#Theme: Visiting the sick
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Clad in Justice and Worth
Written for the Inklings Challenge 2023 (@inklings-challenge). Inspired by the lives of Jeanne d'Albret and Marguerite de Navarre, although numerous liberties have been taken with the history in the name of introducing fantastical elements and telling a good story. The anglicization of names (Jeanne to Joan and Marguerite to Margaret) is meant to reflect the fictionalization of these figures.
The heat was unbearable, and it would grow only hotter as they descended into the lowlands. It was fortunate, Joan decided, that Navarre was a mountain country. It was temperate, even cold there in September. It would be sweltering by the sea.
The greater issue ought to have been the presence of Monluc, who would cut Joan’s party off at the Garonne River most like. The soldiers with whom she traveled were fierce, but Monluc had an entire division at the Garrone. Joan would be a prisoner of war if Providence did not see her through. Henry, perhaps, might suffer worse. He might be married to a Catholic princess.
Yet Joan was accustomed to peril. She had cut her teeth on it. Her first act as queen, some twenty years ago, had been to orchestrate the defense of her kingdom, and she was accustomed to slipping through nets and past assassins. The same could not be said of the infernal heat, which assaulted her without respite. Joan wore sensible travel clothing, but the layers of her skirts were always heavy with sweat. A perpetual tightness sat in her chest, the remnant of an old bout with consumption, and however much she coughed it would not leave.
All the same, it would not do to seem less than strong, so she hid the coughing whenever she could. The hovering of her aides was an irritant and she often wished she could just dismiss them all.
“How fare you in the heat, Majesty?”
“I have war in my gut, Clemont,” Joan snapped. “Worry not for me. If you must pester someone, pester Henry.”
He nodded, chastened. “A messenger is here from Navarre. Sent, I suspect, to induce you to return hence.”
“I would not listen to his birdcalls.”
“Young Henry said much the same.”
Joan stuffed down her irritation that Clemont had gone to Henry before he’d come to her. She was still queen, even if her son was rapidly nearing his majority. “Tell him that if the Huguenot leaders are to be plucked, I think it better that we all go together. Tell him that I would rather my son and I stand with our brothers than await soldiers and assassins in our little kingdom.”
Her aide gave a stiff nod. “At once, your Majesty.”
She would breathe easier when they reached the host at La Rochelle. Yet then, there would be more and greater work to do. There would be war, and Joan would be at the head of it.
*
When she awoke in the night, Joan knew at once that something was awry. It was cool. Gone was the blistering heat that had plagued them all day. Perhaps one of the kidnapping plots had finally succeeded.
Certainly, it seemed that way. She was in a cell, cool and dank and no more than six paces square. And yet—how strange! —the door was open.
Rising unsteadily to her feet, Joan crept towards the shaft of moonlight that fell through it. She glanced about for guards, but saw only a single prisoner in dirty clothes standing just beyond the threshold. He was blinking rapidly, as though the very existence of light bewildered him. Then, as Joan watched, he crept forward towards the gate of the jailhouse and out into the free air beyond. Joan listened for a long moment, trying to hear if there was any commotion at the prisoner’s emergence. When she could perceive none, she followed him out into the cool night air.
A lantern blazed. “Come quickly,” a voice hissed. “Our friend the Princess is waiting.”
The prisoner answered in a voice too quiet for Joan to hear. Then, quite suddenly, she heard his companion say, “Who is it that there behind you?”
The prisoner turned round, and Joan’s fingers itched towards her hidden knife. But much to her astonishment, he exclaimed, “Why, it is the lady herself! Margaret!”
But Joan had no opportunity to reply. Voices sounded outside her pavilion and she awoke to the oppressive heat of the day before. Coughing hard, Joan rolled ungracefully from her bed and tried to put away the grasping tendrils of her dream.
“The river is dry, Majesty” her attendant informed her as soon as she emerged from her pavilion, arrayed once again in sensible riding clothes. “The heat has devoured it. We can bypass Monluc without trouble, I deem.”
“Well then,” Joan replied, stifling another cough. “Glory to God for the heat.”
*
They did indeed pass Monluc the next day, within three fingers of his nose. Joan celebrated with Henry and the rest, yet all the while her mind was half taken up with her dream from the night before. Never, in all her life, had her mind conjured so vivid a sensory illusion. It had really felt cool in that jail cell, and the moonlight beyond it had been silver and true. Stranger still, the prisoner and his accomplice had called Joan by her mother’s name.
Joan had known her mother only a little. At the age of five, she had been detained at the French court while her mother returned to Navarre. This was largely on account of her mother’s religious convictions. Margaret of Angoulême had meddled too closely with Protestantism, so her brother the king had seen fit to deprive her of her daughter and raise her a Catholic princess.
His successor had likewise stolen Henry from Joan, for despite the king’s best efforts she was as Protestant as her mother. Yet unlike Margaret, Joan had gone back for her child. Two years ago, she had secretly swept Henry away from Paris on horseback. She’d galloped the horses nearly to death, but she’d gotten him to the armed force waiting at the border, and then at last home to Navarre. Sometimes, Joan wondered why her own mother had not gone to such lengths to rescue her. But Margaret’s best weapons had been tears, it was said, and tears could not do the work of sharp swords.
The Navarre party arrived at La Rochelle just before dusk on the twenty-eighth of September. The heat had faltered a little, to everyone’s great relief, but the air by the sea was still heavy with moisture. The tightness in Joan’s chest persisted.
“There will be much celebration now that you have come, Your Majesty,” said the boy seeing to her accommodations. “There’s talk of giving you the key to the city, and more besides.”
Sure enough, Joan was greeted with applause when she entered the Huguenot council. “I and my son are here to promote the success of our great cause or to share in its disaster,” she said when the council quieted. “I have been reproached for leaving my lands open to invasion by Spain, but I put my confidence in God who will not suffer a hair of our heads to perish. How could I stay while my fellow believers were being massacred? To let a man drown is to commit murder.”
*
Sometimes it seemed that the men only played at war. The Duke of Conde, who led the Huguenot forces, treated it as a game of chivalry between gentlemen. Others, like Monluc, regarded it as a business; the mercenaries he hired robbed and raped and brutalized, and though be bemoaned the cruelty he did nothing to curtail it.
There were sixty-thousand refugees pouring into the city. Joan was not playing at war. When she rose in the mornings, she put poultices on her chest, then went to her office after breaking her fast. There was much to do. She administered the city, attended councils of war, and advised the synod. In addition, she was still queen of Navarre, and was required to govern her own kingdom from afar.
In the afternoons, she often met with Beza to discuss matters of the church, or else with Conde, to discuss military matters. Joan worked on the city’s fortifications, and in the evenings she would ride out to observe them. Henry often joined her on these rides; he was learning the art of war, and he seemed to have a knack for it.
“A knack is not sufficient,” Joan told him. “Anyone can learn to fortify a port. I have learned, and I am a woman.”
“I know it is not sufficient,” the boy replied. “I must commit myself entirely to the cause of our people, and of Our Lord. Is that not what you were going to tell me?”
“Ah, Henry, you know me too well. I am glad of it. I am glad to see you bear with strength the great and terrible charge which sits upon your shoulders.”
“How can I help being strong? I have you for a mother.”
At night, Joan fell into bed too exhausted for dreams.
*
Yet one night, she woke once again to find her chest loose and her breathing comfortable. She stood in a hallway which she recognized at once. She was at the Château de Fontainebleau, the place of her birth, just beyond the door to the king’s private chambers.
“Oh please, Francis, please. You cannot really mean to send him to the stake!” The voice on the other side of the door was female, and it did not belong to the queen.
A heavy sigh answered it. “I mean to do just that, ma mignonne. He is a damned heretic, and a rabble-rouser besides. Now, sister, don’t cry. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it is your weeping.”
At those words, a surge of giddiness, like lightning, came over Joan’s whole body. It was her own mother speaking to the king. She was but a few steps away and they were separated only by a single wooden door.
“He is my friend, Francis. Do you say I should not weep for my friends?”
A loud harumph. “A strange thing, Margaret. Your own companions told me that you have never met the man.”
“Does such a triviality preclude friendship? He is my brother in Our Lord.”
“And I am your true brother, and your king besides.”
“And as you are my brother—” here, Margaret’s voice cracked with overburdening emotion. She was crying again, Joan was certain. “As you are my brother, you must grant me this boon. Do not harm those I love, Francis.”
The king did not respond, so Joan drew nearer to the door. A minute later, she leapt backwards when it opened. There stood her mother, not old and sick as Joan had last seen her twenty years before, but younger even than Joan herself.
“If you’ve time to stand about listening at doors, then you are not otherwise employed,” Margaret said, wiping her tears from her face with the back of her hand. “I am going to visit a friend. You shall accompany me.”
Looking down at herself, Joan realized that her mother must have mistaken her for one of Fountainbleu’s many ladies-in-waiting. She was in her night clothes, which was really a simple day dress such as a woman might wear to a provincial market. Joan did not sleep in anything which would hinder her from acting immediately, should the city be attacked in the middle of the night.
“As you wish, Majesty,” Joan replied with a curtsey. Margaret raised an eyebrow, and instantly Joan corrected herself: “Your Highness.”
Margaret stopped at her own rooms to wrap herself in a plain, hooded cloak. “What is your name?” she asked.
“Joan, your Highness.”
“Well, Joan. As penance for eavesdropping, you shall keep your own counsel with regards to our errand. Is that clear?”
“Yes, your Highness,” Joan replied stiffly. Any fool could see what friend Margaret intended to visit, and Joan wished she could think of a way to cut through the pretense.
When Margaret arrived at the jail with Joan in tow, the warden greeted her almost like a friend. “You are here to see the heretic, Princess? Shall I fetch you a chair?”
“Yes, Phillip. And a lantern, if you would.”
The cell was nearly identical to the one which Joan had dreamed on the road to La Rochelle. Inside sat a man with sparse gray hair covering his chin. Margaret’s chair was placed just outside the cell, but she brushed past it. She handed the lantern to Joan and knelt down in the cell beside the prisoner.
“I was told that I had a secret friend in the court,” he said. “I see now that she is an angel.”
“No angel, monsieur Faber. I am Margaret, and this is my lady, Joan. I have come to see to your welfare, as best I am able.”
Now, Margaret’s hood fell back, and all at once she looked every inch the Princess of France. Yet her voice was small and choked when she said, “Will you do me the honor of praying with me?”
Margaret was already on her knees, but she lowered herself further. She rested one hand lightly on Faber’s knee, and after a moment, he took it. Her eyes fluttered closed. In the dim light, Joan thought she saw tears starting down her mother’s cheek.
When she woke in the morning, Joan could still remember her mother’s face. There were tears in her hazelnut eyes, and a weeping quiver in her voice.
*
Winter came, and Joan’s coughing grew worse. There was blood in it now, and occasionally bits of feathery flesh that got caught in her throat and made her gag. She hid it in her handkerchief.
