Loss of Friends
Dyed in indigo, a jackal is crowned king of the forest — until he hears his own kind howl.
Borrowed color peels. The voice underneath remains.
A jackal named Chandarava, chased by dogs through a village, leapt into a vat of indigo. He climbed out a color the forest had never bargained for.
When he returned, the animals stared. Blue is a kind of authority if no one has a name for it.
JackalThe gods have sent me. I am king of this wood. Lions shall hunt for me. Elephants shall bow. Jackals shall keep far off, for they are crude, and I am not of them.
Fear is a quick religion. They crowned him with silence. Meat arrived. Shade arrived. He slept on a rock that had belonged to better animals.
One night, far off, his old pack began to howl. The sound went into him like a key. Before thought could stand up, his throat answered.
JackalAaa-oooo —
LionThat is no god. That is a jackal in stolen weather.
They fell on him, not for the howl, but for the lie the howl undressed. Indigo does not stop teeth.
So it is with anyone who rules by costume. Night will call your true name, and you will be unable not to answer.
Ready to listen
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