Eva told me not to cry when the other kids beat me down. She told me boys will be boys and a piddly fight would make me stronger. She told me not to worry when she found me staring in from the outside, peering perhaps at a mean boy or a pretty girl. She told me that the affections of children would not hurt me. She was right. They couldn’t hurt me then and still can’t to this day because around them I do not feel. I am a freak of nature, born of two bloods into no family but the street and dirt beneath. I am utterly alone, as everyone discovers sooner or later, and this understanding feeds me strength to do not what I must, but as I please. When I came into this world, I believe that I emerged from the gateway of death. Every day I seek that gateway, peering through the ever-waning cover of fear and keeping the ever-present gate at arm's length. Perhaps I will die tomorrow. Perhaps I will travel the Centrum. But I will not die an old man. Only those with one hand on the gate can truly feel. And I long to feel alive.

   The gate through which I peer today is made up of broad emerald fronds of velveteen cellulose. Tipped with morning dew and practically resonating with the thrum of the heartStone beneath the ground, these fronds fill me with the courage to live. Just like the rest of the titanic growth all about, these fronds are heavy enough to smother a man. They are grandiose and powerful, but not nearly as much so as the Cerbus that grazes not 6 meters ahead. Its powerful flanks and soft down fur twitch as it feeds on a lush bed of flowers. Its two powerful heads look not to the sides but down and straight ahead. It has the stance of a predator, yet it grazes like a lamb. Once perhaps it was a wolf or even something more exotic, perhaps a lion or strype. Over generations its body has been corrupted by the heart of the earth, a radiant blue stone called heartStone by historians and scientifics of old. Some say it exists as a spite of the gods, and some believe that only the eternal celeste above know the workings of the earth. I prefer to believe it a thing of opportunity and fate, a chance for the world to evolve beyond the spiteful thing that it is.

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   The beast lazily scans the surrounding foliage, its gaze passing directly over me. I am completely still, and it takes a sort of peevish notice. Its gums roll back to expose an array of square grinding molars interspersed with ferocious canines. One head weaves and it seems to tally my null response. Unconcerned, it returns to the golden flowers on which it feeds, keeping one of its four opal eyes fixed upon me. My cover broken, I shift slowly onto the balls of my feet. My wiry arms reach slowly back to grasp the lute I carry slung over my shoulder. In another part of the Centrum, perhaps the Cerbus would recognize and fear this movement, but here in the North it is unused to human aggression. My long, dexterous fingers begin to work the strings, quietly at first. I move them slowly as far up the neck as I dare, creating a high hollow pitch. The tune is not melancholy nor spry, but simply natural. As the open fourths and fifths flow serenely into the brisk midsummer air, an anxious, orgasmic sensation builds in my chest. I let it overwhelm me, and suddenly I can taste the sickly sweet of the golden flowers. I close my eyes, feel the gentle power of my two vice-like jaws. The beast does not notice my incursion on its privacy, and I repeat the tune until the ever present pit in my stomach seems to fill with the animal’s purpose. When I cease the tune, my companion looks up to the sky, sniffing the air. I stand as well and look straight into its eyes. It will not hurt me now. It snorts a happy farewell as I leave the same way I came: through a mess of fibrous vines, imperious Anaera trees, and budding bushes of all colors. As my old vine-woven boots track swiftly through the moist ground, I look ahead to where I know a farmhouse lies. Beyond that a town. For a fleeting moment, I feel as though everything might be alright.