“Winter battles are ugly,” Conde remarked one morning as Christmas was drawing near. “If the enemy is anything like gentlemen, they will not attack until spring. And yet, I think, we must stand at readiness.”
“By all means,” Joan replied. “Anything less than readiness would be negligence.”
Conde chuckled, not unkindly. “For all your strength and skill, madame, it is obvious that you were not bred for command. No force can be always at readiness. It would kill the men as surely as the sword. ‘Tis not negligence to celebrate the birth of Our Lord, for instance.”
Joan nodded curtly, but did not reply.
As the new year began, the city was increasingly on edge. There was frequent unrest among the refugees, and the soldiers Joan met when she rode the fortifications nearly always remarked that an attack would come soon.
Then, as February melted into March, word came from Admiral Coligny that his position along the Guirlande Stream had been compromised. The Catholic vanguard was swift approaching, and more Huguenot forces were needed. By the time word reached Joan in the form of a breathless young page outside her office, Conde was already assembling the cavalry. Joan made for the Navarre quarter at once, as fast as her lungs and her skirts would let her.
The battle was an unmitigated disaster. The Huguenots arrived late, and in insufficient numbers. Their horses were scattered and their infantry routed, and the bulk of their force was forced back to Cognac to regroup. As wounded came pouring in, Joan went to the surgical tents to make herself useful.
The commander La Noue’s left arm had been shattered and required amputation. Steeling herself, Joan thought of Margaret’s tearstained cheeks as she knelt beside Faber. “Commander La Noue,” she murmured, “Would it comfort you if I held your other hand?”
“That it would, Your Majesty,” the commander replied. So, as the surgeon brandished his saw, Joan gripped the commander’s hand tight and began to pray. She let go only once, to cover her mouth as she hacked blood into her palm. It blended in easily with the carnage of the field hospital.
Yet it was not till after the battle was over that Joan learned the worst of it. “His Grace, General Conde is dead,” her captain told her in her tent that evening. “He was unseated in the battle. They took him captive, and then they shot him. Unarmed and under guard! Why, as I speak these words, they are parading his corpse through the streets of Jarnac.”
“So much for chivalry,” murmured Joan, trying to ignore the memories of Conde’s pleasant face chuckling, calling her skilled and strong.
“We will need to find another Prince of the Blood to champion our cause,” her captain continued. “Else the army will crumble. If there’s to be any hope for Protestantism in France, we had better produce one with haste. Admiral Coligny will not serve. He’s tried to rally the men, to no avail. In fact, he has bid me request that you make an attempt on the morn.”
“Henry will lead.”
“Henry? Why, he’s only a boy!”
Joan shook her head. “He is nearly a man, Captain, and he’s a keen knack for military matters. He trained with Conde himself, and he saw to the fortification of La Rochelle at my side. He is strong, which matters most of all. If it’s a Prince of the Blood the army requires, Henry will serve.”
“As you say, Majesty,” said her captain with a bow. “But it’s not me you will have to convince.”
*
Joan settled in for a sleepless night. Her captain was correct that she would need to persuade the Huguenot forces well, if they were to swear themselves to Henry. So, she would speak. Joan would rally their courage, and then she would present them with her son and see if they would follow him.
Page after page she wrote, none of it any good. Eloquence alone would not suffice; Joan’s words had to burn in men’s chests. She needed such words as she had never spoken before, and she needed them by morning.
By three o’clock, Joan’s pages were painted with blood. Her lungs were tearing themselves to shreds in her chest, and the proof was there on the paper beside all her insufficient words. She almost hated herself then. Now, when circumstance required of her greater strength than ever before, all Joan’s frame was weakness and frailty.
An hour later, she fell asleep.
When Joan’s eyes fluttered open, she knew at once where she was. Why, these were her own rooms at home in Navarre! Sunlight flooded through her own open windows and drew ladders of light across Joan’s very own floor. Her bed sat in the corner, curtains open. Her dressing room and closet were just there, and her own writing desk—
There was a figure at Joan’s writing desk. Margaret. She looked up.
“My Joan,” she said. It started as a sigh, but it turned into a sob by the end. “My very own Joan, all grown up. How tired you look.”
The words seemed larger than themselves somehow. They were Truth and Beauty in capital letters, illuminated red and gold. Something in Joan’s chest seized; something other than her lungs.
“How do you know me, mother?”
“How could I not? I have been parted from you of late, yet your face is more precious to me than all the kingdoms of the earth.”
“Oh.” And then, because she could not think of anything else to say, Joan asked, “What were you writing, before I came in?”’
“Poetry.” Joan made a noise in her throat. “You disapprove?” asked her mother.
“No, not at all. Would that I had time for such sweet pursuits. I have worn myself out this night writing a war speech. It cannot be poetry, mother. It must be wine. It must–” then, without preamble, Joan collapsed into a fit of coughing. At once, her mother was on her feet, handkerchief in hand. She pressed it to Joan’s mouth, all the while rubbing circles on her back as she coughed and gagged. When the handkerchief came away at last, it was stained red.
“What a courageous woman you are,” Margaret whispered into her hair. “Words like wine for the soldiers, and yourself spitting blood. Will you wear pearls or armor when you address them?”
“I will address them on horseback in the field,” answered Joan with a rasp. “I would have them see my strength.”
Her mother’s dark eyes flickered then. Margaret looked at her daughter, come miraculously home to her against the will of the king and the very flow of time itself. She was not a large woman, but she held herself well. She stood brave and tall, though no one had asked it of her.
Her own dear daughter did not have time for poetry. Margaret regretted that small fact so much that it came welling up in her eyes. “And what of your weakness, child? Will you let anyone see that?”
Joan reached out and caught her mother’s tears. Her fingertips were harder than Margaret’s were. They scratched across the sensitive skin below her eyes.
“Did I not meet you like this once before? You are the same Joan who came with me to the jail in Paris once. I did not know you then. I had not yet borne you.”
“Yes, the very same. We visited a Monsieur Faber, I believe. What became of that poor man?”
Margaret sighed. She crossed back over to the desk to fall back into her seat, and in a smaller voice she said, “My brother released him, for a time. And then, when I was next absent from Paris, he was arrested again and sent to the stake before I could return.”
“I saw you save another man, once. I do not know his name. How many prisoners did you save, mother?”
“Many. Not near enough. Not as many as those with whom I wept by lantern light.”
“Did the weeping do any good, I wonder.”
“Those who lived were saved by weeping. Those who died may have been comforted by it. It was the only thing I could give them, and so I must believe that Our Lord made good use of it.”
Joan shook her head. She almost wanted to cry too, then. The feeling surprised her. Joan detested crying.
“All those men freed from prison, yet you never came for me. Why?”
“Francis was determined. A choice between following Christ and keeping you near was no choice at all, though it broke my heart to make it.”
If Joan shut her eyes, she could still remember the terror of the night she had rescued Henry. “You could have come with soldiers. You could have stolen me away in the night.”
Margaret did not answer. The tears came faster now and her fair, queenly skin blossomed red. So many years would pass between the dear little girl she’d left in Paris and the stalwart woman now before her. She did not have time for poetry, but if Margaret had been allowed to keep her that would have been different. Joan should have had every poem under the sun.
“Will you read it?” she asked, taking the parchment from her desk and pressing it into her daughter’s hands. “Will you grant me that boon?”
Slowly, almost numbly, Joan nodded. To Margaret’s surprise, she read aloud.
“God has predestined His own
That they should be sons and heirs.
Drawn by gentle constraint
A zeal consuming is theirs.
They shall inherit the earth
Clad in justice and worth.”
“Clad in justice and worth,” she repeated, handing back the parchment. “It’s a good poem.”
“It isn’t finished,” replied her mother.
Joan laughed. “Neither is my speech. It must be almost morning now.”
As loving arms closed around her again, Joan wished to God that she could remain in Navarre with her mother. She knew that she and Margaret did not share a heart: her mother was tender like Joan could never be. Yet all the same, she wanted to believe that they had been forged by the same Christian hope and conviction. She wanted to believe that she, Joan, could free the prisoners too.
She shut her eyes against her mother’s shoulder. When she opened them, she was back in her tent, with morning sun streaming in.
*
She came before the army mounted on a horse with Henry beside her. Her words were like wine when she spoke.
“When I, the queen, hope still, is it for you to fear? Because Conde is dead, is all therefore lost? Does our cause cease to be just and holy? No; God, who has already rescued you from perils innumerable, has raised up brothers-in-arms to succeed Conde.
Soldiers, I offer you everything in my power to bestow–my dominions, my treasures, my life, and that which is dearer to me than all, my son. I make here a solemn oath before you all, and you know me too well to doubt my word: I swear to defend to my last sigh the holy cause which now unites us, which is that of honor and truth.”
When she finished speaking, Joan coughed red into her hands. There was quiet for a long moment, and then a loud hurrah! went up along the lines. Joan looked out at the soldiers, and from the front she saw her mother standing there, with tears in her eyes.
#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge#team tolkien#genre: time travel#theme: visiting the imprisoned#with a tiny little hint of#theme: visiting the sick#story: complete#so i like to read about the reformation in october when i can#when the teams were announced i was burning through a book on the women of the reformation and these two really reached out and grabbed me#Jeanne in particular. i was like 'it is so insane that this person is not more widely known.'#Protestantism has its very own badass Jeanne/Joan. as far as i'm concerned she should be as famous as Joan of Arc#so that was the basis for this story#somewhere along the line it evolved into a study on different kinds of feminine power#and also illness worked itself in there. go me#anyway. hopefully my catholic friends will give me a shot here in spite of the protestantism inherant in the premise#i didn't necessarily mean to go with something this strongly protestant as a result of the Catholic works of mercy themes#but i'm rather tickled that it worked out that way#on the other hand i know that i have people following me that know way more about the French Wars of Religion and the Huguenots than i do#hopefully there's enough verisimilitude here that it won't irritate you when i inevitably get things wrong#i think that covers all my bases#i am still not 100% content with how this turned out but i am at least happy enough to post it#and get in right under the wire. it's a couple hours before midnight still in my time zone#pontifications and creations#leah stories#i enjoy being a girl#the unquenchable fire
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Terrarium Lights
Part 1 of 3 for @inklings-challenge
An older lady befriends and adopts a ghost she found in her garden
Next part >>here
Michael Goffrey bid his wife farewell as he left for his next shipping job, and Gail Goffrey was once again faced with the fact that her house was cavernously empty.
She had expected the house to feel empty after her children grew up and moved on with their lives; that was the sort of thing one always heard about from the mothers and wives left behind. However, everyone seemed to stress the loneliness—not the rather more intense boredom.
Gail had always preferred quiet and alone time, so she did not take issue with the solitude. However, though she still had to cook and mend and clean and tidy and all the other tasks, it was one thing to do so for six people and quite another, shorter thing to do so for two. It was even less of a thing to do so for one, since Michael had been promoted to first mate and now had to accompany the airships personally, no longer simply loading and unloading at the cloudends as he once did.
