It is dark, and it is stormy, and isn’t that a terrible, clichéd way to start this tale? But tonight is both these things, and the weather matches my mood.
These are the thunderstorms of my childhood, of watching the lightning crack atop enormous, ancient trees who laugh at the sky and dare to try their luck against the clouds.
Then, I sat wedged into a windowsill too small for any but a child, safe from the wet and cold, eyes dancing too fast to follow the lightning.
Now, I stand barefoot in the rain, soft grass slick against my feet, dress pressing damply against my body, each step squishing deeper into ever-softening dirt. I hope against hope there will be neither thistles nor rocks, but know the night will end with muddy footprints, smeared with blood.
My path does not remain on a polite, pretentious lawn, but meanders down into deep woods.
Tonight I hunt, in the old ways, the ways of my ancestors. I stalk, and I spin, and seek to find direction. I feel ridiculous.
Inhibition is the first to go. It must, or I will not succeed.
My prey is nebulous, terrifying. Hard enough to pursue the intangible, but to slay it?
My breath quickens at the thought of an unsuccessful hunt, and I pant in rapid, shallow breaths. I reach down and smear mud across my face, wondering briefly how long it will last as the rain smudges it, warm across my cheeks.
Fear of failure keeps me moving, fear of nothing happening, fear of being insufficient, fear of not being enough.
I am melancholy as I wander through the woods, seeking the trail of each memory, confronting each angry voice, each disappointment, each almost enough.
Failure is to admit they are true, to give life to the voices whispering through the woods, lighting-lit and backstopped by memory.
I seek despair, I seek humiliation, I seek confusion.
Each movement firms my resolve, strengthens each step as branches lash with wet venom across my face, and the hunt is all I know.
The moonlight is my sword, rain the chains that bind me to this task, lightning my only guide.
Each step is victory, the path to Valhalla.
I seek annihilation, and this night shall not end without blood.
***
This week’s Odd Prompts challenge was from Cedar Sanderson: You are a big game hunter stalking something. What is it you are in pursuit of, and why is it so terrifying?
My prompt about a widely shared birthday party went to Misha Burnett, and La Vaughn Kemnow also took a whack at it.
In this week’s odd prompts challenge, Misha Burnett and I traded writing ideas. I suggested he detail why someone was both prickly and poisonous. He challenged me to explore the old gods’ return after a young girl is removed from a cult. However, I seem to have forgotten about the “twenty years later” part...
“Blast the rotting spots!” Savannah swore, and glanced sideways to see if anyone had overheard her. She tossed the book aside onto the wooden plank floor.
Her brown eyes met Hugh’s, across the porch steps. Her shoulders slumped for a moment before remembering no one here would care, in this strange neighborhood filled with cookie-cutter houses and bread with no personality trapped in shiny, colorful plastic bags.
“Why do you say that?” Hugh asked. “You say it like it’s a swear.” His eyes were half-shut under long lashes she envied.
Savannah turned her head and studied him with narrowed eyes. His face was blank, but she thought his core was tense. Perhaps he was interested after all. Perhaps he was bored. She couldn’t tell.
“It is a swear,” she muttered.
He closed his eyes but didn’t move away. “I don’t understand it.”
“Everyone tells me not to talk about it, but nobody will tell me why.” Savannah leaned back against the railing and tried to imitate his laid-back posture. She breathed in the scent of new grass and damp earth.
He sighed. “So tell me.”
She glanced up over her shoulder. The back door was open with only a screen to stop the words she was tired of holding inside, but she didn’t care anymore.
“You know that I’m a foster kid.” It wasn’t a question. They were all foster kids here.
He nodded.
“My parents were part of a big church. In that compound with all the buildings. Mama Rosa says it’s a cult,” she said.
The carefully pronounced words felt odd in her mouth. A cult meant bad, meant weird, meant crazy. This was the crazy place, with its trimmed unnatural hedges and carefully planted gardens, not a weed found between the perfect, uncracked sidewalks, covered with pastel chalks.
Hugh opened his eyes. “So?”
“So, it’s a swear in the church,” Savannah said. She glared at him and frowned. She gave up on copying his cool don’t-care pose and kicked a stubby leg out over the porch stairs.
He was unfazed. “Okay, so it’s a swear. Why were you swearing?”
“This history book doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t match anything I ever learned before. I was a good student until I came here.”
