with such wings? His body surged with new power, but he was still a creature of the earth. He had only the vaguest idea where the bird had gone.
Still, he had promised to track and destroy the thing, and that thought gave him an odd pleasure. He headed in the direction of the mountains, ragged silhouettes against the lingering glow of sunset. He sniffed, trying to catch some scent of the creature on the evening breeze. There was an iron-tinged hint of blood, but nothing else.
All at once he noticed something gleaming in the grass, pale in the twilight. He bent to pick up the feather, which was as long as his forearm and had a distinct metallic cast. Thoughtfully, he thrust it into his belt and walked on. He encountered another silvery pinion, at the edge of the woods that cloaked the foothills. Nimon smiled to himself, remembering the light that danced in the bird's eyes. Perhaps, after all, the creature wanted to be found.
Nimon slipped into the forest and began to climb. Whenever he was unsure of the way, he found another feather that pointed out the true path. He moved steadily, deliberately, pausing often to sniff the air. Hour after hour, he trudged on. The trail became steep and rock-strewn. The trees thinned. The full moon shone down through the gaps in the foliage, painting the trail a cold silver. In the distance, Nimon could see the peaks he sought. They seemed far away as ever.
He sank down onto a fallen tree by the side of the path. He was hungry and thirsty, and close to exhaustion. How could he climb any further? Yet how could he give up? His destiny, Moira had called this quest, and he knew in his heart that she spoke the truth.
He clasped the talisman hanging around his neck. "Please, father," he whispered. "Please, help your poor human son." He closed his eyes and imagined the magical beast that Moira said had begotten him, sleek and strong, bounding up the mountain to the summit.
A sudden dizziness swept over him. Earth and sky reversed as he fell, helpless, to his hands and knees. The stars became streaks of light; the moon swelled until he feared its brightness would blind him. An earthquake, Nimon thought, as the ground trembled beneath him.
Then all was quiet. And all was different. Nimon began to move, and discovered the delightful stability and power of having four legs and a counter-balancing tail. I've changed, he thought. Like my father, I have taken on my beast shape. Energy surged through his limbs. His exhaustion had vanished. He could see, it seemed, for miles. Scanning the mountains blocking the horizon, he caught a flash of silver, halfway up the highest peak. Yes. There.
The tangy scent of his prey rose around him, emanating from the salvaged feathers that now lay scattered on the ground. He picked up one in his jaws and loped off into the night, toward his distant goal.
Nimon ran, gracefully, effortlessly, always upward. He sprang from boulder to boulder, leaped over treacherous ravines, sent sprays of scree tumbling behind him as he raced across bare stretches of gravel.
Time flowed strangely. The shiny spot grew larger and glittered in the moonlight. Soon Nimon was close enough to see that it was a small mountain lake, round as the moon itself, nestled at the base of a sheer cliff.
Nimon slowed his pace to a walk. He heard a noise, a faint splashing in the water. The astringent odor of the eagle hung in the air around him, tickling his nostrils. Now was the time for stealth. There was little cover, but he managed to crouch behind a pile of broken rock on the shore.
He turned his attention to the water. At first he saw nothing. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the reflected brilliance of the moon, he caught a glimpse or two: pale skin, slender limbs, a single graceful human hand.
She rose from the water, shaking moon-silvered drops from her naked form as she strode toward the cliff. She was nothing like the village women. There was nothing soft about her. Her breasts were palm-sized mounds that hardly shook as she walked. The full bosoms of the villagers bounced and wiggled with very step. Her thighs were sleek and muscled. Her hips and buttocks curved gently away from her waist, unlike the lush, fleshy bottoms of the women he knew. Nimon felt his unfamiliar male part growing hard. He growled softly.
A mane of hair so white that it was nearly transparent cascaded down her back. Though she had been submerged in the lake, her platinum locks appeared to be dry. Nimon was transfixed by her unearthly beauty. He lay, motionless and hidden, as she crouched by the edge of the lake. There were shadows behind her, perhaps the mouth of a cave. Who was she? And where was the great, fierce eagle who had led him to this lair? Was she the bird's keeper?
There was something on the ground in front of her, crumpled and shapeless. As Nimon watched, the woman picked up a bone from the pile and began to nibble on the shreds of flesh that still clung to it.
Horror and desire surged in Nimon's breast as he suddenly understood. His roar echoed through the canyons. He gathered his strength, his tail twitching, then sprang, clearing the lake and landing next to the beautiful, unnatural creature. He roared again, baring his fangs. He could smell her blood now, mingled with the blood of the calf and the bird-stink.
