"I feel just like I'm sinking,
And I claw for solid ground.
I'm pulled down by the undertow.
I never thought I could feel so low.
And oh darkness, I feel like letting go.
If all of the strength and all of thecourage
Come and lift me from this place,
I know I can love you much better thanthis."
Sarah McLachlan: 'Full of Grace'
From the album: 'Surfacing'
Vincent's eyes gathered in the tiniest, mostinsubstantial motes of light available, magnifying their intensity.In most of the deeper caverns a certain strain of fungus grew on therocky walls, fungus which emitted a faint phosphorescent glow. It wasthis source of light, imperceptible to his normal human friends thatallowed him to explore the deeper caverns without needing to carryalong a light source.
The downward course he had followed for the pastday and a half was gradually leveling out. Vincent's sharp eyes foundthe rough fissure that was his destination, and he turned sideways tofit into the narrow space. He had discovered this way as a child,when he was considerably smaller. Experience told him, however, thatalthough it would be tight, there was
The shades of gray that comprised the world whenhis eyes worked with minimal light gradually began to acquire a washof pale color as the ambient light increased. Sharp ears discernedthe familiar trickle of water and soon after the fissure widened intoa large open area.
The cavern was a rough oval and along theopposite side, flush against the far wall, ran a smallish river,about 15 feet across at its widest spot. Vincent turned to the rightand made his way along the riverbank. Rocky footing soon gave way tosoft sand and he headed unerringly for his semi-permanent camp. Thissecret place had been, since childhood, a retreat for him. He hadonce mentioned it to Catherine, a 'nameless river' where he went tobe alone, to think.
With a weary sigh he set down his pack,collapsed onto the soft sand and leaned against the rocky wall. Thejourney here, although not prohibitively long, had seemed especiallyarduous due to his long inactivity and had taken more hours thanusual. His inherent sense of time told him it was mid morning onSunday. The long walk unshod had taken its toll on his feet and hereluctantly lifted one in his hands to examine it, grimacing at theburning ache.
Like his hands, the tops of his feet werecovered with burnished coppery fur, the five toes tipped with claws.Where his hands had rough but human palms, however, the bottom of hisfeet was covered with leathery pads more like an animal. Those pads,used to the protection of heavy boot soles, had worn through inseveral spots, revealing pink flesh. The last few weeks of illness,combined with the ensuing week of bed rest, had allowed the claws onhis toes to grow, although they were still shorter and blunter thanthey would become, if memory served. Concentrating, he triggered along unused and barely remembered ability. Instantly, the claws morethan doubled in length as small muscles pulled them forward alongtheir bone anchor to click into extension. With a grunt comprised ofequal parts surprise and disgust, Vincent dropped his leg back to theground and closed his eyes. Relaxing, he felt his foot clawsretract.
He was not a man. Not human. A reflexive wave ofdenial rose up, only to be defeated by cold hard fact. Humans did nothave retractable claws on hand and foot. Humans did not have fangs.They did not have features like him. And they did not have hissenses, abilities, or instincts.
A sudden dash of light humor and love splashedagainst the brooding thoughts that were taking him. Catherine. Shewas thinking of him. Vincent had a brief picture of himself throughher eyes, face screwed up in disgust. The memory brought a smile andchuckle to his lips and, using the lines of their strengthened bond,he sent his loving response.
Of all the memories he treasured of hisCatherine, the times they laughed together were held the closest. Thetime she had forgotten to remove price tags from her supposedlysecondhand gifts was particularly special. In the early days, theirtime always seemed so limited. The insecurity of their places in eachother's lives meant they seldom relaxed enough to play. This had beenone of the first times he had let himself tease her, and they hadlaughed about it during the walk back to her threshold. Then therewas the time that the rain had caused Schubert's Unfinished Symphonyto be even more unfinished than usual. His Catherine loved to laughand, until the dark time had come, he found himself swept into herjoy more and more often. The rippling river waters before him broughtanother treasured memory to light...
After spending many anxious and tensionfilled days at Catherine's threshold during the problem with thestalker, the situation had been resolved. Afterwards, he had takenseveral days and retreated to his "nameless river" to think. He hadmanaged to hide from Catherine much of the pain that the wholeepisode had cost him. By far the worst was when he had felt her lifedeparting. But once the relief and joy of having her safe once morehad faded, he had had other demons to confront. Catherine knew he hadkilled the watcher, and no doubt assumed that he had fought throughhim in order to rescue her from drowning in the car. She did notunderstand, and he had not told her, the entirety of it.