She felt her eyes starting to water and stared out into the yard with its too-perfect leafy green tree, fresh with early spring buds. So what if the swing hanging from a thick branch was fun? It wasn’t home, filled with the smell of sourdough bread baking and the sounds of chanting.
Savannah tried not to blink and failed. Water dripped slowly down the right side of her face. She pressed closer to the railing and rubbed her face against the round wooden pillar, hoping Hugh wouldn’t see.
He grunted. “Least you can read it.”
She wouldn’t acknowledge his weakness, but was grateful he’d shared. Foster kids had to stick together. She’d been here only two weeks, but even she knew that.
Something moved in the woods behind that perfect tree and the rope and tire swing. “Hey, you see that?”
“What is that?” Hugh sat up. “Something yellow. Big, too.”
Branches crackled as the big yellow blob emerged from the woods, crashing through the undergrowth.
“Oh, sweet holy pudding,” Savannah breathed. She jumped to her feet.
Hugh rose more slowly. “Was that another swear?”
“They were right,” she said, jumping up and down.
“Who was right?”
Savannah couldn’t keep the grin off her face. Her bare feet danced over the worn wooden porch. “My real parents were right. Mama Rosa can call it a cult all she wants, but they were right!”
Hugh backed toward the door. “Uh-huh.”
She stepped down and spread her arms wide. “Hail and blessings, holy giant banana!”
Thesis Cat has been protesting the lack of attention this degree has caused since she was a kitten.
This week on Odd Prompts, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to tell us what’s hidden amongst the wildly patterned tiles. My prompt came from Becky Jones, who asked me to explain the horrifying sight of a dragon carrying a human.
Flemming scowled at her easel and bit her lip, letting out an unladylike snort. She didn’t know why the view wasn’t magically transposing itself onto the canvas. The view itself was exceptional, after all.
She stood on a stone balcony several hundred years old, with
enough wear to make it nostalgic and feel like home but not enough that one had
a sense of danger. The balcony itself had graceful pillars that arched, supporting
a roof loosely woven of grapevines. Careful pruning of the natural lattice by
the gardener meant filtered daylight shone through, perfect for midmorning painting.
Roses twined up the stone legs of Flemming’s distant ancestor, buds opening layers of shell-pink with centers of a pale yellow reminiscent of aged books. Their scent wafted sweet and floral from his endless watch over the stairs to the grounds below. The balcony’s ivory stone railing overlooked a view to the orchards, next to herb and vegetable gardens that were laid out with mathematical precision.
Beyond, a valley filled with shades of green now that the last of the morning fog had slowly disappeared, overpowered by gentle sunrays and soft light. Moving splotches of white sheep roamed in the distance, urged on by spotted dogs and the children deemed responsible enough to move past egg collection and message delivery duties. Mountains covered in a mix of towering evergreens loomed in the distance, jagged under an open azure sky. A deep blue river bisected the scene, its meandering path burbling and life-giving.
In short, Flemming could not ask for a more picturesque
setting for her new hobby. It would, however, help if her new hobby would
cooperate.
Palette in her left hand, she took an exaggerated step
toward the canvas, currently filled with splotches of approximately the correct
color in each location. Biting her lip, she extended an arm, paintbrush
tapering to a blob of paint, and stabbed at the work. It left an emerald streak
behind.
Baring her teeth in a rictus grin, she tilted her head and
squinted luminous, faceted eyes toward the new addition. Yes, that was better.
Extending the palette like a shield, she smashed the brush through the next
color and continued, tail twitching merrily.
An hour later, she had both made progress on the painting and frightened one of the gardeners into fainting. And – Flemming stopped with a jerk that nearly put a mountain in the wrong place. She’d painted Giselle into the sky without meaning to do so, but with one horrifying addition.
She glanced up. Yes, there was her friend, winging her way
inbound, presumably for the landing area near the statue of Great-Uncle Fjorinak.
Flemming hissed, and steam came from her ears. There was a human
on Giselle’s back! An abomination, intolerable, an insult to all dragonkind. Her
tail lashed rapidly against the stone floor, scales flashing in the filtered
sunlight.
She tossed the palette aside. It landed against the balcony
with such force it shattered into several pieces, smearing paint against the
pale stone. Brush still in hand, she stomped over to the landing pad.
“What is the meaning of this?” she shouted at her friend,
and then drew in her breath, horror-struck.
