Chacun voit Midi à sa Porte, by Torbison Ganley

“I never thought it would end like this. I never thought he would leave me without saying goodbye.” – Phillipa Gregory, The Other Boleyn Girl

When It’s done, it’s done. And no one will know until it’s done. I remember my mind drifting to this philosophical statement mere moments before I died. I didn’t know of course that that would be one of my final thoughts, so I unknowingly chose not to enjoy it. Now I only can reminisce on those final words. I must admit however, my mind was not filled with my own death when I died. No, instead I thought only of my dear Anne. Anne would sit in the royal gardens at Hampton Court Palace. My beloved Purkoy was happiest when curled adoringly in Anne’s lap, her skirts moulded by the lapdog into a nest of linen and silks. Settled on a marble bench in the rose gardens, a gaggle of ladies flittering around, a few perched on the ground at Anne’s satin covered feet. I disliked it when she sat there, as the profuse smell of the sickly-sweet roses was cloying. I was lucky enough for my own nest to be in the towering stone pine that Anne cherished so dearly. Conveniently planted just briming the palace’s pond gardens. I much preferred the dank earthiness of the pond gardens where the royal collection of exotic plants are sheltered. I always loved the blended scents of the lemony myrtles and the pond’s oakmoss essence. The first time I saw Anne was when little Lizzy, not that much taller than myself, came toddling into my pond gardens, Anne following in a fit of laughter as she chased her daughter. I remember seeing her in all her finery, a golden symbol draping from her porcelain neck. I remember one of her ladies, running in on Anne’s heels clucking about how ‘the Queen really shouldn’t be running

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around, especially unattended’. I remember Anne retorting that she’s ‘not unattended, for I have you Jane’. I flew down soundlessly to rest on a bath to get a closer look at the woman I had unknowingly attached myself too. When she looked at me, she did not jump and baulk as Jane did, letting out a chirp of fright. No, Anne studiously inspected me, her dove eyes trailing over my illustrious tan feathers, I rustled them showing off the downy milk white onns underneath. Anne’s blush lips quirked up at the sides, she took one step toward me and lifted her hand ever so slowly, not because she feared me, but because she worried that I might fear her. I stepped onto the river-stone made pedestal of the bath, reassuring her that I had no fear. Leaning forward she brought her slim hand down my back, stroking the feathers protruding from my neck and caressing the ones that made up my distinguished tail. Her skin felt how the orange blossoms smelled, soft, and sweet with a citrusy tang. From that evening on Anne would come visit me in my pond gardens, minding not of the musty smell of the moss, which I had learned that humans didn’t enjoy as I did. She would read me poetry, her favourite being about green sleeves. She would bring me treats from the palace that made both my stomachs hurt, but I ate them anyway not wanting to disappoint Anne. Little Lizzy was cautious of me and would remain in the rose gardens with the other ladies who were disapproving of me and called me names such as wild and untamed. It was ironic how their verbal jabs made me feel more powerful and free. I think my dear Anne relished in them too. However, Jane would still follow Anne into my gardens, each day she grew more presumptuous as what I had witnessed as a relationship with the King grew. The two acting like birds in heat. I tried to warn Anne of the duplicity happening behind her back, but she never seemed to listen to me.

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Looking back now I begin to understand that her blissful arrogance wasn’t what it seemed.

Perhaps I was the one who was lost in arrogant bliss. And, then of course there was my beloved Purkoy. He was always there, following Anne everywhere she went as devoted to her as the King to his crown. As my dear Anne would occupy her time, Purkoy and I would get lost in each other’s adventures and lives. Purkoy was fascinated by my past exploits and my life as a truly untamed creature. I would recall the feeling of the sharp salt in the wind that would dance with the barbs of my feathers as I soared through the sky by the western seas. I would recollect the constellations that would gleam through the sky of greens and browns when gliding low under the trees in the southern forests. And I would look back on the northern mountains, with the clearest lakes I have ever seen. As my wings would slice through the crystallike liquid I felt as if nothing would ever feel as serene. That was until the intimate moment when Anne first stroked my luxurious feathered coat with her snow-white fingers. As much as I enjoyed boasting of the experiences I had lived, I was captivated by Purkoy’s narrations of events that occurred in the castle. When he was gifted to Anne by her cousin, his first bonding moments with Anne, the days he was left alone and pined for Anne, when Anne gave birth to baby Lizzy. And through Purkoy I learned more of my dear Anne’s life, I studied her trials and tribulations, I became expert in my Queen. And After weeks of exchanging stories, I started to notice my growing affection for the lapdog, affection that turned into attraction, that then turned into longing to be around him, to discover more about Anne, which then blossomed into love. Unrequited love. Forbidden love.