He had killed. Not in self-defense. Not toprotect her. When the watcher had confronted him, Vincent had knowninstantly what had occurred. The man had been gloating with pleasure.Through the strength of his sick emotions he had been able tosee what theman had done. It had been anger - anger and revenge that had loosedthe beast. He had, for the first time, felt he had truly murdered. Ithad taken many days of soul searching to even begin to come to termswith his actions. Eventually, a tenuous form of peace had been madeand he had started for home.
Drawing closer to the home tunnels, he hadrealized with a burst of anticipation that Catherine was below. Fromhis constant sense of her, he had known she was traveling south inthe area of the falls and that she was nervous, scared. He hadimmediately changed his destination, with the intent to discover whatwas wrong. During his journey however, he had felt her fear spike,then fade.
Sounds of splashing and childish shrieks ofdelight could be heard from around the bend in the tunnel and hehesitated. Ever since her father had passed, Catherine had spent moreof her free time in the tunnels. She was an especial favorite of thechildren, and they took every opportunity to convince her toaccompany them on various outings. They had been after her for sometime to take them to the falls, to swim. Obviously, their persistencemust have paid off. He now understood her fear. The near drowning hadmade her fearful of the water, a fear that she had determinedlyconquered. With a small smile he had turned to go. But he hadn't beenfast enough.
"Vincent?"The high-pitched squeals of delight that followed Catherine's callstopped his turn. Within seconds, Vincent had been surrounded by whatseemed a veritable horde of children, all eager to welcome him back.Reluctantly, he had allowed himself to be dragged into the largechamber, where the best swimming area was located. Here the swirlingwaters from the base of the falls calmed, and a small inlet provideda perfect swimming hole, safe for even the youngest children providedthey did not venture out too far. One side of the inlet provided a gradual decline,while the one closest to the entrance dropped off steeply, and wasideal for diving. True to form, the children had ganged up on him,trying to push him in the water. It was like mice trying to move awall, and they had given up quickly.
Catherine had been in the deep section,resting her arms on the drop off. Only her head and the tops of hershoulders had been visible. Her long honey brown hair had beenplastered to her head, and she had pushed it back impatiently. Herdelight in his presence had been both visible and felt in herburgeoning joy through the bond. Wordlessly, she had held out herhand for him to help her out and he had instantly offered assistance.
He had forgotten Catherine could, when sheconcentrated, block off his sense of her emotions. The quick glimpseand wink he intercepted from her to Samantha had been his onlypreparation. Still, he had been completely unprepared when Catherinebraced her feet against the rocky side-wall and yanked as hard as shecould, sending him off balance and plunging into the water besideher. The children had all shrieked with laughter when he hadsurfaced, golden hair darkened by the streaming water, snorting insurprise (and to clear his nose of water). Catherine had been theworst of the lot. Barely able to swim due to her hysterical giggles,she had struck out for the opposite shore. Slowly, deliberately, hehad removed his cloak and swung the sodden mass to the bank. Thecavern echoed with a low, rumbling snarl as, not taking his eyes fromher retreating form, he swam swiftly after her. He had caught herwithin seconds, where the water turned shallow. Ignoring her screamsand pleas for mercy, promptly and unceremoniously he had thrown thelove of his life over his shoulder. Her gasping apologies and shoutedorders to let her down left him unmoved as he splashed up the bankand proceeded to carry her wriggling body over to the deep end.Without a shred of remorse, he tossed her in, to the excited andenthusiastic cheering of her previously adoring fans.
It was only later, in the privacy of his ownchamber, that he had allowed himself to remember the feel of herslick wet body, clad only in a tight one piece swimsuit, writhingunder his hands.
His hands. Slowly he lifted them to rest on hisdrawn up knees. Deliberately, he triggered that muscular reflex thatextended his claws. He had not done so consciously for many years,and the sight was unsettling. He closed his eyes and dropped his headback momentarily until, with a resigned but determined breath, heraised his head again to look. "This is what you are,"he spoke softly. "Don't hide from it anymore. Don't pretend itdoesn't exist."