Empty and meaningless. That’s what it felt like. With her family, she had people to help and care for. With just herself, she felt as though she were wasting time walking in circles for no other purpose than to exist.
She made it to the second day without any significant issue.
She was out tending to the herb garden when it happened—a bug wandered in front of her. That shouldn’t have been a problem. Bugs were some of her favorite creatures. But after the first smile, it hit her that she hadn't seen a new kind of one in months—this one already had three sketches in her notebook.
She’d run out of garden bugs to document.
Bugs, of all things. Bugs were everywhere, bugs had never-ending variations, bugs were constant. And she’d run out of them.
Stabbing the trowel into the earth perilously close to the offending bug, she sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.
"Well, Lord, I reckon you put me on your good Earth for a reason. And I don't think it was just to sketch bugs." She smoothed her apron out, flicking bits of dirt off of it. "I also doubt I'm done with what I'm supposed to do down here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But if you don't mind me saying, I'm awfully bored of where I am, though I do love my house and my husband and my town quite fierce. But I have all the time in the world, and I'd like to do good with it, if I could. So if you could show me what to do where I can—give me eyes to see as who I can do good towards—then I would appreciate it mightily."
Gail had prayed similar prayers before, with varying regularity. She knew the good Lord had heard her, as he always did. And if he answered with more solitude and time and boredom, then she supposed that was where she was meant to be for the moment. But she dearly hoped there might be something new this time.
So, really, she shouldn't have been surprised to see someone under the loquat tree. But then again, it had been raining since before dawn, so no one in their right mind would have been outdoors. She should know, since she herself had been out gathering moss for terrariums and hadn't heard a breath from anyone all day, even near the city.
Her first impression was that the lad was quite young. Younger than her youngest, in fact, who had not too long ago started her career as a professor at the nearby university. Looked perhaps like he could be one of her students. Very slight of build, as though he needed to eat more, and small looking as he sat hunched in the rain and letting the wet drip down his messy hair, full of loose ends that had gotten free from his ponytail.
Gail stood at the edge of her garden for a moment, resting her pail of moss against the stone border as she observed him.
He didn't move, just sat there with his face turned towards the soil, and didn't seem to see her. Part of his shoulder seemed stained, perhaps with mud. With the house not a few feet to the left, she wondered if he'd tried to knock and not gotten an answer, what with her out and about.
Well, unexpected or not, there was really only one thing to do.
Gripping her pail handle resolutely, Gail marched her way through the garden paths and stood in front of him. He shifted at the sound of her approach, turning his face up towards her—his eyes were pale, as if someone had sketched them on and not bothered with paint. What's more, up closer, the brownish stain on his shoulder looked rather like dried blood.
He tilted his head, as if trying to tell where the sound had come from.
"Well then," she said after a long moment of trying to figure out what to say, "who might you be?"
"Oh." He looked more directly at her, and somehow the eyes looked a bit more colored in, like they remembered they could be brown. "Dreadfully sorry, ma'am. I seem to have gotten lost in the rain. I hope you don't mind me taking a few moments here under your tree?"
He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed more surprised than shifty. "Not at all. Unpleasant weather to be lost in, for sure. If you'd like, you can wait it out under a roof."
"Oh," he said again, and looked to his left; this time it seemed like he understood what he was seeing. "I suppose that would be nicer."
"Well, you're welcome to my roof, if you’d like," she said. She wondered how long he would take her up on that.
He awkwardly stumbled to his feet before she could offer her hand. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."
"Would you like anything to eat?" She went ahead and led the way to the kitchen door.
He hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you ma’am, but I don't think I'm hungry."
She didn't think he would be, but, well, it wasn't like she had experience with this. Which concerned her—she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't seem to be wicked. She supposed he must need a helping hand and, while she needed to figure out what that help was, he was still just a boy; she would do him the courtesy of treating him accordingly.
The porch and floors, old and creaky since long before she and her husband and infant son had moved in decades ago, greeted them with typical fanfare as they trudged over the threshold. She dripped her way over to the stove, where she put the kettle on; it was unlikely that her visitor would want any, but she most certainly did. Setting her pail of moss by the stove to deal with later, she glanced back to see the lad standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the roof.
Gail wondered if he noticed that he wasn't wet.
"Say," she said, carefully pulling teacups out of the cupboard, "what did you say your name was?"
He looked at her sharply. "I… I don't think I did."
"Hmmmm. Well, how should I call you, then?"
He stared at her.
In the background, the rain continued on.
"Should I just call you ma'am, then?" He said, smiling faintly.
Gail squinted at him. "Now then, young man, are you dodging the question deliberately, or do you just not have an answer?"
"Oh." He glanced around the kitchen, then back to her, and blanked. "Sorry, what was the question?"
Gail rested back against the counter. She picked up her glasses from where she'd left them this morning, and stuck them on, pushing the temples through her sodden mess of hair. "I was just asking what your name was."
His eyes widened. "I… don't… Didn't I answer that?"
"Not as I can recall."
"That… that was rude of me, then, wasn't it?" His eyes were still wide, and the brown was fading.
Maybe it was rude of her to keep pressing the matter. He seemed not to know. Gail pressed her glasses firmer on her nose, trying to reach some kind of decision—but whatever was going on with her guest had been set in motion.
"What is my name?" He asked, his voice rising. "I can't remember my name."
"That's alright, dear," she said, trying to distract him, calm him down. "Do you remember where you were before my garden?"
It had the opposite effect.
He stepped back, towards the door, and glanced around with eyes that no longer understood where he was. "No… I-I can't remember… where am I? Do you know my name?"
"I'm afraid I—"
The kettle shrieked into the space between them with a rush of steam.
The lad cast a wild glance in its direction, stepped backwards. Gail, startled into motion, scrambled to shut the thing off.
When she turned back, the space where he had stood was dry and empty. She and the rain and her pail of terrarium moss had been left alone again.
Next
#inklingschallenge#inklings 2023#team lewis#genre: portal fantasy#theme: burial#theme: visiting the sick#story: finished#the santa juliana files#terrarium lights#original fiction#scribe does inklings#first draft
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Inklings Challenge Entry- The Dark Lord's Son Does Laundry
@inklings-challenge
Well, I procrastinated, so this little snippet is all I have for you today. The genre I chose was secondary world fantasy, and the theme I chose was visiting the sick, but this snippet doesn't really get as far as either. I hope you enjoy what there is, though. :)
One fine morning in the land of Luden, Hanaden came out of his front door and paused to admire his wife's box garden. All the little plants in their different shades of green were a lovely sight to him. A somewhat less lovely sight to him was in the yard, where young Filsalis hunched over a laundry basket, pulling out long sheets. He slung them onto his shoulders, practically burying his head in a sea of white as they spilled forward and back of him.
While he was attempting to hurl them over the line without dropping them on the ground, Hanaden entered the yard and raised his brows at the laundry overwhelmed lad, who was unknowingly trailing sheets onto the grass behind him.
"Good morning," said Hanaden uncertainly.
"Ah, good morning Hana!" said Filsalis, turning what little could be seen of his face, which was his sparkling dark eyes and the top of his freckled nose. "Don't worry about the laundry! It's all clean, and with a wind like this, it'll be dry in a jiff'!"
"Thank you," said Hana, watching the sheet narrowly miss a streak of dirt on its way up Filsalis, "That's very helpful."
"Oh, it's no trouble at all," he said, accidentally flipping it over his head instead of the line. He pulled it back off, his black hair getting messier by the minute. "So, everything running smoothly with the festival preparations? You were helping with fireworks, weren't you? Need any help?"
"Er, no. It's all in order. I think."
"Because if you do need help-" he panted, trying to get the sheet evenly over the line so it wouldn't fall off, "I'd be willing-"
"No, that's alright. You should enjoy yourself today."
"Alright then, I will!"
"Oh, let me help you." Hana went on the other side of the line.
"No, no! It's like you said, Hana- if I should enjoy myself today, so should you. Take care of the fireworks, and don't worry about the laundry!"
"The laundry is getting covered in grass stains."
"Oh," said Filsalis, looking at the last sheet, which was hanging out of the basket. He pulled it into his arms. "I don't suppose anybody will really notice, will they?"
Hana sighed. "They might."
"Well, I wouldn't! I'll use this one this time."
"It's a queen size," said Hana, pointing at the pristine twin sheet hanging on the end. "That's probably yours."
"Oh. Well, I'm going to bet that whoever uses it won't notice."
"I notice."
"Well, maybe Mrs. Hanaden won't mind?"
Hana sighed. "That's not the point. You have to ask for help if the sheets are too large for you. Also, don't call Aldia that."
"Why?"
He flapped the last sheet so it whacked Filsalis on the nose. "Because I said so." A small grin escaped him.
Filsalis smiled slyly back. "It must be a festival day if you're smiling."
"I smile," said Hana, ceasing to do it.
"Okay, I believe you. Woo!" he cried as they threw the last sheet over the line. "What a wonderful day, don't you think?" He looked out over the city, or what he could see of it over the wooden fence. The sky was blue, and there were a few thin clouds painted over it. Now and then a bird fluttered over the rooftops, twittering, or someone's voice laughed out.
"It's nice," said Hana. When Filsalis rolled his eyes at him, he amended, "Really nice. Quite a nice day."
"Come on, Hana! You're helping to set up! If you don't fix that sour face, people will think there's something amiss."
"My face isn't sour," said Hana, wrinkling his brow.
"Well, it's not cheerful, either. So, everything really is set up, then?"
"Oh, I don't know, for now it is," said Hana, his brow wrinkling deeper. "Wait, I almost forgot! Aldia wanted me to visit Halaina for her this morning."
"You don't sound excited about it," said Filsalis. His eyes lit up. "Ah, don't worry, I can go instead!"
"You don't have to do that," said Hana wearily.
"Well, sounds like you'd rather not, and unlike you, I have all the time in the world to enjoy the festival. So I think it's a great idea."
Hana looked hesitant. "Alright," he said, "But don't do anything...odd, alright? Aldia usually visits with her awhile, but you don't know her, so you can probably just drop the food off for her, maybe talk about the weather, and-"
"Got it," said Filsalis. "Anything in particular I should know about her? Is she grouchy?"
"Yes," said Hana. "I always got the impression she didn't like me."
"Well, she can't be any worse than you." He laughed. "Basket's in the kitchen, then?"
"Yes, but-"
"Don't worry, Hana, I love talking to people. I'm not afraid of old ladies. Unlike-" He winked exaggeratedly and ran off, taking the big basket with him.
Hana shook his head.
#InklingsChallenge#Team Tolkien#Genre: Secondary World#Theme: Visiting the sick#Story: Unfinished#Be glad that at the last second I changed the name to Luden instead of “Elf Land”#My Writing
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"Over the Edge" by OneWingedSparrow; Prologue: Is There Anyone? Oh, it Has Begun....
