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It came up clean from the water on the horizon and over the white beach rocks and through branches of the dark row sycamores that ran the length of the hill. Over the moats ran two stone bridges with white painted iron railings that ran ten meters over the still dark salt water of little moated ponds to a shade of stone canopy before the front door of the house where candle light flickered through a window. There was a small kitchen, a dining room with large clean windows that looked out to sea, and a spiral wooden staircase that led to the upstairs bedrooms. He told the story as the salty, fresh storm wind came through the windows where beyond dark, heavy churning layers of black and green clouds came over the hill, flashing within themselves with bright pockets of clouded light, then in blindingly clear, chained bolts that stretched across the sky and burned red-purple in your eyes with their thunder which roared far out across the bay to the sea. The brown dog sitting at the old man’s feet wagged his tail and raised his head at the sudden activity.
The family talked as they ate the thin, milky sweet bliny; stuffed with hot, melted butter from the New Zealand cows with the local jam in the candle light.
He sat in the old metal rocking chair, painted many times white, and watched what was now the slow drizzle and dark flashing mass of clouds making their stately progress as they drifted darkly over the forest hills, where he knew the cat was with his fish. Dark standing apart on its crest, each the same age, height, trim, separated by several yards and outlined alone, trembling against the blue starry night sky in the cool rising wind from the sea. The moats were filled with fish from the sea who swam through the dark water, now safe from their natural predators, save for a night when a lucky long-haired, fluffy-tailed, friendly brown cat, caught a fish that was twice his size.
It was always his wife’s initiative to tell the stories, but now it was his responsibility. The storm traveled across the plains of the East before it turned to the great farm valleys of the South, where the summer wildfires were still growing through the villages around Moscow and now into the forests around by Chernobyl.

The moon shined bright through the cool, pealed white branches and across to the lake, its light on dark water a flickering, rippled shine made from the fast swimming, urgent eating night ducks. The next morning the old man found the cat sleeping curled up with a tuna, the tail wrapped around the fish as if to keep it warm. Spring mornings a mist would rise from the cool water and come up through the pine forest shade into the trees of the high hills; and as the sun rose over the hill in the East the mist would not dissipate in the canopy shade, and the strange brown dog would bark at the forest edge into its misty darkness until the old man came out of the house.
He stretched the old strong muscles of his legs, wincing with the pain, and breathing heavily as he squinted through the sun, and sharp stinging of sweat in his eyes, to see the children in a circle petting the dog. The version he told wasn’t so romantic, tragic, or gruesome, and everyone was a little disappointed. The old man looked for a long time across the rippling dark water of the lake to the hill beyond, and then to the clouds coming from the sea, and thought about nothing. Together they walked up the soft dirt path into the cold, damp early mist of the morning forest. The cat woke and his purring started again as he looked with drowsy luxuriousness at the fish, then stopped suddenly seeing the man. The old man breathed deeply through his fast walking and felt the aching cool of the crisp air deep and fresh down in his lungs as small beads of water formed on his brown felt jacket; and the brown dog followed behind, his strange pointed ears stood tall and his hot breath rose out his smiling mouth. Beyond, the fountains played in the garden; the cool water rushing high up between the purple, white, and red of the flowers in a white burst, hanging, sparkling eye-achingly bright in the pink amber light, then stopping in a shining white peak that spread out long and clear and smooth against the high blue sky above, and then falling cooly down onto the smooth black stone. He picked up the fish and carried it to the forest so that someone who didn’t understand would not disturb the cat’s revelry.

The cat followed behind with little panicked, pleading mews, his long fluffy hair bouncing with his bounds.
The cat had a sad meow too, and neither trait went with his character, but perhaps served to shape it. And when friends sit around the fire, and drink to my memory, wait, and do not hurry to drink to my memory, too. In the cool, damp shaded pines the old man laid the fish on spring ferns for the cat to enjoy and left, but after the sun set the cat had not returned. The old man went out to find him, and as he walked in the cool night into the forest to where he had left the fish, he stopped short before a clearing and strained his eyes, hearing the cat purring loud through the darkness like a lion. He let the cat sleep with the fish that night, and all the nights after until that winter, when after much convincing the cat conceded.
He never slept with the fish again, but he didn’t forget, and in the spring visited the skeleton during the nights. It’s because you waited, as no one else did.” He finished, holding her hand and feeling her heart beating fast through her tiny wrist that brushed, achingly soft, against his own as they watched the whole of the cold horizon on fire. His face now illuminated in the warm crimson light of the candle, as outside the storm ran troubled and racing out across and over the long hill from the sea, his clear eyes shimmering in the candle light as they looked into themselves, trying to see something that wasn’t there anymore.

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