Giselle looked at her miserably, thick rope twisted around
her body. “This idiot tried to lasso me, Flem. Like a common cow. Not even from
the good herd for feast days. Like the cull herd that always has at least one
calf accidentally drown itself.”
“You’re not cull herd,” Flemming protested automatically,
staring with unblinking amber eyes. Her paintbrush dangled loosely from her claws.
From Giselle’s crimson side, a human covered in metal banged her ribs with a sword. “Stop that, you little twerp,” she snapped.
“Did the human keep doing that while you were in the air?” Flemming
asked curiously. “He must not want to live.”
Giselle snorted. “Well, I’ve brought you a snack, then. Get
me out of these ropes, would you? And what were you doing when I winged in? You
looked like you were fencing with a board.”
Flemming’s mouth gaped open with toothy grin, similar to the
one that had caused the gardener to faint earlier. “I’ve taken up painting,”
she said proudly.
The metal-clad human stopped banging on Giselle’s ribcage and turned his head toward the sapphire dragon. Flemming glared into the darkened visor. “Do you have opinions, human snack?”
“I’d love to see your work,” Giselle said warmly. “But after you get me out of these ropes. Flem, please.”
“Of course,” Flemming said. She set the paintbrush at the
statue’s feet and moved over, slashing a claw at the ropes.
Giselle sighed in relief as the tangled ropes came free and
piled at her talons.
Her free hand snagged the metal human’s shoulder as he got
to his feet. She pushed him toward Giselle, claws digging into the pauldron
with the creak of tearing metal. “Here’s your snack.”
“Our snack,” Giselle said. “You can have the head. Now, let’s see this painting –”
“Wait, wait, wait, hang on,” Marcus said, interrupting his
older sister’s tale. “Dragons can’t paint. This whole story is ridiculous.”
“Of course they can,” Sarah insisted from her lofty eleven-year-old viewpoint. “They have the internet. She watched instructional videos.”
“Fine,” he said with a grumble, breaking off a piece of his
cookie and leaving crumbs on the table. “Dragons can have art. But knights are s’posed
to win.” Marcus stuffed the cookie in his mouth.
“Not from the dragons’ point of view,” Sarah pointed out
primly. She eyed his crumbs with distaste and picked up her own gingerbread man,
careful not to smudge the frosting.
He grabbed a second cookie and frowned up at her with grumpy
brown eyes. “The knight’s not a snack.”
Sarah dunked her gingerbread man into a glass of milk head
first. “Isn’t he?” She bit off the head before it could disintegrate and gave
her little brother a toothy smile.
Marcus’ eyes lit up. Smashing the cookie down on the low table, he let out an earsplitting roar. “Let’s play dragon next!”
Gerald’s phone rang. He snatched it off the table he’d been staring at for the past hour, waiting dully for the call. He swiped his thumb and raised it to his ear, mouth suddenly dry.
He hesitated. “Damon?” His voice cracked on the second syllable. He stared at the mahogany surface’s relentless shine, faint lemon wafting from his housekeeper’s polish.
“Your son is fine,” a deep, mechanical voice echoed down the
line. The voice was the nightmare of every parent who hadn’t been quite
suspicious enough.
He clenched his free hand around the carved chair arm, trying
to consciously loosen his grasp on the phone before it shattered through sheer
willpower and frustration.
The voice said nothing. Its silence said everything.
“I want my son back,” Gerald said. He was proud that his
voice didn’t quaver.
Maniacal, metallic laughter came booming through the line. “It’s
good to want things.”
Gerald glanced up. Joe wasn’t just his business partner. He’d
helped raise Damon after Lisa died in childbirth. The company wouldn’t have lasted
this long without his advice and support. Joe was critical in a crisis, always
knowing who to call. But this time, Joe shook his head and looked away.
“Listen carefully,” the modulated voice demanded. “You have
until three o’clock. The bomb strapped to your son explodes then, unless you send
ten million dollars to the following bank account.” The voice rattled off a
number.
“We have hacked your phone. The timer is linked to it. Send
the money if you want to see your son alive again. We will know.”
“No cops!” The phone beeped monotonously at him several times
before Gerald realized the voice had disconnected.
Joe stared at the dark wooden floor. “This one’s weird,
Gerald.”
He barely heard his friend. Blinking rapidly, he thought
hard. “Three is only twenty minutes away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do it,” Joe said.
“He’s my son,” Gerald said fondly.