Next Chapter (coming soon) >>
@inklings-challenge
This was written for the Inklings Challenge 2023! This is but the prologue; more is to come. (I hope it was okay to tag all the themes in my story, though this prologue only touches on a few.)
Main Tags: Telteas (OC) & Léloh (OC), Original Work, Original Characters, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fairytale Style, Dark Fairytale Elements, Secondary World Fantasy
DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT: Angst, Blood, Broken Bones, Loss of Limbs (in a sense), Pain, Hurt...there's a lot of hurt.
Summary: This is the tale of an illustrious creature residing in a high tower—and the secret of the broken, bloodied bones scattered about the dungeon floor.
Read on AO3
Reblogs are appreciated!
~
Most people in Thereal had two wings; Prince Telteas had eight, until the day befell that he should have seven, and he dropped to the courtyard writhing and wailing amidst a pool of feathers and blood.
Alarmed, his brother called the guards, who alerted the king and queen, who summoned the physicians, who ran their instruments over temple and neck, over shoulder and alula, over coverts and tertials, and still could find no damning evidence that would explain the sudden snap of the bone from his back.
“What happened?” fretted his mother, tearing at her own down.
“It is true I threw a snowball,” confessed his brother, biting his nails, “but the snow was soft, and scattered before it even hit his back. I do not understand how it could have damaged the wing.”
“Indeed,” griped his father, wings pinned together, “why was it so fragile, that it loosed like a leaf?"
Upon his bed, seven lonesome wings outspread wearily around him, the prince avoided all their worried eyes, and set his face instead towards the great bay window. The snowfall outside was slow but steady, each flake growing in diameter by the second. “I do not know,” said the prince, with a distant frown. “I scarcely felt the cold from the snowball. I remember, I was only singing. And then…I felt the pain.”
His mother shook her head, and his brother nodded; and his father sighed, and drew the drapes so that the room fell dark. “Let us pray it does not happen again.”
Such a request was in vain, for again did Prince Telteas lose a wing. This time, the dreaded event occurred in the ballroom, before a crowd of screaming guests and beside the startled musicians whose fingers froze to their instruments. From the platform Telteas toppled, choking on a chorus forever unfinished.
On prickling hands and aching knees, the prince quavered alone. The red and black carpet swirled before his vision like a devilish whirlpool, craving to suck him into oblivion. He bit his lip, and drew blood. Again came the fright. Again struck the pain. A stab bit his shoulder. A lurch gripped his side. A scream without sound, deafeningly silent, lapped against the vomit refusing to escape his throat.
In this endless insanity, even while kind souls came rushing to aid, Telteas’ ears were open only to the echoing voices of bitterest disdain.
“What is wrong with him?”
“We always knew there was something wrong with him. No one was meant to have eight wings.”
“It’s unnatural. Uncanny."
“He was always odd, wasn’t he?”
“The only one with such a quirk.”
“Perhaps now he’ll fit in with the rest of us."
He staggered then, and fell on his face, unawares.
Beside his prone form collapsed a great, white wing, barbs now bright red and askew—and the noise that it made when it hit the floor sounded not unalike to a heart’s frightened beat.
When Telteas awakened, his fate was sealed—though the wax had yet to harden from the weight of the signet. Once was unlucky, but twice was unforgivable. His family feared that he had fallen ill, and knew not what to do. Seeking the best for the kingdom, and thereby assuming the worst of his dire condition, in the end, they judged that he should recover in a secluded location, removed from the populace, until the oddities ceased and he should feel well again. After all, they knew not whether his wing dropping was contagious.
Thus, so it was that Telteas found himself watching the snowfall from a far different window, the height of which would have dwarfed the stately wintergreens, had any been left standing near enough to stretch longing branches towards his outstretched fingers. The ancient tower of Queen Ellay, rooftop dark and slanted to melt and drop any wayward drifts, speared the ground like a stern scepter thrusting its will over the quiet valley. Long ago, the tower had been a private sanctuary; now, Telteas wondered if the bygone queen would approve of his criminal trespass of her peaceful estate.
He was not alone in this place; a plucky entourage of servants, physicians, guards and others willingly subjected themselves to his temporary banishment, braving the possibility that they too might catch his unknown illness. Though the somberest part of him wished himself to be abandoned in true solitude, forgotten to the ages, the prince searched the debris of his crumbling heart and saw that he indeed was grateful for their company. In the good times, when laughter twirled around the spiraling stairwells and traipsed under the kitchen chairs, when steaming mugs of tea and cider were passed around in good cheer, when stories were dealt like cards round the fire and banter was traded for sly smirks and rolling eyes, Telteas could even muster the faintest of smiles, and pretend that everything was only as it seemed.
Yet, in the bad times, when his screams rent the air with a terrible force—when the servants leapt into flight and scrambled for rags and dustpans to mop the lost blood and sweep the stray feathers, and the physicians clapped their wings and clicked their tongues and scratched their notebooks till the pencil lead snapped for lack of answers, and the guards tensed their pinions and stood at attention for want of clearer orders and by their very presence made the locked, barred, bolted doors of the tower seem all the more impregnable, all the more eternal—
Then, in his heart torn asunder, the fantasy shattered, and Telteas wept all the harder for sight of the truth.
Despite all around him, he was alone.
~
Next Chapter >> (Coming Soon)
#thank you for reading!#team tolkien#genre: secondary world#theme: shelter#theme: clothing#theme: visiting the sick#theme: visiting the imprisoned#story: incomplete#inklings challenge#inklingschallenge#original character#salt and light#over the edge#blood#angst#multichapter fic#original work
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The True Story: An Epistolary Novelette
An intrusive fantasy story for @inklings-challenge
I. Christine Hendry to the proprietor of Wright and Co.
Sir or Madam:
I feel like such a fool for reaching out to you--a stranger whose business card happened to be tucked in the pages of an ancient book on my grandmother's shelf. I don't even know if your shop exists anymore; signs are against it, because I can't find so much as a phone number to contact you by. Nothing but an address and a name: Wright and Co.: Specialists in Rare, Antique, and Nonexistent Books.
That last category is the only reason I'm bothering to write at all. I'm looking for what seems to be a nonexistent book, so I may as well try writing to a shop that may or may not be real.
When I was a little girl, my grandmother read to me from a copy of Song of the Seafolk by Marjorie A. Penrose. It was an American children's fantasy from--I believe--the 1950s, all about a family getting mixed up with mermaids on a tiny Atlantic island. It had beautiful black-and-white illustrations, and language so lyrical that I still remember passages even though I haven't read it in nearly twenty years. My grandmother loved it to bits, and read it to me a dozen times after I came to live with her. I went off to college, and jobs, and travel, and I haven't much thought about that book--or, to be honest, my grandmother--since I left the house.
But now Grandma has a broken hip, and there's no one else to care for her, so I've come back. The moment I stepped back into that house, I found I wanted nothing more than to read that book. To her, if possible. I need to return the favor.
But the book is nowhere to be found. I've searched through all her bookshelves (extensive), closets (messy), and storage boxes (many and varied), to no avail. I resigned myself to the necessity of buying a new copy, but there are no new copies for sale. Or any old copies. None in any library. Not even a hint of its existence online. All my inquiries to cashiers and librarians have been met with blank stares. It seems like no one in the world has even heard of that book except my grandmother and me.
So I write to you from sheer desperation. A cry into the void. If your shop does exist, and you are a real person, is there any chance in the world that you have the book I want? Knowing now how rare the book apparently is, I shudder to think of the price you'd charge, but as long as I don't have to sell any limbs to pay for it, I find myself willing to pay almost any price. Of course, that's assuming you're a real person reading this, and you by some miracle have the book, and you haven't thrown this letter away while sneering at the lunatic who wrote it.
If all those things somehow manage to be true, please write back to me at this address, and I assume we'll be able to arrange some method of payment.
Yours, in desperation,
Christine Hendry
II. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
I am pleased to inform you that Wright and Co. does still exist, and it maintains its specialty of supplying books that can be found nowhere else. It is unsurprising that you were unable to locate a second copy of the book, because a glance through our sales records show that the book was purchased from this very shop in 1968 (which is likely why your grandmother was in possession of our business card), and comes from our specialized stock of books that exist nowhere else in the world.
These books tend to appear on our shelves at unpredictable times, and rarely in batches of more than one or two, so I feared I would be unable to grant your request. Yet I have sometimes found that these books appear in response to a need, so I searched the shelves, and to my delight, found the book tucked into a corner of our children's section.
The books from our special selection sometimes wander back to our store's shelves when they are no longer needed by their purchasers, and it appears that this is what happened in this case, because the book I found bears signs of ownership by a Mrs. Dorothy Hendry. Since I cannot charge you for your own book, I have taken the liberty of shipping the copy of Song of the Seafolk along with this letter.
I humbly beg your forgiveness for the suffering this has caused, and I sincerely hope Wright and Co. will be able to serve you in any future literary needs.
Faithfully yours,
Benjamin Wright
III. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Mr. Wright:
I'm glad you couldn't see how red my face got when I received your response. It's one thing to send a letter when there's a miniscule chance of a reply, but getting a reply and knowing that a real, living person read your words is a very different (mortifying) thing. I would never have written that letter the way I did if I had fully comprehended that it was going to be read by a complete stranger.
My only consolation is that my letter wasn't half as strange as your reply. What do you mean, the books appear on the shelves and wander back? How on Earth did you send me a copy of my own book??
Because you're right--it's the exact copy I remember from my childhood. The same purple clothbound cover with the mermaid and lighthouse stamped into it. The same jelly stain inside the back cover. Page 54 has a torn corner, and the mermaid on page 126 has a unibrow penciled onto her face. Even if my grandmother hadn't written her name in the cover, I'd have known it for the same book. Yet she would never have donated--or even sold--Song of the Seafolk, even after I moved away. She loved it too much.
Yet somehow you sent it to me. I'm so grateful that I won't even accuse you of sending a ring of book thieves to raid my grandmother's shelves.
I read the book to my grandmother this weekend, and it was like the years fell away, and we were back in the warm glow of my childhood bedroom, completely at ease with the world. The pain medication leaves Grandma foggy sometimes, but there were several points when she smiled, closed her eyes, and recited the book along with me word for word. I'd try to repay you in some way for facilitating that, but some things are priceless.
However you got the book, it seems to prove you're able to achieve the impossible, and because of that, I'm going to bother you with another request. Grandma loves fantasy, but her true love is mystery novels. She has a whole bookshelf devoted to them, mostly Golden Age paperbacks--country house novels, a smattering of noir. I feel like there's so little joy in her life right now, but the one thing I could provide would be a new mystery. Yet, looking at her shelves, I suspect that she's read every book of this type that exists. So I'm going to ask you to live up to that Nonexistent in your name and find me a Golden-Age-esque mystery that no one--not even Grandma--has read yet. If you can achieve that, I would be grateful for whatever you can send me.
