Narcissus in Patagonia
By Beth Spencer
He knew better than to carry a mirror. Mirrors were his crystal meth, but he had kept himself clean for several millennia now by steering clear of windows and other reflective surfaces. Hence, Patagonia, which hadn’t civilized itself much since the time of Butch Cassidy. Now his worst peril was the crazy-love of mortals. It was safest to avoid them but lonely, too. What would it be like to love one the way he loved himself? He had given them up centuries ago and limited his contact with humans to the most basic of transactions. Even a god needs to eat something once in a while besides nuts and berries and the occasional wild hare.
And so it was that he descended on a llama from the icy Cordillera into a village for supplies, the brim of his sombrero lowered to obscure his face. It didn’t work. It never worked. Old women in the marketplace clucked in admiration of his jaw as he passed. As for the chicas, all it took was a glance at his gorgeous mouth for them to heave their rosaries into the well and moisten immodestly. He feared they might rend him fontanel to fundament, devour him raw with their chilies and maize. Come back, they called after him, displaying their breasts. Come back, cruel yanqui, come back!
Poor Narcissus, a godmeat in boots and serape. Cruel? He would have been more cruel to choose. Who could survive the envy of the rest? Exhausted, he asked a blind vieja where he might safely hole up for a few months, then made for Cueva de las Manos, the dark sanctuary where, she said, he would be bothered by no one. But when he struck his flint within the cave his taper revealed paintings on the walls: hundreds of splayed palms that seemed to reach for him, his burnished chest, the ingots of his nipples. Once again he made use of his own hand.
Just after he flowered, his stain like a lily on the wall of the cave, he heard the tiny thunder of wings. A beautiful bird, its throat aflame in the light, hovered before him. Sure that it, too, was pursuing him, he quickly hid his face in his sleeve. But the bird, serene, indifferent—who knows but what the old woman had sent it?—offered not love but the cure for loneliness.
Streaking deep into the cave, the bird dusted its wings with the char of ancient fires. Again and again it returned to paint his face, each application altering the shape of his countenance until, spent, the bird lighted on his knee. It said to Narcissus: Now you are a man, and then it vanished.
Narcissus yawned and stretched. Where was he? Who was he? The mouth of the cave shimmered in leaf-light and he felt for the first time in his existence the sprouting of whiskers.
A young woman drawing water from the spring nearby nodded at the stranger who knelt there to fill his cantina, watched as he looked at his reflection and ran his hand along his jaw. Her friends in the village had told her of a mysterious man—muy, muy guapo—who had ridden this way. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of him. She twisted her ollas into her rebozo. He splashed water on his face, stood, and asked her to point the way to town.
- - -
Bio: I am the editor at Bear Star Press, which publishes books of poetry and short literary fiction by writers living west of the central time zone.
By Beth Spencer
He knew better than to carry a mirror. Mirrors were his crystal meth, but he had kept himself clean for several millennia now by steering clear of windows and other reflective surfaces. Hence, Patagonia, which hadn’t civilized itself much since the time of Butch Cassidy. Now his worst peril was the crazy-love of mortals. It was safest to avoid them but lonely, too. What would it be like to love one the way he loved himself? He had given them up centuries ago and limited his contact with humans to the most basic of transactions. Even a god needs to eat something once in a while besides nuts and berries and the occasional wild hare.
And so it was that he descended on a llama from the icy Cordillera into a village for supplies, the brim of his sombrero lowered to obscure his face. It didn’t work. It never worked. Old women in the marketplace clucked in admiration of his jaw as he passed. As for the chicas, all it took was a glance at his gorgeous mouth for them to heave their rosaries into the well and moisten immodestly. He feared they might rend him fontanel to fundament, devour him raw with their chilies and maize. Come back, they called after him, displaying their breasts. Come back, cruel yanqui, come back!
Poor Narcissus, a godmeat in boots and serape. Cruel? He would have been more cruel to choose. Who could survive the envy of the rest? Exhausted, he asked a blind vieja where he might safely hole up for a few months, then made for Cueva de las Manos, the dark sanctuary where, she said, he would be bothered by no one. But when he struck his flint within the cave his taper revealed paintings on the walls: hundreds of splayed palms that seemed to reach for him, his burnished chest, the ingots of his nipples. Once again he made use of his own hand.
Just after he flowered, his stain like a lily on the wall of the cave, he heard the tiny thunder of wings. A beautiful bird, its throat aflame in the light, hovered before him. Sure that it, too, was pursuing him, he quickly hid his face in his sleeve. But the bird, serene, indifferent—who knows but what the old woman had sent it?—offered not love but the cure for loneliness.
Streaking deep into the cave, the bird dusted its wings with the char of ancient fires. Again and again it returned to paint his face, each application altering the shape of his countenance until, spent, the bird lighted on his knee. It said to Narcissus: Now you are a man, and then it vanished.
Narcissus yawned and stretched. Where was he? Who was he? The mouth of the cave shimmered in leaf-light and he felt for the first time in his existence the sprouting of whiskers.
A young woman drawing water from the spring nearby nodded at the stranger who knelt there to fill his cantina, watched as he looked at his reflection and ran his hand along his jaw. Her friends in the village had told her of a mysterious man—muy, muy guapo—who had ridden this way. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of him. She twisted her ollas into her rebozo. He splashed water on his face, stood, and asked her to point the way to town.
- - -
Bio: I am the editor at Bear Star Press, which publishes books of poetry and short literary fiction by writers living west of the central time zone.
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