And he had tried. Oh how he had tried. Hiseducation in the humanities was more extensive than the vast majorityof
Catherine... what she must think of him, oftheir dream, now? That he sensed no hate or fear from her was atestament to her courage and strength. She was so strong, hisCatherine. To follow him into that black cavern, the faith it musthave taken to approach him, to touch him. He shuddered at the memoryof the results: his hands, tipped with blood. The blood of the one hehad sworn to die before harming.
Briefly, he contemplated sending her away again.That would certainly prevent a recurrence. Except that it neverworked, although not for lack of trying. Repeatedly he had attemptedto convince her to walk a different path, but Catherine was nothingif not stubborn. Even Father had commented that in this aspectVincent had met his match. If memory served, the actual quote hadbeen "You two deserve each other. Maybe now you'll understand justwhat I've had to deal with all these years. Good luck." Well, Fatherdidn't mince words. Truth be told, however, he didn't think he couldever bring himself to send her away again. He needed her, her light,her laughter, and her faith. If that was weak, well, there it was. Ofcourse, he could always disappear himself - just never go back. Buthe was needed in the tunnels. Horrifying as it was, the problem withthe Outsiders had born out this truth. He was needed for hisstrength, his strategic mind in organizing tunnel security and, whennecessary, to defend his home. To allow these hands to be judge andjury. To convict and mete out death.
For a moment, he struggled with the familiarimpulse to give in to despair, to self-condemnation. There was somuch blood on his hands, culminating in Catherine's. His batteredemotions shied away from reliving those moments, but with a mentalwrench Vincent forced his train of thought back on course. He mustuncover the truth. Catherine must never come to harm by his handagain.
How had it happened? Everything had seemed fine,at least to his turbulent mind. He had been so sure his actions wouldnot harm her. The strangeness of his lips had not repulsed her. Hehad sensed no disgust or distaste. In fact, the opposite was true.Vincent analyzed his memory, but found no refuting evidence. Somehow,his differences had been exciting to her. He had felt this clearly,along with her love and acceptance. The feel of her lips, willing andsoft under his own... unbearable! A lovers' kiss&. His dream forso long, made reality. Sunk in the memory, a soft reflexive rumblebegan deep in Vincent's chest. Blinking with shock, he sat upabruptly. That had happened then too. Catherine had... liked it.Tremendously.
'So the bond had been fully open at that point,'Vincent reasoned, his logical mind fully engaged now. Following thepath of memory step by step, Vincent recalled sliding his handsacross her back and letting them rest on her shoulders. Try as hemight, he could not remember beginning the kneading motion on them,only once he had begun did he realize his actions. Catherine hadliked that, too. He could remember the little lightning flashes ofpleasure skipping across her nerves and communicating through thebond to him. And it had felt so good. For both of them.
So good, in fact, that he hadn't wanted it toend. In hindsight, Vincent remembered the figurative warning bellsgoing off in his head. Somehow, a part of him had known this shouldnot continue. The feelings had been so contradictory. 'Too much, notready,' colliding with the part of him that had been so sure he wasnot grasping too hard, that this would not hurt her, only lead themfurther. And he had waited so long to feel this, longed for thismoment for what seemed like forever, the feel of her, the taste ofher. He had felt noanger, no black viciousness he had always associated with thepresence of the beast. It had been all too easy to yield totemptation, to push those warnings away. And in that moment ofdistraction, the unthinkable. Instinct let run, untempered...
Instinct untempered. Incomplete knowledge. "Howcan half the truth suffice to understand the whole?" Vincent drew ina deep breath, as the words from his dreams surfaced. His dreams...often containing knowledge beyond his understanding. He had trustedin them before. Once, they had even saved Catherine's life. Loweringhis chin to his chest, he concentrated deeply, pulling the rest ofthe dream memories to the surface. Two faces filled his mind's eye. Apicture of two physically identical beings, yet mentally polaropposites. Vincent, the gentle thinker, a shy philosopher, hiding hisdifferences to fit in with those that he loved, his family. Theother, unapologetically physical, reveling in his strength andabilities, proud and untamed. Many of his comments had stung.Ruefully Vincent opened his eyes and glanced at the broken blisterson his feet. Oh, yes, they had definitely pricked his pride. "Toughenup." Indeed.
