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.