He looked up and saw Mindy, the housekeeper, hesitating in
the entrance to the room. She held a plate of homemade cookies. Waving her in,
he snagged a still-warm shortbread. The cookie broke into sandy pieces across
his tongue. The flavor of butter filled his mouth.
“I’ve got it,” Gerald said. “The timer is linked to my phone. I just have to hack my phone and make sure it never reaches three P.M.”
Joe sighed, and slumped over the table. He stretched out a
hand and Mindy pushed the plate toward him.
“Geohack it. Travel backward through time zones,” Joe suggested. He tapped a macaron against the blue plate, scattering grainy white desiccated flakes of coconut across the shining wood.
Mindy shook her head. “You’re overcomplicating it. Just
break the phone.”
Damon peeked his head around the hallway entrance. “That only works if the kidnappers are telling the truth.”
“Huh,” Gerald said, tapping his fingers. “Excellent point. C’mere, you.” He hugged his son, feeling the soft hair under his hand.
“I like this game, Dad.” Damon wriggled away. “But I want a
cookie now.”
Gerald let him go. Twelve years old meant cookies would
always win.
His eyes followed Damon as he ran outside, chocolate chip
firmly in hand.
Mindy met his gaze after a few moments. Her unblinking blue eyes made Gerald uncomfortable. “I can’t believe you play a game called ‘Contingency Planning’ with him.”
“To be fair, he knows it as ‘Outsmarting Dad,’” Gerald
protested.
Joe scraped his chair back but didn’t stand. “You really
think there’s a threat because the company grew so big so fast?”
Gerald shrugged and yawned. “I’d rather he be prepared for
anything. And he loved the voice modulator.”
“He certainly can think on his feet,” Mindy said. “He’s a
kid, and runs circles around me.”
“Around most people, the precocious brat.” Joe shook his head again. “It has still got to be the weirdest game I’ve ever heard of.”
“You try entertaining a tiny genius,” Gerald retorted.
In the next room, they heard the tones of the clock striking
three.
This week, I challenged Cedar Sanderson to explain the woman blowing smoke rings without an obvious mechanism. Leigh Kimmel asked me to explore what happens between the sounds…
In the distance, the tower clock began ringing the song for eleven bells, cutting through the evening darkness. The deep, melodious noise only made her swallow a thin trickle of bile threatening to make her retch. Anya glowered down at the tools in her hands before jabbing the flexible wires into her bun of unruly hair.
“Of course I have everything I need,” she snapped, jerking
her head toward the hooded figure seated in the corner of the room. “You taught
me, after all.”
The figure was still on a heavy wooden chair, face shrouded,
hands knotted and swollen with age.
Anya had always hated this room with no fireplace, where drafts
leaked through thin walls. She’d tried to patch the gaps with plaster, but it
cracked and dropped off with every change of the seasons. The walls reeked of
cabbage and stale sweat, but was all they could afford. The red-faced landlord
hadn’t raised their rates since Gruen’s hands became too stiff to work, but it
meant she’d become whipcord thin and sleep-deprived trying to make up for a
master thief’s skills.
“Magic,” the voice urged, reedy and thin. Gruen’s unkempt
beard poked out from under the cowl, grey with yellowed streaks. “You did not
succeed in skiving the preventative spell.”
She frowned and stamped her feet to hide her nerves,
wiggling her close-fitting leggings and tunic, dark colors mismatched to blend
into the night. Anya bent to tighten a bootlace. “I won’t steal from the neighbors,”
she muttered to the wooden floor, swept as clean as she could get it.
The chair creaked as Gruen leaned forward, his dusty face emerging from the hood, bulbous nose first. His sour breath wafted directly into her face as she straightened. Long practice kept her from flinching. “That potion Mistress Kira drank yesterday would have kept the tower’s magic from affecting you if you’d gotten to the bottle first. I need this to work, girl.”
“We both do,” Anya replied, and flexed long, thin fingers
before pulling on kidskin leather gloves. She’d risked filching them from an affluent
halfwit’s belt earlier this week after her practiced eye saw they were exactly
her size. They’d help her keep her grip tonight.
She swung a leg up on the windowsill. Gruen’s voice stopped
her again. “You must be in by midnight, girl.”
“We’ve gone over the plan several dozen times,” Anya
replied, and dropped out of sight. She landed crouched on the roof several feet
below, a practiced landing that kept any thumps to the stairwell. That kept
from directly annoying the neighbors, who didn’t need to know their neighbors had
less than normal jobs.
