Les Noyades

13: Fears in Solitude

The remainder of the morning Rumi attained the paradise of companionable quiet that he so longed for. He lounged about becoming increasingly friendlier with Henry, whose entire being seemed to be for the purpose of belly scratches and ear pulling, and read the book he had picked up. It was some old collection of essays upon anthropotheism— dreadfully boring, but enough to stay his mind from creeping elsewhere. He hardly had the wits to notice Yves until Declan and Sédar returned laden with food for the unexpectedly larger meals that would be prepared across their extended stay.

The afternoon he elected to dispose of with a long walk, and Sédar told him to take Henry with him that the great thing might run back and alert anybody to trouble— that had once been Henry's job, to dash about the sprawling farm and find any problems to report. Now, older for a dog, he took life at a more sedate pace. Rumi liked this in him; the old dog was a gentle soul and happy enough to lumber alongside him as he set off into the hills.

He walked for some several hours with Henry bounding up beside him, distracted every so often by a butterfly to be chased or a scent to be tracked until he either lost it or gave up. Occasionally Rumi would whistle to him and call him back. He was sorry that he had never had a dog in his childhood. It often felt as if he were taking care of his father in the same way; feeding him, watching out for him, waiting up to let him in after late lecturing hours.

Henry eventually tired and began to lower his head with snuffling whines, at which point Rumi called him up to a large rock, which he scaled deftly to pull himself up to the top and lie staring upwards with his legs dangling off the edge. Henry barked up at him in confusion.

"You won't get up," Rumi told him. "Wait down there."

Henry huffed and rolled his large body onto the ground with a thump, banging his tail against the grass.

"You know, I envy you," he said, unsure as to whether he was talking to the dog or the clouds lumped above and almost around him. "No people to wonder about."

Neither the clouds nor the dog replied.

"The thing is," he went on, "I've got a lot to think about, and it turns out staring at blue patches doesn't help a bit."

He rolled onto his front and turned to lean over the rock.

"What would you do?" This question he posed to Henry. It seemed infinitely more sensible to be talking to a dog than the sky. "If you weren't a dog, I mean. Would you fall in love or would you run away and hide?"

Still nothing.

"Of course you don't know. You're a dog, and I've been talking to clouds. You wouldn't answer me even if you could."

Henry whimpered and got up to scratch at a piece of turf.

"You're right. Time to get back. Running away to hide might be the wrong option."