Feeder of Three

By Zhi Yen

Worry not, for nature rejoices in its own rot.  

Under the sun which forgets to rise,  

the forest pries open their eyes.  

Blessed be the trees, puppets of the shadow,  

as curls of peeling bark cast tales as old as time.  

“Share thy burden,” the nocturnals carolled.  

“In a spectacle of chronicles,  

where the deceased shan’t decay.”  

One of nature’s keepers—a hearty performer,  

writhes its gaunt fingers, rivalling a puppeteer’s.  

The boughs clawed away from moonlight,  

with an arch of splintering timber as their stage tonight.  

With held breath, even the howling of the wolves quelled,  

for word spreads, that a new play is to be by midnight.  

Carried the wind with a piercing whistle—a gasp;  

“What fortitude!” the willows hollered.  

For what disrupted their theatre tonight,  

was a cacophony of valour, akin to their own.  

Click, clack.  

Hear, cloven hooves in the forest were plenty known;  

not in the rhythm of taunting applause, however.  

As what reverberated against roots dense with age,  

was the ovation of a prey, bound by no tether1.  

Wicked tattletales the barbed branches were;  

“All the better to hear you with,” they would jeer,  

as they etched and stretched closer to heed better.  

The devil’s image they bore tonight,   

parading his gnarly crown of antlers, one of unbridled might.  

‘Twas a deer hopping down its vague path.   

Still, be not fooled by its velvet shroud unscathed.  

‘Twas a creature of the dark, of those damned,  

with the guise of naivety—bait for those depraved.  

Even the leaves dared not rustle in dread of the aftermath,  

for what trails behind her be no other than wrath.  

Wrath of three, unbeknownst to thee,   

is much scented before seen;  

that, any animal endured as decree.  

The stench of ancient hunger reeks the air,  

unburied, almost as if a dare.  

That night, dear doe stumbled upon  

a weary old friend,  

salutations from a memory  

as old as the rotting grove2.  

Eyes her own greeted the eyes of three;  

Symptoms:  

1 Hallucinations: Patients report frequent sightings of horns and hooves to their left. Might’ve been a deer  passing by the yard (see contacts list for an exterminator).  

2 Flashbacks: Recurrent. While time may heal, serious episodes may disturb sleep and overall progress. 

“This be no place for trespassers,”  

sneered the three-headed beast.  

“Pray tell, what be of the creature  

flaunting her strides and hide?  

If one craves to survive,  

know that there be rules to abide.”  

In wonder, she ruminated;  

what need of three heads snarled upon a neck too long,  

if not to parade himself—a grotesque shrine of sin draped in flesh?  

After all, nature’s creatures needn’t be prey to age,  

for greater prey lies in its way,   

with taste not for deer, but for men bound by a manmade cage,  

with each creaky step a rhythm of no birdsong,  

sporting patches of ageing skin with blood far too fresh.  

No matter, he was an acquaintance of centuries ago and ahead,   

yet incapable of starting afresh3.  

With glee, she baited, “Why miss the tale,  

when three mouths have much to say than one?”  

“Hear ye! Hear ye!” the savage keened,  

guiltless in the shadows of dear doe’s purity.  

Time tells, it was in pride where the best truths bleed.  

The eldest of the sins lied in the middle with his deeds—  

with a cracked skull gilded gold,  

and antlers tilted akin to a scale in court.   

A forewarning from his truly:  

Be wary, friend—  

as the wind’s rule be that of a judge begrudged,  

a public trial for all to hear.  

For she thrived as kin of performers,  

she recounts every sin etched upon his pale skin,  

not without the quips, wordplay, and gags—  

the director had said,  

as the show business thrives on the ill-bred;  

“You feed on my undoing, then call it justice?  

Who is it that grants heaven’s gavel,  

if not by and for themselves?”  

Thus, the beast’s bargain for peace of mind flails.  

For the forest speaks in the language of cacophony,   

the beast howls in protest—  

a shrieking of laughter, snarls, and wails4.  

The second head cackled at his brother. What a fool.  

Bargaining was of human nature—a human tool,  

fit for silver tongues like he, with the temperament of a bull.  

Buried amongst the corals he bleached,   

amongst the ash from wildfires beseeched,  

Symptoms: 

3 Unknown: In rare cases, patients with enough unresolved persistence may metamorphose into monsters (ref. Wendigo, …). Anomaly cases will be further investigated.  

4 Pride: Often left untreated. Note that visitation hours by the Devil are not restricted. 5 Greed: No known upper limit. 

he was a haggler at heart,   

deeming it a pity to hunt without a head start;  

“What need of soft fur like yours, dear fawn?  

When you may boast the fangs or thorns of another?   

Trade in your memories for flesh and bones,   

I’m sure you’d rather,” he grinned like a fox,   

evidence of his deeds clinging rotten to his teeth5.  

A barter of flesh was a dull man’s game;  

nature needn’t bargain—spare it the claims of shame.   

Cue a deliberate flick of an ear and a hum before she proclaims:  

“How about a story, rather?  

Sold for a truth preordained within the cards?  

Hark now, you needn’t flatter me further.  

Speak if you may, old greed—  

or be sloughed off by time, disregarded.”  

The third head spat hissing upon bark.  

No older than ten, yet with the hopes to be born again.  

The sons of famine bore mouths leaking black,  

pried open above an unhinged jaw slack,  

like a gruff butcher hollering at the barns from the back,  

as he swings his cleaver down upon the quivering racks.  

“We are necessary, be not so wary.”  

It became progressively gruelling to discern who chants;  

was it the birches or the beast who claimed such barbarity?  

For both were sincere enemies of each other,  

and both professed to be the chief of the other.  

As the child cracked open his eyes glossy from light,  

the twigs metamorphosed into a portrait he dared not bite.   

A fable of Abel; the sacrifice of a boy slight and bright.  

No bother, the doe needn’t know further.  

As each night, the crows retell his reckoning without disdain.  

As each night, the weeping savage ravages his brother yet again.6  

Heed, neither the beast nor the doe would die tonight,  

as his heads evolved no quicker than her memory precedes.  

The triad held three faces while she held none.  

Circling around him once, twice, and thrice without flinch,  

a cinch of gallantry she revealed for all to see.  

Once a dusk, the wind would query her through the fog,  

“What ought you do, dear friend?   

If the beast at last met his downfall from all that maul—  

or if tragedy prevails, and you were both mounted upon a wall?”  

Her response was a feathery snicker before a tease;  

that there would be far too many stories dead,  

that the forest would never be entertained again—what a dread!  

That faithful night, she walked out unbloodied and unscathed.  

From the same storm, the beast had half a mind to feel deceived,  

as her hooves begun journey once more across,  

landing upon where bones once fed moss.  

When dawn comes knocking once more,   

her flee would leave no broken twig to account for.  

The light, though bold, does not implore,  

where her hooves have danced the night before.  

Only silence greets the damp forest floor,  

a tale half-told, and nothing more.  

Symptoms: 

6 Gluttony: Feed by tube. Appetite will return enlarged.  

*Consult before any suppression of side effects