Clambering over a small wall that served no purpose but to
hold a honeysuckle vine and a bird’s nest, Anya took a deep breath in the star-strewn
night, away from the stink of the streets. She much preferred transiting the
flat rooftops.
She loped her way across the city, thankful most of the buildings were only a few feet apart with each leap. She’d heard a tale from one of the other orphans that some king had mandated the city’s buildings be the same height and color, pale stone that from street level only looked filthy with mud and soot from cooking fires. Anya herself thought the legend was stupid, a ridiculous thing only some rich fool would care about. In her mind, that made it all the more likely to be true.
Her ankles ached with the thirtieth landing, but Anya could
see her goal only a few hundred craken away now. The great stone tower loomed
over the rest of the city, built from dark speckled stone that contrasted with
everything else. It held the bells that rumbled through the city each hour, but
was rumored to hold secrets as well. Not just secrets, but magics, too.
Gruen wasn’t getting any younger. She wasn’t sure how much more gratitude his former students would continue to supply. A few gifts to tide them over had been appreciated. This information was significant enough it felt like a final payment, from apprentice to master, a final graduation.
If it were true.
Anya slowed, breath coming harder now, as she reached the final rooftop. Her eyes measured distances and angles in the dark night. The dark tower was further away than her usual jumps between rooftops. Stepping back, she took a running leap and wondered if she was truly mad.
She sailed through the air and seized the arched arrow-slit window with an outstretched arm. Her right side burned with the strain as the rest of her body thumped solidly against the stone. She’d distributed her weight across the stone during impact correctly, like falling forward. There’d been no way to practice the landing, or even the distance. Anya had nearly let go at the shock. She hadn’t anticipated being unable to breathe.
Wheezing, she scrambled through the narrow window with
burning lungs. If she had been eating more regularly, she would have been stuck
wiggling, waiting spiderlike for the morning guards to see her against the tower.
Or worse, exhausted from hanging on, flattened against the ground and buried in
Pauper’s Field.
She wasn’t sure even Gruen would mourn her, even though he certainly
wouldn’t survive her loss.
She held the thought of Gruen in her mind as she sagged
against the stone stairs inside the tower. She may not like him much, but Anya certainly
owed him. Why, she’d not even have a trade if it weren’t for him teaching her
the thieving craft.
If she could get this potion, his skill would be restored. She was sure of it. He’d be able to teach her so much more. Flexible fingers grown supple with restored youth would train her the things he tried to describe with increasing frustration.
Anya leveraged her body up with one hand pressed against a frozen, glittering stone floor. The granite tower was musty and cold, each step frosted over. This odd speckled stone held the cold more than the pale stone, it seemed. She gazed around with dismay, and realized she’d leave a distinct trail, even in the dim light that strained through the narrow windows.
She bit her lip. The sharp pain from a slightly chipped front tooth brought her focus back, as it always did. She was on a deadline. It didn’t look like guards came here often anyway.
The intel had said to go up from roof height, so she did, taking each stone step with trepidation. She hadn’t thought getting in the narrow window would be quite so difficult, and had planned to exit the same way. She wasn’t sure if a higher level would work to get onto the nearest building’s roof. Would it be too high?
The door with the crescent moon, the former student had whispered. He’d looked over his shoulder as he shared his information a week prior in the grubby apartment, as if worried a guard would come crashing through the battered, barred wooden door.
She paused at the landing and saw the door she sought was painted with a mosaic of patterned, intertwined lines. A crescent moon stood starkly in the middle, opalescent but unadorned. It reflected the starlight, glowing faintly.
Anya waited, heart rapid, hoping no guards would come by on
patrol. Gruen’s student had been so certain. Use the noise of the bells to
cover the sound of breaking in. Get out with the quarter chime to avoid the
guards.
It must be getting close. Time to be ready. She reached up and tugged on the flexible metal wires in her hair. The lockpicks snagged, loosening her bun.
The bell’s song began, high above her, and she felt a few hairs tear free as she yanked the last pick free and dropped to her knees. She could feel the reverberation through the stone, and didn’t like what the intermittent humming did to her fingertips.
The crescent moon on the door began to glow as she and inserted the picks into a star-shaped silver keyhole, leaning against the door. She closed her eyes and refused to look at the sinuous lines. If she didn’t see them moving, it wasn’t happening.