Yours with gratitude,
Christine Hendry
IV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
I am afraid I can answer very few of your questions as to the workings of this shop, at least when it comes to our specialized stock. Among the shelves of Wright and Co., there will on occasion appear a book which no employee has ordered--books with unfamiliar titles by unfamiliar authors, which have the appearance of age and wear, but cannot be found in any other shop, and have no history of publication by any firm. Yet there is always a reader--sometimes several, if the shop staff takes to reading it--who finds that it perfectly satisfies their tastes and fills some unmet need, as if the book was dreamt up just for them. These books seem to come into existence just when needed, and sometimes wander away when they're not.
We have several theories about the origins of these books, very few of them sensible. Perhaps they come from other worlds, where history went just a bit differently from ours. Perhaps they are books that authors dreamed up but never wrote. Perhaps they are spontaneously created in response to a reader's desires. I have learned not to question it. I merely accept the books as a gift--and bestow them as gifts to those in need.
To that end, I have honored your request for a mystery. Though I've no doubt there are many more ordinary books that could fulfill your desire (any seller of used books could tell you that this genre is far more extensive than most individual readers suspect), there is a book that appeared on our shelves last autumn that I feel will exactly fit your grandmother's tastes. The Wings of Hermes by Elizabeth Tern casts Oxford don Joseph Quill in the role of amateur sleuth, as he is pulled into the intrigue surrounding a piece of ancient Greek statuary. Quill is a very literary detective, in the vein of Gamadge or Wimsey, though his story has a touch of noir and more than a tinge of melancholy. I feel the book will be satisfying to a woman who has been a patron of our shop, and I hope it will fulfill its intended role of aiding in her recovery.
Yours faithfully,
Benjamin Wright
V. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Darling Benjamin,
Do you think I'm stupid? Or are you just insane? Do you expect me to swallow all that rigamarole about magic teleporting books? If it's a joke, you tell it with an alarmingly straight face, and frankly, it seems in poor taste (and poor business practice) to dump it all onto unsuspecting customers. If you don't want to explain how you got my book, fine--I'm sure it's a boring story involving mistaken donations or something--but I wish you wouldn't insult my intelligence by making up some whimsical fairy tale.
But for all that, I can't fault your taste in books. The Wings of Hermes was stupidly good. Grandma LOVED it. I stayed up until nine at night reading it with her--which is practically the middle of the night by her standards--because she was so desperate to know the culprit. It's a cut above most of the books on her shelf, and it's taken a place of pride there.
You weren't kidding about the melancholy. Grandma didn't mind--she was too wrapped up in the mystery--but I'll admit it got a bit depressing for my taste in places. The world seems dark enough right now--Grandma's hip isn't healing as well as we'd like. I'm having trouble adjusting to the move, and balancing work with Grandma's care is getting a touch overwhelming. I don't need fictional darkness on top of that.
What I need is something to lift my spirits. I've searched Grandma's shelves, and though she has plenty of comedies, there's nothing that catches my attention for more than a few pages, or elicits more than a wan smile. I don't know if there's a book in the world that could cheer me at the moment, but if any shop could supply it, I suppose yours can. Do you have anything like that? If you could, please send it my way.
At least, if you're willing to send it to a sponge. It seems you forgot to bill me for my last book, so if I have to settle the debt first, please let me know the price and I'll pay up. But please spare me the fairy tales.
Yours in respect,
Christine Hendry
VI. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
Your skepticism about the origins of our shop's unique books is understandable. Yet I told you the honest truth in response to an honest question. Any of our shop's past or present employees, and many of our long-term customers, would be able to verify the truth of my account. I do not typically disclose the story to new patrons, but your long history with Song of the Seafolk led me to believe you were already among those who would value it, and perhaps the faceless nature of letter-writing prompted more than usual candor. I apologize for your confusion, but I do not retract so much as a syllable of what I've said. I have told you only the truth as I know it. You may believe or doubt as you desire, but I would ask that you fling no further insults toward my honesty or my sanity.
In light of the struggles weighing upon you, the staff of Wright and Co. have forgiven any insulting insinuations, and are only too glad to do what we can to ease your burden. We have honored your request for a comedy, and have sent you a slightly worn copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank by E.G. Delaford. It is worn because it has been read so many times by the members of our staff. It has often been stored behind the counter for staff to read in slow moments, and many of the quotes have become bywords with our little band. We sometimes read it aloud at the Christmas party. Yet by mutual consent, we have agreed that it is exactly the book you need (working here gives one a sense for these things--another Wright and Co. oddity), and gladly send it to you. If we have need of it after you've finished, we trust it will find its way back.
The book appears to have been written in (some version of) the early 20th-century, about a gentleman who takes to high-seas adventure despite his complete lack of sailing knowledge--a Don Quixote of the sea--and the woman he rescues from a shipwreck who tries in vain to set them on a sensible course. The humor is absurd, the characters memorable, and the story--I have forgotten myself. It's best for you to discover these things for yourself.
I have enclosed an invoice detailing the price of The Wings of Hermes. The price is modest compared to the extreme rarity of the book, and you may pay it if you wish to own the book outright. However, Wright and Co. also maintains a sort of library system for those who understand the unique nature of these one-of-a-kind books. For a nominal fee that covers the cost of shipping, patrons may keep one book at a time in their homes, and send it back to Wright and Co. when they wish to request another. If you wish to experience the widest variety of our unique selection--and keep these books in circulation for other readers--I recommend enrollment in this system.
I will not send an invoice for Mercator Must Walk the Plank, because we could not sell that book at any price. You may keep it for as long as it is of use to you, without interfering with your ability to borrow other books per our normal system. We consider this loan not a business arrangement, but an act of charity in your time of need.
Yours faithfully,
Benjamin Wright
VII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
I hope you don't mind that I slipped a note inside Mercator before Ben sent it off. We've never let the book outside the shop before, so I just had to say hello, and welcome you to our little band of Mercator fans (because I know you're going to love it). Please don't worry about sending it back too quickly. I must have half the book memorized, and I can always recite the silliest bits if Heinrich gets too grouchy.
I am so glad you're going to get to read this book, but I have to say that I'm surprised Ben agreed to it, because I could tell some of the things you said your last letter made him upset. These books mean a lot to him, and he doesn't talk about them to just anyone, so I don't think he liked being called a liar.
Not that I blame you! I'd have trouble believing the story, too, if I hadn't seen it myself. But I have! Hundreds of times! We'll be stocking the shelves or dusting, and all of a sudden we'll see a new book there--you usually just know there's something different about it. It'll have all the stuff that a normal book does--cover and endpages and copyright stuff and publisher names, and sometimes even those order forms to buy other books from the publisher. But they're all about companies that don't exist. Or by people we can't even find on the internet. There are too many books in too many styles for them to be the work of some prankster--especially since it's been happening for years and years and years.
And sometimes the books come back to us. I can count at least a dozen times that I've sold a book to someone, and then a year or two later I'll come across the very same copy on our shelves again. It's weird, but after you've worked here long enough, you get used to it, and you forget how strange it all is to people who don't know.
So anyway, I know you're going through a lot with your grandmother (I'm so sorry! I hope she's getting better!), and I'm sure you must be a really lovely person if you loved Song of the Seafolk so much (I hope you don't mind that I read it before Ben sent it back. Delightful book!) which is why I don't mind at all sending Mercator to you, even if you think we're all crazy. But we're not, really. And I hope we can be friends.
Lots of love,
Penelope Brams
(You can call me Penny!)
VIII. Heinrich Gross to Christine Hendry
Madam,
You have the only existing copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I must ask you to use caution when handling it. It is beloved by many in the shop. Please do not consume food or drink while reading it. Do not dog-ear any more pages. Please be gentle when turning the pages that are coming loose.
This book is a gift we do not give lightly. Do not abuse our kindness.
Respectfully,
Heinrich Gross
IX. Christine Hendry to the staff of Wright and Co.
Everyone,
I'm overwhelmed. I had no idea this book--or the story behind it--meant so much to all of you. I feel like I've been sent a priceless family heirloom--and you know me from only three letters! I don't know what I've done to deserve so much trust, but I will care for this book as though it were a priceless work of art (which, from the sound of it, it basically is).
In the name of honesty, I have to say that I don't believe the story of your shop. Frankly, it all sounds like nonsense. But as I'm reading Mercator (we're on Chapter Nine!), I'm beginning to see more than a little bit of Katherina in my objections. Maybe you're all mad, maybe you're mistaken, but I'm not sure it matters much. There are worse things in life than a little nonsense. Especially when you're all so very kind.
I hope all of you (especially Ben) can forgive me for the snide remarks in my last letter. Grandma and I thank you for all the books--wherever they came from--and would be honored to consider you friends.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
P.S. How do I get enrolled in that lending program? I've sent back The Wings of Hermes.
X. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Have you finished the book yet? What do you think?
When you're done with Mercator, I have so so so many books I want you to read. I'm making a list. I know you probably don't have as much time to read as we do here, but I'd hate to think of you missing out on any of my favorites.
I don't want to rush you, but I've never talked to anyone outside of Wright's who had the faintest idea what I was talking about when we referenced Mercator. I've enjoyed having it as our inside joke, but it's even better to have more people in on it.
Write back soon!
Penny
XI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
Grandma and I finished Mercator Must Walk the Plank last night--and started it again this morning. I can see why you all love it so much. What a wonderfully absurd book. Exactly the type of comedy I was looking for. Your instincts were correct: it was just what we both needed to cheer us up. It's removed enough from our world both in time and plausibility to take our minds away from ordinary things, and there's nothing mean-spirited about any of the humor. So many good characters among that crew. And the plot! High comedy! It's been almost a week since I read Chapter 14, and I'm still giggling over the fishing scene.
I would be overjoyed to read anything else you might recommend. If any of them are half as good as Mercator, they're sure to become my favorites, too.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
P.S. Grandma's hip is doing much better. Still a long road to recovery, but maybe the reread will help. Laughter being the best medicine and all.
XII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
I've enclosed the forms for enrollment in Wright and Co.'s specialized lending program. If you will fill in the required information (though we obviously already have your address) and submit the proper payment, we will be able to begin sending books. The catalogue is yours to keep. I'm afraid the selection is rather outdated, and the summaries less than ideal at conveying the merits of each book. It was assembled by my predecessor, and I'm afraid that my uncle's genius for books did not translate to marketing skill. Amid the cares of business, I have not found the time to put together a modernized version, especially as I find that bespoke recommendations from our staff are far more likely to result in successful pairings of book and reader.
You will note there is a section on the third page where you can request a book. If I can offer a recommendation, I believe that the Alfred Quicke mystery series by Glorya M. Hayers, with its blend of comedy and mystery, would perfectly fit the tastes of your household. The mysteries solved by idle-rich amateur detective Alfred Quicke are always intriguing, but the cast of comedic types--and the farcical situations that arise in the course of the investigation--keep the stories lighthearted. The best way I can describe it is as if Wodehouse wrote a mystery series. The setting is much like that of his most famous stories, though with curious details that suggest it is set in an intriguing alternate world. With seventeen books in the series, you would find enough material to keep your grandmother in mysteries for a long time--though I suggest starting with the fourth book, The Counterfeit Candlestick, as the point where the series finds its voice.
