The Big Game Hunter

He walked through the streets for hours. He passed the café's with the tiny chairs that were packed next to each other. People were drinking coffee from white porcelain cups with pretentiousness. He observed the people. He'd walk behind a woman, trying to mime her exact walk to entrain herself into her mood and energy level. Disappointed by what he found, he'd observe another woman packing a cart with groceries. He observed the way her hands moved. He looked at her elegance and clumsiness. It was not what he was looking for.

By chance, the smell of Victoria amazonica, a giant water lily, entered his nostrils, reminding him of a hunting trip to Bogota, Columbia. Magically drawn by the scent, he entered the little flower store in a dead end cobble stone alley. The doorbell hanging over the door rang with clarity.

The windows were steamy from the moisture of the rainforest plants. Cut plants with big leaves and vividly colorful flowers were piled into the window, into shelves, and hanging from the ceiling. He had to duck his head to navigate the miniscule aisle space of the store. From behind the cover of a voluptuous potted plant, he watched the store clerk.

She had black smooth hair that was cut short to the length of her chin. A perpetual mischievous smile played around her dimples. He was instantly drawn in. She went about her work in short explosive bursts. She'd fold up some papers with intensity. She'd pause to reflect. And then she'd jump with excitement onto the next task. It was like watching a cat lurking in ambush, and then jumping to play with a mouse.

Her flesh was firm. Her arms were bare and strong. She was a flapper, one of those reformed modern women that flaunted tradition. A woman with long dress, a traditionalist, entered the store. The customers face immediately drew into a frown about the encounter with a flapper. The customer immediately pushed her head dress into place over the blond long hair, as if to suggest that she was from a higher social order, a gesture that only made her look helpless.

"The flower delivery to my estate is late."

"You did not pay enough money. You owe us 50 Franc."

"There was a discount promised."

The store clerk had a red face with anger. Her small figure seemed to shrink into itself even more. "You think because I'm young, you can do anything you want with me. I will not be pushed around without a fight!"

He had to hold his hand to cover a smirk. In his mind, he called the store clerk "my little rebel soldier. " She seemed to have the constant urge to defend herself, even when she was not attacked. It endeared her somehow. She wasn't a mean fighter out of spite. She wasn't greedy. He could see in her a country girl, a girl that had moved from the country to live a cosmopolitan, independent life. He could see that she was fighting for a living in a new and foreign environment. She simply lacked the experience to understand that the haggling for discount was a normal, incessant trying that was easily placated with a firm no. It endeared her to be that naïve and to make him feel like an experienced, refined man.

The customer stormed out. The girl waved her fist after her. She looked so cute with the anger in her face and temper in her body.

He appeared from behind the plant and smiled warmly at her.

"Having a hard day, miss?"

"People always think that they can get everything for free."

"How do you feel about getting something for free?"

"What do you offer?"

"I offer you a reading of your spirit animal. Have you heard about Sigmund Freud?"

"I am well familiar with monsieur Freud. One of his students psychoanalyzed me. It was very interesting."

"I provide a similar kind of analysis. I will tell you the nature of your spirit animal."

"Very intriguing."

He had done this many times. He knew how to hook people. He suggested some aspect of her were rather feline-like, the way that she was independent to move from the country. She was intrigued and offered to try it after the store closed.

He waited in a nearby café, slowly sipping on tea, while devouring an apple cake with a hundred tiny bites to stretch out the time. She stood waiting on the stoop in front of the store. She had her hands folded in front of her and was swinging side to side excitedly. When she saw him, she burst out laughing in anticipation. He gentleman like took her arm and put it into the crook of his elbow.

"Where do we go," she asked.

"To your place, it will let me better come in tune with your spirit animal."

"But I only have a simple rented room."

"If that is you, that is where we must go," he smiled.

They walked arm in arm through the streets of Paris with men in coats bustling on their way home from work. She let him up eight stairs in a narrow stair case to the top of a cheap apartment building. Her room was simple. There was a white bed in the center. A pitcher with water was in a corner. She had her other set of clothes folded over a chair. He sat down unabashed on her bed. She reclined on her bed in complete surrender to the process. So, he reclined as well.

"So, I should tell you about myself," sighed she, starring at the ceiling, "I was a girl in the country. I love my parents dearly. However, I felt suffocated. I felt like I would not be able to live there. They looked at me like something was seriously wrong for not marrying a man. I wanted to feel free. I had seen girls in the movies were short skirts. I had seen them smile. I had seen them study in ecole. Paris is where I had to go to be free."

There was something so free about her, how she easily babbled about herself. It made him feel free himself. He was reminded of being an adolescent and hanging out with friends on their beds. There was something relaxed about her. She wasn't eager like the other women to get a reading, trying to get something from him. She was simply talking about herself.

Noticing that openness, he could no longer hold himself back behind the façade of a reader. He had to surrender to her. He had to throw away the disguise and show himself.