The woman screamed, her voice rising into the piercing shriek Nimon had heard in the pasture. She rose from her haunches, the transformation already beginning. The quicksilver hair streaming over her shoulders reshaped itself into great wings covered with shimmering feathers. Her bare legs blackened and shrank; her feet grew vicious talons six inches long. Her face moulded itself into the proud visage of a bird of prey, hooked beak designed for tearing flesh.
Only her eyes, golden and ageless, did not change.
Nimon wanted her. The passion had no name and no object; it was pure lust raging through his animal body. He leapt at her, burying his teeth in her neck, humping his hind-quarters against her bristly feathers. The eagle shook itself, trying to dislodge him. He held on tighter, the metallic taste of her blood an aphrodisiac.
With a shriek, she rose into the air, taking him with her. She flew straight up the cliff face. The wind whistled around them. The sky reeled as they continued their vertiginous ascent. Then he was caught in the whirlwind, darkness swirling around them, invisible wings beating against his face, desire welling up in him and threatening to burst.
Nimon recognized the vision. Almost lost in his lust and confusion, still he laughed.
The wind died away. The eagle-woman came to rest on the summit. She shook herself and Nimon tumbled off onto the bare rock. The dizziness of transformation overwhelmed him briefly. Then he was conscious of rough, cold granite against his naked skin.
He opened his eyes. They met the golden gaze of the bird-woman. "You are the one," she said, or perhaps her words were only in his mind. "You are the one I have been waiting for." She reached for his penis, swollen and aching and hard as the rock on which he lay. Straddling him, she buried the organ in the slick, hot depths of her body.
Nimon gasped as she clutched him with her inner muscles, forcing him deeper. A fire seemed to rage inside her. In his mind he saw pictures of mountains exploding, molten rock seething and tumbling down the slopes. He felt that himself, felt himself melting and flowing, setting the forests ablaze, burying the world that was.
Her fire met and mingled with his. They rose together. Nimon briefly wondered if she had reassumed her winged form. He found himself in the whirlwind again, but now the darkness swirled with bright sparks the color of her eyes. Chaos streamed around him, and Nimon welcomed it at last.
He woke to her smile. She was dressing his wounds with some soothing poultice, the marks she had left on him during their coupling. She pointed to the crusted blood on her shoulder, where his teeth had pierced her skin. We need to be more careful in the future, he thought to say, then realized that they really had no need to speak.
Iriea, she told him, in response to his unasked question. My name is Ireia.
Three weeks later, Nimon showed up at Yagnor's door. The headman was visibly shaken to see him.
"Nimon ... we thought... we worried... The lightening, the forest fire, it was the same day you disappeared, so we assumed..."
"Have there been any more killings of cattle?" Nimon asked with a half smile.
"No, that ended the night you left as well. We thought that perhaps you and the beast had both been consumed."
"Very nearly," Nimon said. He pulled out a silver feather eight inches long. "I have conquered the predator, or at least assured that it will trouble you no longer. Here is a token of my success."
Yagnor gazed at the magical object for a long time. Then he searched Nimon's eyes. Finally he sighed. "Well, then, I suppose you must have your reward."
He turned to call into the house. "Freyda? Come outside, daughter." The house was dim, but Nimon could see Freyda's plump form, along with her mother, cowering by the hearth. She didn't move.
"Daughter, do not disobey me." Yagnor tried to hold on to his dignity. "Come here at once." Nimon laughed. "Never mind, Yagnor. I don't want your daughter. I already have a bride." Iriea stepped from the shadows and took her place at Nimon's side, her paleness a dramatic contrast to Nimon's dusky skin, both sharply different from the headman's ruddy complexion.
Yagnor gasped at Iriea's unworldly beauty. "Well..." he began.
"Marry us, headman. Marry us now. I don't want my child to to be an illegitimate outcast the way I was."
Yagnor's face brightened. "Of course. Just let me go get the record books." He gave Iriea a look of frank appraisal. "Welcome to the village, Lady. I hope that you will be happy here."
"Oh, don't worry, Yagnor. We won't be staying here. We know very well that this is not where we belong. Everyone has always made that clear. Now I understand why." To Yagnor's credit, he blushed with embarrassment as he went to fetch the official register. He knew that he was in Nimon's debt, several times over.
Nimon turned to his bride and kissed her, inhaling her faint avian tang. Her eyes glowed, wild and full of love. "Don't worry, Iriea. This won't take long. We'll be back home soon."