I appreciate the handsome apology in your last letter and accept it wholeheartedly. However, I admit I had hoped for more than agnosticism toward our story. Despite your assertions, the truth does matter, whether we can discover it or not. Though the strange behavior of these books is outside our usual experience, it does not mean it is impossible (you will find a similar truth expressed by most of the great fictional detectives), and I had hoped your respect for us would open you to the possibility that there is more to this world than what we can understand. Perhaps it was too much to expect under the circumstances. But I hope we have garnered enough goodwill that you will not take offense at this expression of my honest opinion. If you do, I apologize, and will attempt to keep future letters focused purely on business.
Respectfully yours,
Benjamin Wright
XIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Mr. Wright,
I respect your opinion, though naturally I don't agree. I don't doubt you're sincere in believing what you do, but I can think of a dozen more mundane explanations of how these books mysteriously appear and disappear on your shelves (most of them involving poor record-keeping and less-than-stellar search engine skills). I suggest we drop the subject in the future, as neither of us is likely to convince the other, and my lack of belief about the mystical origin of these books doesn't keep me from fully enjoying the experience of reading them.
I hope you won't think it rude that I filled out your forms twice. Grandma and I do count as separate households, and if I'm going to keep Grandma in mysteries and experience some of the other books, I'm going to need two separate streams of supply. For now, though, I think books 3 and 4 of Alfred Quicke will suit our needs nicely.
Many thanks,
Christine Hendry
XIV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine!!!
I'm so so glad you loved Mercator! I just knew you would, but it's always a little bit horrible when someone else reads one of your favorite books, because if they hate it, it crushes a piece of your heart, and I don't have that many pieces to spare.
But when they love it! Oh! I can love a book twice as much when I know someone else who loves it! I wouldn't think it was possible I could love Mercator more, but thinking of you and your Grandma laughing over it in her sickbed makes me so--this is going to sound strange, but I'm proud of it. As if we sent out a friend to do a good work, and he succeeded in working miracles. I hope you read it as many times as you want. Trust me, it gets better every time.
But I hope you'll find time to read some other books, too! I'm glad you got your own account along with your Grandma's. Alfred Quicke is lovely (I love his books almost as much as Mercator--please let me know what you think of Bright Folly when you read it), but one cannot live on mysteries alone. There are so many genres, so many moods, so many eras of literature to explore, and Wright's has wonderful examples of so many of them, so I'm so glad we'll get to send them to you.
I know Ben sent you that horrible little catalogue. Ignore it. It makes so many of the very best books sound so dull, and half my favorites aren't even in it. I can do a much better job of telling you what books to read. I've got pages and pages written up about the best ones, but I don't want to overwhelm you right away, so I'll just tell you about a few of the very best at a time. I've included a list of some of the ones I think you'll like best.
You can read what you like, of course, but I can't help thinking you should read The Autumn Queen's Promise by Rose Rennow just as soon as you possibly can. If you loved Song of the Seafolk, I'm sure you'll love this. It's another children's fantasy (a newer one--'90s, maybe?), with the same type of atmospheric historical setting, though this time, it's the most vivid autumnal woods you've ever read about in your life, which makes it perfect for this time of year.
The story's all about this fairy queen who stumbles into this little village in colonial America and can't get home. And she hates them all at first, of course--she's this horrible arrogant thing--but she comes to care for them and it's just lovely to read about. A little slow, but no slower than Seafolk. A nice, relaxing kind of slow. I'm sure you'll love it.
Whatever you pick next, I hope you'll keep me posted with reading updates. I so love talking with you about these books. It's so nice to have a pen pal!
Lots of love,
Penny
XV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
Your account has been opened and the requested books have been shipped. We at Wright and Co. are pleased to count you as one of our trusted patrons.
I am afraid I will find it difficult to honor your request to drop the subject of the origin of our specialized books. Perhaps it is a fault, but I have never been able to bring myself to "agree to disagree". It has always seemed to me the coward's way out of engaging with the search for truth. However, you are correct that endlessly rehashing the subject is unlikely to assist either of us in continuing that search, so I will refrain from mentioning it unless there is further evidence to discuss. If you would be so kind as to patronize our shop in person, I would be happy to offer you further proof of the phenomena that I describe, but further discussion via these letters is likely to remain futile.
Faithfully yours,
Benjamin Wright
XVI. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Mr. Wright:
My offer to "agree to disagree" was a courtesy to you. I'm sure you don't want to lose a customer over the issue, so I was giving you the chance to let it slide so it wouldn't interfere with our working relationship. You think that makes me a coward? How can you say I'm "refusing to engage with the search for truth" when you've admitted that you don't know what the truth is? You said yourself (I still have those first letters) that you don't know where the books come from. Just because you can find no record of them doesn't mean they just appeared out of thin air. And these supposed "returns" of books could come from donations or poor record-keeping. You say you have evidence, but from my point-of-view, you could just be a quirky small press that prints old-fashioned books and tells whimsical stories to draw in customers. With all the stress surrounding Grandma's health, there's no way on Earth that I could make a cross-state trip to see your supposed "proof" for myself.
Frankly, if it weren't for Grandma, I'd consider canceling my accounts with you. But she's been tearing through Alfred Quicke so fast and enjoying it so much that I don't dare to cut off her source of supply. And the books you've sent are wonderful--you've been so kind about Mercator, and you gave me back Song of the Seafolk, and The Autumn Queen's Promise is turning into a lovely story I wouldn't have been able to find anywhere else.
I can't wrap my head around you people. Every time I give you the chance to back away from this weird story, you double down, and frankly, it's freaking me out. Penny's so bubbly that it's easy to see how she could get caught up in it, but you write with such a serious professional voice, and you seem (in your bland professional way) personally offended at my refusal to just go along with your story of mysterious magical books. Why does this matter so much to you? Why can't the books just be wonderful, obscure stories instead of mystical teleporting tomes that respond to feelings or whatever? I can't understand you.
Maybe you'll burn this letter and cancel my accounts, but if you dare to engage, I would like to know what you have to say for yourself.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
XVII. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
What did you say to Ben? He's usually so nice and sensible and kind and ordinary--really a great boss--but every once in a while, he broods. And he's been brooding ever since he got your last letter. It's like he's walking around with this big old cloud over his head. He keeps wandering the shelves and then going into his office and glaring at his computer and staring at the wall.
It's got me worried. Is your Grandma okay? I guess he'd tell me if she wasn't. Or you would. I hope.
Are you dying? Maybe that would explain why you haven't written in so long.
Please don't die on me. I couldn't bear it.
Write back soon.
Penny
XVIII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Dear Penny,
No one's dying. Grandma gets more mobile every day, and I'm in as good of health as you can have when you're running mostly on caffeine and a couple of hours of sleep a night. I've just been so busy between work and Grandma's care and insurance (so many stupid phone calls) and trying to figure out our finances, and trying to find senior housing for Grandma (her house has way too many stairs), that I barely have time to eat, much less write you back. I'm sorry if I worried you.
As for Ben, well, long story short, I majorly overreacted to some minor thing he said, and wrote a sleep-deprived response that I never should have sent. I really don't want to get into it with you, because you'd probably side with him, and I'd like to keep our friendship intact, at least.
I did manage to read The Autumn Queen's Promise a few pages at a time, and it was just as lovely as you promised it would be. Exquisite fall reading. I almost hate to send it back--that lovely cover alone, with its painting of that beautiful queen in that autumnal woods, added so much atmosphere to the house just by being here. It'll never replace Song of the Seafolk in my heart, but it came closer than almost any other book to recapturing what it felt like to experience it for the first time. I send it back with warm thanks for the recommendation.
I'm also sending back your beloved copy of Mercator Must Walk the Plank. I've held onto it far longer than I deserved to. You were so gracious to send it to me, and I can't take advantage of your kindness. (You can tell Heinrich that I haven't added a single scuff to the cover).
Since Ben seems to be in no mood for letters from me, can I send my book requests through you? Grandma would like Books 8 and 9 of Alfred Quicke (she can use my account for the second, because I don't have much time for reading at the moment.)
Thank you,
Christine
XIX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Miss Hendry:
You say that you find us at Wright and Co. difficult to understand, but I find you equally baffling. In a single letter, you will thank us profusely for our friendship and the books we provide, while at the same time attacking that very thing which we hold most dear. In expressing my difficulty with the phrase "agree to disagree", I was not attacking your morals. You will note I was more than willing to honor your request to drop the subject. Yet in misconstruing my words, you have sounded the horn of war, and honor and duty--and, to be honest, personal inclination--demand that I engage.
You ask me why these books--and the phenomena surrounding their existence--matter so much to me. I can answer only by biography. Wright and Co. is a small, cluttered, dim, obscure shop--you could find a thousand used book stores like it anywhere in the world--but from a young age (the shop was owned by my uncle then) it seemed a place of unique enchantment. I would spend summer days racing among the stacks and losing myself in books. I grew more jaded and cynical as I aged--most teenagers do--but whenever I was in danger of becoming a disaffected youth, there was something about the shop that made me feel there was something more than the meaninglessness of everyday life.
Learning about the miracle of the books felt like getting the answer to a question I hadn't realized I was asking. Here was proof there was something beyond the mundane and predictable. Something too wonderful for the human mind to understand. Some wondrous power cared enough about the patrons of this shop to help them get the right story in their hands at the right time--even if that story had never been written. Other books have authors and publishers, but these books seemed like a gift from the author of imagination itself.
When I took over the shop, I became a steward of that gift. Caring for these books and matching them with readers makes the running of this shop, not just a banal business arrangement, but a calling. Stories have the power to shape our imagination, our outlook, our relationships with others--and these stories, coming as they do unwritten, unbought and unlooked for, seem to have more power than most. Caring for that power is a great responsibility, one that I take very seriously. I have seen its good effect again and again. You cannot deny you have experienced it yourself.
You are correct when you say that I do not know the exact origin of these books. But I am not intellectually lazy just because I am content with no answer. Making peace with mystery--knowing that some things are ever unknowable--is not the same as refusing to believe the truth that comes before your eyes.
You have closed yourself to even the possibility of an explanation that goes beyond the reality you can comprehend. I have spoken of evidence that proves there is no rational explanation for these books, and you call me an unreliable witness. You have seen hints of the wondrous that you dismissed out of hand. I understand that you do not have the same evidence that I have, and I have not been as gracious as I should have been in making allowance for that. But saying that my refusal to seek an exact explanation makes me intellectually lazy is inaccurate in the extreme.
I may not know how these books come into my shop, but I know from whom. I may not know the exact mechanisms of the miracle, but I firmly believe there is an author of all that has allowed my shop to be a source of minor--and yes, rather whimsical--wonders. I need not know more than that to do my duty well.