"The reading, it's a ruse. I use it to bait people. With you, I cannot play that game anymore. I simply want to feel this room and your presence."

"That's all right. When you were in the store, there was something about you that touched me. I did not take you to this room to get a reading. I simply wanted to be close to you."

He breathed easier. It was like a metal band that had been constricting his chest was taken from him. They lay there breathing, silently savoring each other's company. There was a peace in lying with each other, feeling connected, knowing that the other person wasn't bored, but enjoyed the same communion.

"It's getting cold. Do you want to cuddle under the sheets?" he asked.

She nodded. And they moved to get the sheet out from under them.

"I have travelled to all the continents. I have fired a gun at man and animal. Yet, I am afraid about some things. A mystique once told me to hold another person with the warmth of what a family feels like. I mean we both have had struggles with our families. No parents are perfect. However, imagine the perfect family that is safe, loving, and nurturing. Then take that feeling into a hug with another person. I cannot do it. I fear when I bring that out, I'd get hurt."

She nodded making him fully understood without the need to blab.

After more silence had passed, she spoke, "I was so scared. When I arrived in Paris, I only had 10 Francs to my name. I was walking the streets with no references. This store took me in. They pay me just enough. The owner is always critical about how little I know. I fear that any day, he could fire me. I'm sure that he thought about it. We fight. It is terrible to worry every day about the end being right around the corner."

He lovingly petted the hair over her forehead and held her in a warm hug, "I've got you. I've got you." She almost cried in his arms. He could tell the suspended emotion of almost tearing into sobbing.

He could have had sex with her. Yet, he decided that the close intimacy was so much more fulfilling. He did not want to destroy it. When the moon was high, she sent him out, because she had to sleep for her next day at work.

The next day, he slowly stretched the time in the café with the paper and talking to random patrons. Near twilight, he walked over to the café to. Leaning against the wall opposite to the store, he waited. She opened the store door to close down. When she saw him, her face lit up, "Marc, it is you!" His heart just burst with the yonder of happiness at her joyful welcome. She jumped off the stoop to hug him joyously.

As he was holding her close, she leaned her head back to look him straight into the eyes -- her brown eyes into his blue yes. "Will you show me how your other women liked making love to?" She had that smirk in her dimples.

And then, they ran hand in hand, joyous, into the darkness of the alley. The end of the alley was a wall. The tall buildings cast a dark shadow, where they disheveled their garments enough for eager hands to rub all over the skin, boobs, penis, vagina, back, belly, and neck. Her tongue shot into his mouth like a jumping fish. He was hard immediately. She did not pause to lift her dress, grip his penis, and push it into her vagina.

"Don't you want foreplay?"

"I'm in some ways like a boy."

She plunged herself up and down with a ferocity that made him fear for his penis piercing. Her nails dug deep into the skin of his shoulder. He liked feeling her taken over by the rush. He bit into the nape of her neck. She begged him to bite harder until he was almost taken a bite out of her. With ear piercing sound, she screamed in the throes of pleasure.

He felt her pushing her pelvis down hard. He met her hard push with an equally hard counter pushy. She seemed to like the penetration fast and furious. So, he rushed to fuck her as hard and as fast as he could. The orgasm was quickly nearly for both of them. She pulled his body hard onto herself. They fell, him on top of her. Without a break, he kept ramming her on the cobble stone ground.

"How do you feel," asked he to check in with her.

"I feel so alive. Fuck me harder."

And then he could no longer hold. With the next pleasure scream of hers, he released his seed into her belly. She let out a guttural moan that made him stare with eyes wide open at her. Her skin turned black, sleek black, sleek furry black. She pounced on her four feet. His seed had let her turn to her true nature, a black panther. She swatted his shoulder one last time with her claws. Then, she effortlessly jumped to the top of the wall and disappeared into the black Paris night, smooth, stealthily, invisible, and extremely powerfully.

He stumbled out of the alley, stopped a horse buggie, and paid the man handsomely to be returned to Fotnainebleau.

When my father arrived at this part of the story, I could see the tears in his eyes and the sweat on his forehead. He was in love. This girl had found a way through the cracks of his inner wall to sneak into his heart.

Also, a fever was festering in father. The doctor was called. When he opened the bandage, he saw that the wound had festered with yellow puss oozing out of it. The man with the fluffy, white hair and the pocket watch, shook his head solemnly, "The wound has festered too fast. There is nothing I can do."

My father had made the acquaintance with an African mystique man Abiyoe. That man was called. He arrived promptly. I was sitting on the side of the bed. The house servants were wringing their hands worriedly. They started talking about their future. My father was only partially conscious, because of the fever. In the middle of this chaos, Abiyoe stood tall. He was 6' 5". He was dressed in a white robe. His head was shaven and painted with black symbols.

