In blatant disregard to his peaceful surroundings, a rather vibrantly-colored Kimeti was tearing through the murky water, hurrying as best he could through the thick mud on the bottom, narrowly avoiding collision with oncoming trees. He couldn’t remember the exact reason for his flight; there was only a vague, terrible remorse burning in his heart (something about a doe – his doe - something he’d done wrong by… to?... her), and sharp, cold fear. He was certain that others would be following him soon, following him faster then he could run in Mother’s sludge, to catch him and bring him back to answer for the terrible crime he committed.
As he thought about them, right on cue (like one of the tales of Black Dog's trials), he heard splashing some way behind him. He tried to pick up his pace, heading steadily uphill and out of the mire. Of course, uphill meant going through thicker and thicker mud, the swamp stubbornly unwilling to give way to dry land. He tried to scramble up on roots when he could, but was left pulling forward unaided for most of his course.
All the while, splashes and voices could be heard behind, growing closer with each minute. He was terribly tired, and considered, then, simply submerging himself in the mud, smothering his far-too-noticeable coat (fitting, he thought - the coat that won her threatened to avenge her) in it, and waiting out his pursuit. This idea soon evaporated, as one of them shouted that they’d caught his scent. Fear gave him the energy he needed to scrabble out of the muck once more, and fight his way out of Mother Swamp’s eager embrace. The mud beneath him gave way, at length, to solid soil, knotted together with the roots of grasses, and he could run faster.
Finally, catching sight of the sawgrass, he felt some small glimmer of hope pierce his panic. He knew that his pursuers’ advantage was only in that maddeningly thick sludge under the trees; out here, his thicker bristles and longer legs (they called him odd - he was just specialized) would allow him to run much faster without fear of being torn into by the viciously sharp foliage. He narrowed his eyes against the sudden light as he burst into the field, running into the sun.
The voices quieted for a time, confused, and unsure of their prey’s direction. Then they followed again, cautious but swift, tracking him by the mud and trampled stalks in his wake. That didn’t really matter, though – he could run like this for a long, long time, far longer then they could chase him… hopefully. Then, he could hide away in the mud flats, turn his face away from home in shame, live a life of solitude and beg for her forgiveness (he was not worthy of being forgiven, he was not worthy).
The land climbed up and up, and the sun sank lower. They pursued him longer than he thought they were capable of. He panicked, wildly zigzagging in the sawgrass. Even his especially thick coat was being torn through, a few slashes across his sides weeping (in his poetic way, he mused that they wept as much in sorrow for her as in the usual way). He ripped forward, bowing his head against the whipping of the grass, and suddenly broke out into a patch of fading flowers. He stopped, breathless, eyes slipping to and fro.
The small clearing, stained by the sun, cut off a few dozen lengths in front of him in a cliff overlooking the swamp - he’d almost run himself in a circle! Under better circumstances, he thought, this would have been a wonderful place to sit, lonely, contemplating stories of old and the nature of his people (once, there were no stars in the heavens, or none that could be seen). Now, it was just another dead end, a lost peninsula in the air. He looked all about, desperate for escape, but he was being surrounded, though by sheer accident; they didn’t know where he was yet.
A gentle wind was flying about his ears and tail, the dying flowers swaying gently. Ahead of him, a single petal broke off from its brethren, and drifted lazily forward, seeming to catch fire (listen, dearest children, to the story of the fire that ravaged the swamplands) in the blazing dusk. Quietly, as his pursuit drew nearer, the guilty buck watched as the petal slowly, gently drifted over the edge of the cliff, flying onward to the west.
The wind began to rise. Suddenly, there was a mass exodus among the flowers, petals breaking off in as if in a storm. Then the buck knew. He knew that Mother Swamp understood, Mother Swamp forgave him, and Mother Swamp would provide escape, and maybe a chance to apologize to her (not worthy). In the least, if nothing else, he would have peace.
He backed up to the edge of the clearing, oblivious to the shouts of triumph from his would-be captors (let them try to catch me now) as they saw him through the grass. He smiled, and ran. Petals clung to the mud still on his legs and belly; wind urged him on; cries of victory changed to confusion, and then surprise and dismay.
He cleared the edge of the cliff, and, for a time, he was flying on the breeze, with wind carrying him as if he were naught but brother to those petals (would god I were/ the tender apple blossom) flowing steadily on. Peace reigned in his heart, in spite of the confusion behind, in spite of what he had done to her, in spite of his change from flying to falling (that floats and falls/ from off the trusted bough). He closed his eyes, and smiled, savoring the breeze. In mere moments, he knew no more.