Perhaps that explanation will help you to understand my position. More likely you will think me crazier than ever. But since I have explained my inner self, perhaps I have some right to ask for an explanation in return.
Ever since your response to that first letter, when I hinted at the miracle surrounding these books, I detected not only disbelief from you, but disdain. I was troubled to see such disgust toward the concept, especially from one who has proven herself an enthusiastic fan of fantasy. Why do you seek wonders in your stories, but resist it so fiercely in your own existence? Would it be so terrible for these books to have a supernatural origin? Is there not some appeal in letting the wondrous into your life?
You need not respond to such prying questions if it makes you uncomfortable. But I ask that at least, if you do respond, that you deal gently with one who has made his inner self so vulnerable to your scrutiny.
Yours faithfully,
Benjamin Wright
XX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
Wow.
When I asked for an explanation, I didn't expect that.
I don't know how I can possibly respond.
I definitely understand why it matters so much to you, but somehow, this conversation has shifted from magic to theology, and I'm even less equipped to engage in a conversation about that. Not to get into too much detail, but that's part of the reason I haven't seen my grandmother in so many years. Grandma's comfortable with that stuff. I prefer my fantasy to remain safely in stories.
If what you say is true, if there's some grand wonderful power--call it magic, call it God--that does things we can't understand, then we're completely powerless against it. Which is fine if the power is good, but if the good things are real, then the bad things can be, too. There are too many ordinary problems for me to want to live in a world where there's some grand plan I can mess up by doing the wrong thing, and greater powers are waging in a war for my soul.
Fantasy is great. I love stories of mermaids and magic and the wonders of life. But it's not reality. I learned that young, and every year I live only proves it more. I'm content to live in the ordinary world with its ordinary problems, and get my escape through literature--where none of the monsters on the page can hurt me.
I'm glad--I really, truly am--that you've been able to make yourself believe in some grander purpose behind these silly little stories we've been reading. But I can't believe in that. I've seen no proof to make me believe it. Maybe you have, but most people can barely trust their own eyes, so how can I trust yours? It's not that I think you're crazy or stupid. Your personality and experiences make you want to believe. Mine make me happy to doubt. It's nobody's fault, and neither of us can change it, and it's fine. I'll stop calling you a crackpot if you stop calling me a coward, and we'll leave it at that.
Wherever the books come from, we all agree that they're wonderful, and if you don't mind dealing with a dirty nonbeliever, I'd be honored if you'd let me continue doing business with you.
Yours,
Christine Hendry
XXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Where is Mercator? We got your letter, and The Autumn Queen's Promise, and your most recent Alfred Quicke, but no sign is there of Mercator Must Walk the Plank.
Oh! Oh no! What if it got lost in the mail? Could we survive such a tragedy? Silly old John Quackenbush and fiery Katherina, and grumpy little Pegs and that whole lovable crew--gone forever! If the U.S. Postal Service is responsible for their destruction, I'll...we'll...we'll make them pay! This is a murder and there must be justice!
Don't worry, I don't blame you. But the next mailman to cross my path better watch out. We'll find that book if we have to tear through every mail box and bag and truck in the country!
I'll keep you posted about the search if I can find the time to write.
Frantically,
Penny
XXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Dear Penny,
I'm so extremely sorry. When I sent you that last letter, I truly thought I had packaged and mailed Mercator Must Walk the Plank, but after receiving your reply, I discovered that the book was still on its usual shelf in my grandmother's house. I've been so sleep-deprived lately that I overlook things, but I didn't think I could possibly have overlooked something that.
Don't worry. I'll be sending it out as soon as I get another box to ship it in. And this time, I'll make 100% sure it's inside before I ship it.
Please forgive me.
Christine
XXIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Dear Christine,
You've asked me not to call you a coward, but your wording leaves me almost no choice. Denying yourself the good and wondrous out of fear of evil and danger is the definition of cowardice. Staying within the narrow world of rationality makes for a bleak and colorless life--and you're none the safer for your denial. Good and evil exist whether you acknowledge them or not. Closing your eyes to them only makes you vulnerable to ambush should they come upon you unaware.
Can you not open yourself to the possibility that the good can overcome the evil? That it can offer strength to face the dangers? Great stories can do that by showing us how to act in such situations, to give us examples of victory over darkness, to open our minds to possibilities that we might not accept in our ordinary lives. You've experienced such stories. Is it so strange to think they might reflect the reality we live in? Is it so strange to think there might be some greater power offering us those stories to sustain us?
To you, I'm sure it seems impossible. But you know there are those who think otherwise. I only ask you to consider the implications of the choice.
Respectfully yours,
Ben
XXIV. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
I don't think you can call my position a choice. You're acting like I'm picking between favorite foods or something--picking one position because I don't like the other one. But as far as I can tell, my position is the only choice. I have no reason to believe any other option exists.
It would be wonderful if I could believe the way you do. It seems to have brought you a lot of peace. But I'm not built that way and I'll just have to struggle along. Your concern is touching, but I've been doing just fine so far.
If I ever see proof, I'd have reason to reconsider, but as it is, I have enough trouble in the world I can see to worry too much about one that I can't.
Respectfully,
Christine
XXV. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Still no sign of Mercator. Did you forget to send it again, or do I have to lay siege to the post office?
Penny
P.S. Have you been reading any more of the books?
XXVI. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
I have tried to send off that package no fewer than three times, and every time the book somehow makes its way back to my shelf. Maybe I'm just so used to seeing it there that I keep putting it back. I am so sorry for the delay.
It makes me feel guilty that I'm still profiting by reading your other books. Now that winter is upon us, Grandma and I have started reading aloud from the longest of your fantasy suggestions--The Queens of Wintermoon. You're right that it's an odd book--Russian-flavored science fantasy, with all those complicated family ties and political intrigues--but it's just what we need right now. Grandma is unfortunately dealing with a bout of pneumonia at the moment, which means I'm spending a lot of time at the hospital, but a big, thick, lush and lyrical literary book with a huge cast of vividly-drawn characters is just what we need to take us away from the sterile white walls and the scent of disinfectant.
It's great to sink into that snowy world with its royal glamour and underground orchards and mystical machines. Grandma and I spend ages talking about the four sisters and their royal husbands--all their flaws and heartaches and complicated relationships. I'm most attached to Vitalia and her political intrigue plot, while Grandma most loves the storyline of Inessa and her mysterious woodcutter husband. I have my suspicions about both their secrets, but I'm more than willing to wait the 800-or-so pages they'll need to resolve everything. It's nice to have something to take my mind off of other worries.
But I will keep worrying about Mercator. I promise somehow or another, it will make its way back to you.
Yours,
Christine
XXVII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
I don't understand it. This is the fifth time I've tried to send Mercator Must Walk the Plank back to you. This time I waited until I'd had a decent night of sleep so my mind was clear. I put it in the packaging (extra padding). I took a picture of it inside the box. I took a picture of the sealed and addressed box. I took a picture of the box when I took it to the post office and left it at the counter. And then I returned home to find the book sitting on the same shelf where I'd put it this morning.
Are the darn things breeding? Did you send me extra copies? There is no other explanation for what happened.
It's got my head spinning, and until I've got it figured out, unfortunately Mercator is going to stay right where it is.
Sorry!
Christine
XXVIII. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Christine,
Penny has made me aware of your difficulties with Mercator Must Walk the Plank. It's clear to me (as I'm sure it will be to you) what has happened. If you wished for proof, you now have it. The Powers-That-Be have determined that you have more need of the book than we do.
Please don't distress yourself by (or waste postage upon) any further attempts to send the book back. We have plenty of other books to read, and if we ever have need of Mercator, I trust that the same powers will ensure it makes its way back to us.
Yours,
Ben
XXIX. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
It's the middle of the night and I can't sleep. I'm trying not to think of that book and I can't. It just doesn't make sense.
This can't be happening. But it is. And if this part of your story is true, then that means the other part of the story is true, which means your theories
This doesn't mean you've won. I'm sure there's some rational explanation that I've overlooked. I shouldn't even write to you because you'll just try to convince me that this is proof we live in a world of angels and fairies who bother themselves about the books we read. But it's not like there's anyone else I can talk to about this.
If you have nothing to say but, "I told you so," don't bother writing back at all. But if you've anything useful to say I'm all ears (or eyes, I guess--weird that I've never actually spoken to you. I don't even know what you look like. How old are you?)
I should sleep. But I'm going to go off and mail this letter like a moron because it's the closest I can come to a conversation.
Good night.
Christine
XXX. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Christine,
This is me not saying I told you so.
That doesn't leave me much else to say.
I'm 39.
Picture the word "man" in the dictionary. Imagine there's an illustration there. That's pretty close to what I look like.
If you want to hear my voice, you'll have to come to the shop and talk to me in person. Or I suppose we could call each other. We do live in the 21st century. But I admit I've enjoyed this 19th-century correspondence we've been keeping up.
I wish I had something more useful to say, but I doubt I can say any of it in a way you want to hear.
I hope you've been sleeping better.
Ben
XXXI. Penelope Brams to Christine Hendry
Christine
CHRISTINE!!
I know you didn't order another book, but I was wandering through the shelves the other day when this book just about jumped out at me. It's like it had your name written in it. Like how your grandmother wrote in Song of the Seafolk.
Your name's not in it. I checked. But something about it still made it seem like yours. Like we were keeping it from you. Ben agreed (he's got a good sense for these things), so I started preparing the box to ship it. But I read a bit of the first chapter before I packaged the book, just to get an idea of what I was sending you. I didn't move from that spot until I'd read the whole thing. Ben just about locked me in the shop before he found me sitting in a daze in the back room.
Christine, you have to read this book. Now. It's the most beautiful...well, not fantasy. But it's not not fantasy. It's so real and yet so magical and you could maybe read it both ways. I haven't stopped thinking about it since I finished it.
But what's the book? If you've opened the package by now, I'm sure you know it's called Cardinal's Map by someone named Dorothy Cannes. It's from the eighties, it looks like, but it feels older. And newer. Does that make it timeless? I suppose all of the books in our "special" selection feel that way. Anyway, it's about this girl named Miranda, and she's this terrible grouch, and she goes to work for this old guy named Cardinal (that's where the title comes from) who needs help writing his book. And he's got the most beautiful map of all the countries in world of his fantasy book. Except the countries might be real? And just....ack, I don't have words! The book has a lot of them. Read those instead.
And then write to me because I need to know what you think about the ending!!
Lots of love,
Penny
XXXII. Christine Hendry to Penelope Brams
Penny,
You were right.
Thank you.
Christine
XXXIII. Christine Hendry to Benjamin Wright
Ben,
It's been three hours since I finished Cardinal's Map, and I haven't moved from my chair. Everything you said about the power of story is true. It's like this book reached into my soul and rearranged the furniture. Cleared out the clutter. And it did it by sweeping me along with the characters and the story and the beautiful prose so I didn't even know what was happening until it was already done.