She had only the time of the song, and then until the twelfth bell to get inside. The longest song, the witching hour, the chill tones of mourning for the dead. Midnight was sacred to the stars.
Anya felt a drop of nervous sweat trickle down her forehead as she worked the lock, hands steady and implements sure even as her pulse pounded in her neck. The balance needed to be precise, a light touch only, gentle pressure to ease the lock open like a lover.
The pins of the lock caught, one, two, three, four,
desperate moments as the bells’ eeriest song began to close. She raked her pick
desperately back and forth, jamming it into the lock as far as she could.
Failure was not an option.
With a click, the last pin raised. The lock turned as her hands slid automatically.
The door cracked and she fell inside, eyes opening in
startlement. The door’s crescent moon blazed like the sun, shattering the
darkness within.
Anya gazed up into a tattooed face with pointed ears and dark green, watchful eyes. Above her in the tower, the bells ended their song and tolled out the hour.
It was not midnight, she realized with horror and confusion. It was the tones of the clock striking three.
Thesis Cat would like to get this finished herself, thank you.
nother Mike, who wrote about Aphrodite riding sidesaddle on a goose, challenged me with this: “He was bent over, praying, with his hands together, when the other hands grasped his in support. He blinked, and then noticed that the hands holding his were blue…”
I sat down intending this to be a monkey’s paw, “be careful what you wish for” story. One in which Jonas wishes to hide his problems, and looks up to find a zombie’s blue, rotting hands happy to distract him. I’ll have to explore undead religious proclivities another time, because this spilled out instead.
Jonas
froze in horror, as a resounding crash echoed within the cavernous Guildhouse.
The wooden balconies populated with heads poking from each of the cubbies,
peering into the open middle where the great loomworks rested.
The
loomworks never rested long, only stripped of their precious weaving long
enough to deliver the highborns’ work and restring for the next commission. The
list of commissions was very long, and the only reason an orphan off the streets
had ever been taught to read or figure.
He
was one of the few thin, limber, light enough to clamber up to the adjustable
fiddly bits at the top and resize the work. He was not entrusted with the weaving.
Guildmaster did not permit soiled hands such as his to handle the delicate base
fabrics or tapestries hung upon the great loomworks.
He
turned, every inch a momentous effort of sheer will, creeping unwilling eyes to
stare at the wreckage of wood collapsed upon the lobby. He’d just adjusted the
frame, and clearly something had gone horribly, miserably wrong.
No
one else moved. The weavers at the small looms on the balconies stared openmouthed.
Guild Officials stared from the trading desk, where they displayed sample wares
and bargained for gold.
A small, pudgy, redheaded boy on the third floor balcony snickered into the clattering silence, rocking back and forth on elbows propped on the rickety balcony. He clearly knew the punishments the Guildmaster liked to give. No one would spare a thought for the orphan boy’s cries.
Jonas whirled and pelted from the hall, stumbling over limbs grown too long as he tore through the streets. He landed on his knees, bruising them against the cold stone floor the Temple of the Moirai.
He bent over, praying to The Three, aware the Guildmaster would punish him for breaking the great loomworks. He could not even fathom the depth of this punishment, having destroyed the primary source of this Guild District’s wealth.
Worse – if he could no longer climb with impunity, he had no value to the Guild. Jonas shuddered at the faint memory of life on the streets.
Wetness
struck his cheeks, and he blinked furiously, unwilling to admit weakness. Now
was a time for strength. He needed to prove his value to the Guild.
He
just had no idea how to do it.
Jonas
closed his eyes, hands clenched together, hoping the three statues’ cold eyes would
soften if he only prayed hard enough. He felt warm, rough hands close over his.
A man’s voice, harsh with years and commanding, begin the Chant of Respect to The
Three. Jonas stumbled over the familiar words.
“…and
– and to each our allotment, which we shall not struggle, for we know The Three
have measured what – what is to be.” Jonas opened bleary eyes, struggling not
to sniffle.
His
eyes widened further to see the hands still grasping his. Blue!
“Look
at me, boy,” the voice commanded.
Jonas
lifted his eyes to see a perfectly ordinary, study workingman. Brown eyes that
looked like they laughed often, crinkled at the edges. A tidy beard, streaked
with more white than the remaining muddy brown. And hands dyed blue, arms
streaked in paler shades up to the elbow.
The
man laughed. “It’s from the indigo, boy. The blue dye. You get used to it after
a while.”
