Catimenta: A Huntress's Song
                A Song Of The Land Elwens
                    Terlin Deerfriend
    In the dawn of the world, bright scarlet dawn,
    When the sun rose golden from its bed at earth's end,
    When the stars laughed soft, and the moons wept loud,
    There lived a huntress. Her name was Catimenta.

    Catimenta lived alone. Her strength, great strength,
    Sustained her in the hunt. She took snakes and deer,
    Wolf and lion alike. She ran through the winter forest
    In solitude, and slept alone in a dark cave.

    She noticed every animal had two, two of itself.
    She wondered where she might find another Catimenta.
    She wandered far, looking high, looking low.
    No Catimenta, no mighty huntress, did she find.

    Then one day she saw her, saw another Catimenta.
    But she gazed upward from the water, rippling by.
    Catimenta could not touch her, could not speak, no.
    They gazed and then went their separate ways.

    The mighty huntress roamed, alone, so alone. Bereft.
    The forest could offer her no comfort, none, no.
    She spoke to the animals she took, asked where she
    Might find another of her own, another Catimenta.

    They could help her not, could not offer advice, no.
    And so Catimenta accepted the fact over which she had
    No control at all. She lived alone, and she slept in
    The cave, and she learned what tears and age were.

    Then one day she saw another, another like Catimenta.
    He ran on two legs, but he had no wings, none, no.
    His fur was short, and on his head alone, like hers.
    His voice was laughter, and he knew what tears were.

    Catimenta haunted him, followed him home, home, yes.
    She saw other Catimentas, other Catimentas, yes, and
    They lived not in dark caves, but in wooden dens.
    They laughed and wept and ran together in all life.

    And so Catimenta let herself be seen, a little, yes.
    And the first other Catimenta came seeking her out,
    Inviting her to dwell by his family's hearth,
    Inviting her in out of the woods and the wild.

    But Catimenta had never heard speech before, none.
    She was shy and did not understand, but she learned.
    Then she followed him inside, sick with longing
    For those whom she believed to be other Catimentas.

    She quickly learned she was uneasy, uneasy, yes,
    Within walls that shut away the air and the sun.
    She did not understand how other Catimentas could be
    Content to dwell away from the forest where life ran.

    She was frightened of fire, of the red light, yes,
    And fell back before it, as she did before the gown
    The servants brought her to put on. It seemed a snake
    That slithered and slipped through her arms.

    But she put it on, and ate food not killed, not, no.
    She spoke slowly, but she spoke, and tried to smile.
    After the meal, the first Catimenta told her a word.
    She did not know what it meant, and she laughed.

    But the next day they came to put a collar, a collar
    Around her neck, in symbol of betrothing to the son
    Of the house, of the family. Catimenta knew what
    Certain things were, but not what love is.

    She tore off the collar and the gown, collar and gown
    Both, and jumped out the window with the grace of the
    Huntress she had been all along, all along, yes.
    She returned to the forest, and did not know love.

    Sometimes she watches still, watches yet, yes,
    The wooden den where the other Catimentas sleep.
    But they live in a world where love is real, where
    There is no air nor sunshine dancing on the leaves.