Vincent had often felt, in what he consideredweaker moments, a form of pride in his strengths. Lifting the beam toopen the Great Hall, feeling the dense musculature of his back flexwith the effort. Exploring deep caverns with efficiency. Knowing whoapproached his chamber by footfall and scent. These feelings hadalways been quickly suppressed; drowned by the limitations theyimposed on his life.
The necessity to live his life hidden from theworld Above, safe with his family, had always required limitations.But not all were imposed by necessity. He had placed many limits onhimself deliberately, if he were honest. After all, that was thereason for this exercise, total honesty with himself. 'Never show howmuch sharper my senses are, never move faster than those with me can,unless in an emergency, hide my body, never vocalize anything butgentle well-thought-out words'. One by one Vincent dug out andrecited his unconsciously self-created laws. It was only in intenselyemotional moments, like a frustrating argument with Father, whenthese rules sometimes cracked and he would toss down a book inphysical release or raise his voice in anger. Or when the beast tookhim, when the need to fight, to protect, overwhelmed his reason.
No wonder his dreams had brought up the bootsincident. That was only the most obvious of the ways he created hisown limits. The sneering face of Mitch swam before him, laughing athis feet, calling him 'kitty' and worse, the others following hislead. In those days, there were not as many adults around tointercede. He had felt so alone. All he had wanted was to fit in, tobe part of the group. How long had it taken him to learn to walkproperly wearing boots? His feet, long and claw tipped, were not asstiff and unbending as his friends', they flexed more in the center,enabling him to run and climb more efficiently. The unbendingfootwear had made him feel like he had grown hooves like a horse forthe longest time. Vincent flexed his feet and felt the protest oflong unused muscles. It felt... good.
The image of the Dark One on the ledge came tomind, sprawled in the hot sun, unselfconsciously scratching his bellywith a long claw. What would it feel like, to be that free? A pang offear struck, out of habit, as Vincent contemplated that side of hisnature. The side he had always suppressed, hidden even from himself.The side he had considered merciless, evil, a vicious beast. In away, that conceptualization had made the suppression easier. But,when he recalled the face from his dreams, the black snarling visagewas quickly supplanted by a mirror of his own. Pleading blue eyesbegged for his understanding. "Do not fear because you do notunderstand. Trust Me. Learn. Know." Could it be true? Could it be,because the only times he ever allowed his control to slide werecases of grave danger, that he had only ever seen that one aspect ofhis other nature? Was there more?
Intense concentration was interrupted by theneed to assuage the intense itching across his back. Not surprising,considering he had hiked over full day alone, therefore using hisnatural long-striding gait. The exercise had resulted in a coating ofsweat that, now that it was drying, itched like fury. The whisperingriver beckoned, promising relief and cleanliness. Almost out of habitVincent hesitated before beginning to remove his garments. Droppingthe last to the sand, he gingerly made his way to the riverbank. Hewas met by his reflection, rippling slightly with the movement of thewater. Beginning to avert his eyes, he stopped and forced himself tolook directly into the mirror-like surface.
In form alone, what met his eyes was not exactlydispleasing. His shoulders were broad and heavy, displaying strongmusculature, as did his arms. A flat stomach tapered to narrow, trimhips. Long, heavily muscled legs spoke of endurance and strength. Inshape, he was the equivalent to any well-built human male. It was theperipherals that showed his alienness, face, hands, and feet.Foremost was his face. His friends were all familiar with thelion-like features; the broad, furred nose, deep set eyes, highcheekbones and a split, muzzle like upper lip, the long white fangsbeneath which he tried so hard to keep from exposing and the thick,mane-like hair. It was not vanity that kept him from cutting it. Thelong outer hair disguised a short but thick and heavy undercoat. Abrief smile appeared as Vincent recalled his one and only attempt ata haircut. Apparently many children tried, at some point, to cuttheir own hair, and he had been no exception. Mary's sewing scissorshad been ideal for the task, or so he had thought. Father had triedto repair the damage, but the whole mess had had to be cut off at aone-inch length. For months he had looked like a shorn sheep, thelighter undercoat fully revealed. Even a hat couldn't completely hidethe wreckage.
Padding had been used to conceal his shoulders.All of his garments had shoulder padding to a degree, but not nearlyas much as people thought. Vincent turned slightly to view his back.His heavy mane did not end at the normal human neckline, but spreadout over his shoulders and down his back to his waist in a taperingV. The pattern was mirrored on his chest, but here the luxuriouswaves of copper-gold arrowed downward from navel to groin. On hisshoulders the thick fur continued, growing much shorter and flatterdown his arms, heavier below the elbows to his hands. From the waistto knees he was relatively 'normal', but below his knees the heavycopper fur appeared again and spread down to his toes. It was a bodythat, although structurally similar, had such obvious differencesthat it could never be considered fully human.