Jonas
lowered his eyes.
“Hey
now, eyes up.”
Jonas
suspected this man could be heard over a thousand looms if he wanted, but his tone
was kind and quiet, not even echoing in the stone-walled temple.
The
bearded man took pity on him and released his hands. “Your reaction was
interesting,” the man said casually, settling back and studying the statues of The
Three.
Jonas
studied the statues, shooting the man a sideways glance, uncertain.
“As
if you were afraid of the Guildmaster.” The man studied his indigo hands, as if
examining the calluses.
Shuddering,
Jonas looked away.
“Boy,
you don’t have to worry about being strapped for this. Accidents happen.”
He couldn’t stop the panicked mewl that emerged from his throat. Accidents did not simply happen with the Guildmaster. The worst he’d done before now was eat a pear uninvited, and he’d been whipped on a weekly basis or more.
“Someday
I’ll share the stories with you, boy. Over a mead, when you’re a bit older. The
point is that you learn from your mistakes.”
The man stood up and reached out a hand. “Like learning to build looms from scratch, so you can fix them, and know when they weaken.”
Jonas stared upward, confused.
“I’m the Grand Guildmaster, boy.”
Jonas straightened, tongue-tied.
He still didn’t take the outstretched, unwavering hand.
“I’ve heard stories about this district. Bad stories, and too many of them. I’ve come to take control and fix things here.”
Jonas dared to hope. He reached
out, tentative and unsure.
The man grasped it in a firm grip.
“And if you’re to become my apprentice,
I’ll need to know your name.”
I have successfully distracted Thesis Cat with a giant cardboard box. Time enough for a quick jot of words inspired by one of this week’s Odd Prompts spare challenges. Huzzah! Creative writing has such a different mental flavor.
This week’s prompt: “The ghost of the Savoy at Mussoorie haunts not for justice, but for…”
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve never been to India before,” I
said to the woman seated on the heavily embroidered chair in the Savoy’s lobby.
“I don’t know if it’s the thing to do here. Tipping, I mean. Do you know?”
She looked up from her book, her eyes wide and surprised. She
blinked before opening her mouth. I had the feeling she didn’t talk much, and
her voice confirmed it, rusty with disuse.
“American, aren’t you?” She nodded her own confirmation at
my outfit before I could reply. “One of your dollars should do it these days, I
believe.”
Her voice was properly British, reminiscent of tea and
crumpets. She was dressed in a rather old-fashioned getup, but the wide-brimmed
hat was practical for the sun, and I’m sure the dress was cool in the heat. A
proper lady, even sitting stiffly upright while reading. Straight out of the
Empire, that one.
“Thanks,” I said, annoyed with myself for passing judgment when
she’d been so helpful. “Listen, can I buy you a drink, maybe a scone, as a
thank you? I’d have gone through hundreds, and been swarmed.”
The woman set down her book and reached back to smooth a
curl, looking amused. “Thank you, but I must decline.”
“As you wish,” I said, surprised at the depth of hurt I felt
at a stranger’s slight. My face must have shone it as I picked my bag up from
the tile floor.
“I do apologize if I’ve offended you. It’s not what you
think,” the woman said, standing and smoothing her long skirt. “I’m much past such
mundane needs as the flesh requires.”
“Ah,” I mumbled, unsure what to say. “Um, that sounds nice.”
She walked with me as I headed toward the check in counter. I was starting to wonder if I’d made a mistake. India was known for spiritualism, sure, but this was a business trip.
“It’s been so long.”
Her voice improved with use, I noticed.
“No one’s noticed me in ever so long.”
I gave her a sideways glance, questioning. She smiled sadly,
her face wan under her enormous straw hat.
“I only wanted to play the grand piano,” she said, and her voice
was soft, grief-stricken.
“One last time, like my darling and I used to spend our
evenings before he was taken from me. I shouldn’t have minded being murdered so
much if I’d been able to play just one more time.”
She looked at me again, and this time I noticed the hollows
in her cheeks, her sunken eyes, her skin that tightened and discolored before
my gaze.
“I couldn’t find him without the music. It’s been so long. I
can’t remember the song any longer.”
I stopped walking and stared at the woman turned wraith, her dress now faded and flimsy rags, her clenched hands skeletal.
She bared her teeth at me in what must have once been a
smile, turned, and walked through the lobby’s grand piano.
