the old lion, a fable aesopian

He is old now, old as a lion in winter, stiff-limbed and slow-jawed, a feeble shadow of was, a faint echo of once. Once. Once he was strong and frightening, gorgeous and invincible, but now he is too slow and too weak to hunt as he did. What is there left for a man when the girls get younger and his body gets older, but to play kind and wise and harmless?

And so he does, cruel like a lion feigning a fatal wound to attract the curious and the caring to his cave. Even an old lion gets over his dignity when he’s hungry.

Until one day there is her, both curious and caring; he is wise enough to know that she deserves better than his cruel game, but not yet old enough to let her pass.

Will you stand with me and watch, here from afar? We fear she is a lamb, yet hope she is a fox, for we care not too much for this old lion. We can’t hear what they say, but we hope. Oh, how we hope for her, to see her walk away. She could be a fox, I guess, you can tell by the way she doesn’t look back as she walks away, not even at us, she just arches her back a bit more, a silent defiant acknowledgement of being watched. Her hands are so young, the way they awkwardly hang by her hips, not knowing where to rest, but she is a fox and got away.

And like any fox that meets an old lion, she must have looked around the entrance of the cave, and noticed all the footprints going in yet none the other way.

June, 2010