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One day however, Anne came to me. Alone. No Jane, no flock of ladies, no Lizzy, and no Purkoy. I knew something had to be wrong. I now fail to hark back to this moment as at the time my mind was whirling with every possibility that might have gone wrong. All I can remember is Anne’s final words to me. Just for me, you can smile when your heart is breaking because you are a woman. I didn’t know what that meant when she first presented me with that sentence, what she was warning me of. I didn’t know that that was our goodbye. I know that now.

The rest of my life was a blur. My horns rang as I heard the cathedral bells. The realisation dawned on me. I franticly flapped to get to the castle square. I didn’t catch her final words. I was too late. I released a blood curdling screech that tore through my beak as I helplessly watched the axe, like a silver hell bird flying down to end all that was good in my world. The grotesque crowd hearing only the unusual cry of an owl during the day. I don’t think I’ll ever know what drew me to Anne. But I was.

And the snuffing of her bright light muted the whole world. That was until the collective gasp of the throng tore my attention to the dash of caramel fur darting from out of the corpses now drab layers of skirts. Then was when I realised, that I had to put my torment aside to protect my beloved Purkoy. I seethed at the gathered audience as I flapped through the people, forcing them to part, to create a path for Purkoy to escape. We spent a week living on the streets. I learned that my dear Anne felt so attached to Purkoy that she smuggled him in her

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skirts to have him near when she died. I can still feel that pang of jealousy I felt when he told me that. Purkoy asked me once, ‘Why don’t you just fly away?’. I didn’t answer then, but I suppose I have nothing to lose now that I’m dead. Oh, my beloved Purkoy it was because I loved you, because I couldn’t bear to abandon you. Purkoy became distant, it was expected of course. I had also lost myself in the sorrow. Now I look back on those last days I recall the hunger. The madness.

It wasn’t his grief that took him from me, no, it was mine. Me ignoring him as he wasted away. I guess starvation won over love in the end, because as my neck cracked under the weight of my beloved’s jaw, I remember my thoughts once again wondering to my dear Anne and how this utter betrayal must be how she felt as her husband’s order fell, the axe dropping with it. And now, I remember Anne’s final words, words that only my death has allowed me to recollect. To truly understand. I have come hither to die.

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CHACUN VOIT MIDI À SA PORTE

Soul of Dog

Died 1793, France By Torbison Ganley

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Il n’y a pas plus sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre. No one is as deaf as the one who does not want to listen.

French Proverb.

And some of the multitudes were amazed and said, 'Could this be the Son of David [the Messiah]?' But when the Pharisees heard it they said, 'This fellow does not cast out demons except by Beelzebub, the ruler of the demons'.

Matthew 12:23,24

Then the Pharisees went out and immediately plotted with the Herodians against him, how they might destroy him.

Mark 3:6

The sunlight gleamed off the intricately ornamented gold leaf gate that concealed Versailles, and among the marble carvings that guard it, lie the gentle flowerbeds where the brisk air ruffles the finely clipped foliage. It emits an almost mellow, fresh scent that I just can’t quite encapsulate into words, but it lingers like freshly cut grass on a humid summer’s day. It dampens my nose and the tip of my snout. Oh, those summer days! Everything was perfect! I loved being amongst the sights of dapper dressed nobles discussing enlightenment ideals in the Hall of Mirrors. The light refracts intricate patterns onto the necks of Marie and me. Her hair and my fur are dressed by our coiffeur in luscious curls, and we wear flamboyant cloth to match. It seemed so perfect, but at some point, the banquets converged into quarrels riddled with prejudice that defamed the inherent

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