He had a friendly, warm, and jolly face. He took one look at father and said, "It is clear what is going on." I begged him to explain. It was not clear to me or anyone else. The doctor observed Abiyoe with respectfully and patiently with a facial expression that said whatever Abiyoe would do was pure superstition.

"He turned another woman into her spirit animal. I told him to be careful with that magic. This woman liked being in her spirit animal form so much that she hasn't turned back. As long as she remains in the spirit shape, she will draw the life from him. If she does not return to her human form quickly, he will die."

"Why would she not turn back?"

"Some people are very feral. They identify much more with their animal part than their human part. They are more instinctive, more direct, more alive people. They do not like the stricture of society and having to fit in."

"How can we make her shift back?"

"I will give your father a potion. It will help him reach the gloom. It is another plane. In that plane, he can search for her and talk her into turning back."

Abiyoe pulled out a small flask of green liquid. The stable boy whispered to the doctor, "aren't you going to stop him?" The doctor leaned forward and whispered back, "it makes no difference. He will be dead by nightfall either way." I wanted to punch both of them for talking like that about my father. However, I felt my own helplessness of being an orphan coming up.

Abiyoe held the flask to my father's lips. Father automatically drank. His eyes opened one last time to lock with mine, "I love you, Pierre." Abiyoe put his hands on the sides of father's head. His pupils turned upside to disappear. His eyes were pure white.

"Pierre, I will tell you what your father sees. It is your job to guide him through the gloom. He can hear you, because you are his blood. He can never shut you out."

"Yes, Abiyoe. What does he see."

There was snow, fresh snow, powdery snow. The sun was bright and glorious. The sky was pure and blue. He was in a mountain forest. His feet were bare. He was treading through the snow with an enterprising mood. The cool snow felt smooth and refreshing to the feet. Walking barefoot was so liberating. The winter landscape was blissful and pristine under the blanket of snow.

A big deer or horse appeared from under the pine trees. No, it had a horn on its forehead. It was a unicorn. He looked closer to make sure that it was really a unicorn. He looked at where the horn was connected to the skull to make sure that it was not mounted onto a horse. It was true. It was a true unicorn.

"Pierre, the unicorn represents innocent, virgin sexuality," explained Abiyoe. "The woman represents his innocents to Marc. You have to talk him into letting go off it."

"Papa, let go off the unicorn," I said sternly.

He was fascinated by the unicorn. He reached out his hands to touch its forehead. The unicorn shook his head to invite him to something. It started trotting. He realized it. He started running. His limbs were running so effortlessly like he hadn't run since a youth. With another swing of the legs, he was running at the speed of a horse. His feet were splattering snow. He reached his arms wide out to enjoy the drag of air from the speed. The unicorn ran by his side. They chased up the mountain.

"Pierre, he is too much in love with that woman. He cannot let go. You must talk your father into leaving the unicorn."

"Papa, let go off the unicorn," I screamed helplessly.

The unicorn turned into Jeanine, the girl from the flower store. He hugged her naked body. He was naked. He felt whole, so whole. He cried. He could be himself with her and play. He whispered into her ear, "I will hold you forever."

Abiyoe gently pulled his fingers down father's face to close his eyes. He had passed. I ran crying. I ran out of the room. I ran past the servants that were trying to catch me with their arms. I ran down the stairs, past the elephant rifle. I ran out of the front door. I ran across the wild flower fields. I ran into the forest. I ran. I kept running. The pain in my side pierced me hard. I kept running. The pain grew worse. I could no longer run I paused. My bare soles were hurting from the stones and broken branches on the ground. I did not know what to do.

When the stable master found me, he let me back to the mansion. I followed him docile, because I no longer knew what to do. He put me in my bed. A deep, black, dreamless slumber came over me.

The next Sunday, distant relatives and all the neighbors came for the funeral ceremony. The stable master put his big hands on my shoulders. If the weight weren't there, I would have bolted again to just run and run. I tuned out the slick words of condolences.

And then a green butterfly fluttered right in front of my face. I lifted my index finger. It perched on it. I could see it breathe. It was mystical and wonderful, so beautiful. Abiyoe was standing next to me. He leaned forward to whisper into my ear.

"That is your father."

I looked at him puzzled.

"Listen, he is talking to you."

I do not believe in superstition. However, when I listened very closely, I could hear my father's voice, "I love you, Pierre." Tears streamed down my face.

"I do not understand."

"Pierre, your father had to die. When your heart is broken, sometimes the only way forward is to die. It's an emotional death. Struggling against the death will only prolong the suffering. You have to let yourself go to your deepest sadness to move on."

"But Abiyoe, if my father died, did the woman die?"

"No, she turned back human, when your father died. Your father recognized her spirit animal and his true recognition set her free to be her true self. However, when the connection ended, she had to become her old self again. Your father had a deeper affection by her then she did by him."

Father butterfly fluttered off into the field of wild flowers.