"What is wrong with not being human?" the remembered voice of the other softlyasked. Vincent looked again at his reflection. Lifelong attitudes ofself-hatred warred with the wondrous possibility of acceptance andpride offered by his other nature. A stray breeze ruffled the mane onhis back, lifting it pleasantly. From the back of his mind,temptation beckoned. A rough but kind rumble, "You think too much.Just be."
With a shuddering breath, Vincent contemplatedthe idea. What would happen if, in answer, he let go the strictcontrol he had exerted for what felt like his entire life? Dare hetrust that he would not lose himself completely, forever? Memories ofthe beast as he had envisioned it during his illness, black andgloating, hateful of his very existence, oozed through hisconsciousness. But this image fell at the remembrance of the lethalclaws that, holding his very life in their grip, had unexpectedlyeased and released. For a moment, sorrowful blue eyes appeared."Please, don't send me back to the darkness... I cannotsurvive there any longer."Inhaling, Vincent closed his eyes and slowly, brick by brick, beganto dissolve that solid wall he had so painstakingly constructedthroughout his life to contain the beast.
Water. The iron tang of dissolved minerals.Enticing scent of cheese sandwich, from the pack behind him. Softhurried scuttle-steps mice on a ledge above smell food too. Smallsplash of water fish swimming near had touched the surface quick.Yumm, fish. Slow slow easy into water. Not too cold. Look there –fish! Wait still staystill patient. Curious fish closer closer - strike
Vincent's hand struck downwards almost tooswiftly for eyes to follow, claws extended. There was a briefresistance, then give as sharp curved claws impaled the fish, and thefollow-through tossed its thrashing body to the riverbank. Delighted,Vincent gave a rumbling half roar and splashed through the water toreach the white, blind cavefish that flopped on the shore. Raisingthe still wriggling form, he turned it to find the best spot for thefirst bite and stiffened suddenly, upper lip curled back in a lowsnarl.
The other. Resolutely, he hardened to fightbeing sent back to the darkness, the aloneness. But the expected walldid not come crashing down; the push to the back, to go away, nevercame. Puzzled, Vincent cocked his head, curious now, andlistened.
His back still itched abominably, and in thepack there was clean soap and a towel. A bath would fix that, andfeel so good. Later, afterwards, a warm fire and hot cooked fish.With spices that the big food-man always put in his pack. And salt.Fearing a trap, Vincent pushed the gentle urging away. For a moment,he felt the wall start back. Reflexively, the mane on his spinestiffened, and a low rumbled growl again echoed through the cavern.But, inexplicably, the push eased off, and then stopped altogether.Blinking in amazement, Vincent realized that he felt nothing butgrudging acceptance from that other presence. And acquiescence.Another ripple of itch skittered down his back, as the fish wriggledweakly. Cocking his head, a small smile appeared as Vincent strodefurther up the bank and began to hunt up the soap.
Somewhat later, after a satisfying bath completewith a back scrub using a rough rock outcropping, and a hot meal ofspiced roasted fish, Vincent settled back on the bedroll that healways kept for his visits here. Rummaging in the pack for somedessert, underneath the sugar cookies he found the single book he hadbrought with him, and turned it over in his hands. There was still afaint trace of Catherine-scent clinging to the binding, and heinhaled it appreciatively. She had given him this book in herapartment, during the time he had fought the other. There wererabbits on the front picture. The sense of rabbit filled him, warmtwitch flash of white tail running. Maybe a story about huntingrabbits? Curiosity growing, Vincent riffled through the book, butfound the indecipherable contents frustrating. But the other... heknew how to make the black scratches into stories...
A low growl echoed off the cavern walls. Theother! Again he was there, asking. Asking!?to come close. Vincent once again cocked his head and listened. Yes,the story would be fun for both... Slowly, warily, Vincent allowedthe other presence in his mind to manifest. The tiny black marks inthe book began to gain meaning and sense.
Drawn by a deceptively simple story about agroup of rabbits entitled 'Watership Down', two distinct sides of thesame being began to intertwine.