Everything we've been fighting about for the last few weeks was in this book. It talked about all the things you were trying to tell me, but instead of just telling me, it showed me and made me think and feel and helped me make sense of it all. And I never felt like it was preaching. I'm not even sure it was trying to preach. It's just...a story, so I let my guard down and it got under my skin. Just like Cardinal's map got to Miranda.
I don't know if you've read the book or not, but the premise is that John Cardinal is writing this extensive fantasy work and Miranda's this jaded college kid hired as a secretary to help him arrange all his notes. And she's fascinated by the fictional map and gets swept up in the book, until she realizes that Cardinal is telling the story of his life. That this character who traveled to this other fantasy world is supposed to be him. And she's got to figure out if he's using this as a metaphor, or if he's crazy, or if this other world really is a real place.
And by the end of the book, we don't know. You could read it both ways--the world in the map is either a metaphor or a real country that he’s been to. But it doesn't really matter which one is true, because the bigger truth is that Miranda knows there's something beyond the rational world that we can see. And it's not terrifying. It's wonderful. It's not this place full of monsters waiting to pounce--it's this exciting, dangerous, beautiful place to explore.
If Penny wants to know what I think of the ending, I believe that Cardinal's world is real. And I believe your story is true. I've seen evidence. That terrified me, because that means the world no longer makes sense. But the truth doesn't have to be a terrifying destruction of the reality I know; it can be an expansion of it. I don't understand why any of this happens, or how, but maybe I don't have to know how. I just need to be thankful that it did.
You said that Mercator stayed with me because I needed it more than you guys did. Maybe what I needed was evidence of the miracles you told me about. Then I wondered why Song of the Seafolk wandered away, because I very much needed it here when it was at your shop. But maybe what I needed was to write to you. The correspondence we've shared, the books you've sent me, they've strengthened me through a lot of difficult weeks. They've given me and Grandma a lot of joy, brought us back together after so many year's apart. And they've helped me straighten out a lot of questions I didn't know I was wrestling with.
There was someone's hand in all this--an author arranging all the pieces of the story in a way I'd never have been able to achieve on my own. Maybe before that'd make me feel helpless, but now, I don’t know, I guess I feel cared for. Like someone’s watching out for me.
I feel like I should thank you, and I don't know how. This is too deep for words. Thank you for writing, even when I was horrible to you. Thank you for the books. Thanks for being a part of my story.
Grandma's doing better now. If she's up for it, I think it's time for a road trip.
If you're ever going to see Mercator or Cardinal's Map again, I might have to hand them to you in person.
Love to all of you,
Christine Hendry
XXXIV. Benjamin Wright to Christine Hendry
Christine,
You may not believe me, but I did not read Cardinal's Map before sending it to you. I simply had the notion that it would be the ideal book for your circumstances--and I was as surprised as you were to find just how true that was. Another gift, I suppose.
I look forward to reading it, if you can ever spare it (I look upon the book as belonging to you now). I also greatly anticipate the opportunity to see and speak to you here in the shop. I hope you will not wait long to make good on your promise.
Yours faithfully,
Ben
XXXV. Christine Hendry to the staff at Wright and Co.
Everyone,
I can't say how wonderful it was to see you all in person. You all looked just like I pictured you. Your shop is too wonderful for words. I could have moved in. But alas, Grandma and I don't have the resources for a move right now.
We'll have to continue the friendship long-distance. Now that I have the shop's phone number (funny I never thought to request it before), and your personal numbers, I suppose we can call whenever we like. But if you don't mind, I'm going to keep corresponding by letter, too.
Love to you all,
Christine
#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#theme: visit the sick#story: complete#remind me to tell you the behind the scenes stuff sometimes#maybe it wouldn't be interesting to you but it was a wild ride
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@inklings-challenge this is very late and extremely silly, but I wanted to poke fun at my life and also give a thank you to @siena-sevenwits and @gerbiloftriumph for boosting my mood during my own jello-related tribulations!
Translation
Humans were absurdly large. Hulking, even. No creature needed to take up so much space. They spread out, too, limbs and digits all over the place, not folded close to the body for efficiency in creeping.
This one didn’t look so well, even for a human. It lay limply on the bed (five goblins could fit in a bed that size, but humans were disinclined to sleep piled up) and by the smoky light of the oil lantern its face was an unappealing shade of beige-grey, its hair greasy. (Why have nerveless filaments on one’s head instead of a nice set of floppy ears, sensitive to sound and temperature and the shapes of underground spaces? It made no sense.)
“Hungry?” asked Borf, indicating the covered tray in his hands.
“Is it that orange stuff?” asked the human, as if its hunger or lack thereof depended on the answer. Which was ridiculous, but Borf decided to humour it. He pulled off the cloth with a flourish. The contents of the tray glowed amber in the oil-light, transparent and jiggling slightly.
The human looked iller.
“I think I’ll wait,” it murmured.
“It’s the same for supper,” said Borf helpfully. “And breakfast.”
“Blast,” said the human. Its voice was slightly higher in pitch than Borf’s own, which meant it was likely a she. “I hate that stuff.”
“They wouldn’t let me bring you the fermented fishtail soup,” said Borf. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right,” said the human, and sniffed loudly.
There was a chart of human sounds and their meanings in the refectory cavern. Borf reviewed it in his head. The sniffing sound meant either the human’s nasal passages were irritated or they were experiencing sorrow.
“Is it rhinitis?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be in the hospital for that.”
“Right,” muttered Borf. It was hard to keep track of the different races and what might kill or merely inconvenience a given one, and he was only a porter, not a medic.
“You’re sad then,” he stated tentatively, checking his mental chart again.
“I'm fine," said the human. “Sorry. You can put the tray here if you like.”
She shoved at the pillows until she was sitting up. The goblin maneuvered the tray to rest on her lap. She poked at the blob and sniffed again. Borf turned to go, thinking of one occasion when, as a little goblet, he’d been caught out of the caverns overnight and had to sleep under a tree without the usual heap of other goblin-children to keep him company. His ears had been fairly purple with sorrow.
“Ah,” he said suddenly, turning back to see the human surveying a spoonful of orange goo with a disconsolate expression.
“What?” she asked, seeming glad of the distraction.
“Human ears are useless,” said Borf, and hopped back into the room and clambered up on the foot of the absurdly enormous bed. “So inexpressive. They should do something about it.”
“I’ll let them know,” said the human in question. “When I get out of here. It smells like parsley. Is it meant to do that?”
“They could try earrings in appropriate colours. Try not to think about the smell.”
She grimaced again, but the sniffing seemed to have stopped, which Borf guessed to be a good sign. He settled in, toes splayed on the blanket, elbows near his ankles, floppy ears resting comfortably on his knees.
“Tell me,” he said, as the human bravely swallowed a bite, “what is the evolutionary purpose of hair?”
#inklingschallenge#team tolkien#theme: visit the sick#theme: food#theme: goblins#theme: hospitals#story: complete#genre: secondary world
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Living Before the Edge
Okay wow. I did not expect to actually do the @inklings-challenge but I somehow did! This was so fun, as well, so many thanks to the organizers who created this! I was on Team Lewis and decided to take the more sci-fi-ish prompt (though I fear it's more fantastical regardless). I shouldn't have to give and content warnings but please let me know if you think I do!
_
“Are you lost—”
“meluAAAAAAAAAN!”
A sigh.
“Are you—”
“Meluan, where are you, you little brat?”
The voice is close.
“Are you lost in the—”
The door burst open, interrupting Meluan’s third attempt to record her advertisement. She swiveled on her chair to see a very irate Wynan standing at the entrance, one hand on the door to keep it open.
Meluan considered jumping out of the window into the deep expanse of space, but she was pretty certain that Meryan had installed safety locks to avoid that happening…again. Eh, she’d get past them like always, but Meryan’s inventions were getting a lot harder to reverse engineer these—
A smack on the head and the door creaking shut reminded her that she currently had company.
“Ach, what do you want? What do you want?!” Meluan complained, shaking her head and rolling back, her chair crashing against the desk and jostling all the equipment on top of it.
Wynan was still glaring, her deep violet-black eyes boring into Meluan’s displeased form.
“You’re such an idiot,” Wynan stated, as if it was a fact rather than an opinion, her gaze settling back into something more neutral and relieved. “Meryan and I have been calling and texting your phone for the last half-hour. Relani even went outside to look for you, thinking you’d thrown yourself out again.”
Meluan grumbled, rubbing her head where Wynan had smacked it and using her other hand to dig through her pockets to fish out the phone she’d put on mute. “I was fine. I left you guys a note in the kitchen…”
Her words trailed off as she fished out both a phone and a sticky note attached to the back that said, ‘Will be in the silent room. Get me in an hour if I don’t establish contact within then.’
She stared at the yellow piece of paper with black ink stains.
“Oh…whoops.” Her eyes flickered to Wynan, who rolled her eyes. “Hey!” Meluan protested the action. “I was fine! I was planning on leaving a note, see?” She waved her phone with the note still on it at her sister.
“Key word being planning, actual fact being that you worried the three of us sick by disappearing during the morning,” Wynan sighed, settling down on the other chair and taking out her own phone. “Anyway, what were you doing?” she asked conversationally, texting the Meryan and Relani that Meluan had been safely located.
“I was just recording an advertisement for our station,” Meluan explained, pocketing her phone and the note once again and gesturing to the recording equipment on the table. She tapped the mic, sending an echo bouncing within the silent room. “But why were you guys looking for me? I’m not usually up in what we’ve established as the morning.”
Wynan raised an eyebrow at the first statement but didn’t comment, instead choosing to answer, “We have a new guest.”
Oh.
Meluan hopped out of her chair, remembering to switch off the mic. “Right, sorry…” she winced, fetching her jacket. “Lead the way.”
And lead the way Wynan did, going through the hallway of their space station, dramatically nicknamed the Abode Before the Void, then the A-Void, thanks to Meluan. It was a rather small station—not really a station at all, actually.
A-Void was a three-story house, to put it simply. It had a few extra features, such as a rocket engine and some additional parts that made it more…rocketish/stationish. But when one lost in the deep abyss of space would find it, their first comment would likely be and astonished, “Well, what’s a house doing floating at the edge of space?” When going inside A-Void, the same person would probably continue to be astonished on how it looked like a completely ordinary home with completely ordinary rooms, save for two, inhabited by completely ordinary-looking women.
When Wynan and Meluan found their way to the living room, they indeed found one such astonished person sitting on the sofa, blanket around them and steaming mug of one of Meryan’s concoctions on the coffee table in front.
“Welcome to the place you should A-Void!” Meluan exclaimed by way of greeting, sliding down the banister and bouncing up to land lightly on the coffee table.
While the figure in front of her did jump at her sudden entrance, the drink amazingly did not.
“Off the table, Meluan,” a new voice spoke up.
Both the figure wrapped in the blanket and Melun looked up to see a smiling woman with round glasses coming from the door. She carried a tray full of biscuits and cakes, which she promptly set on the table once Meluan had jumped off it.
“Sorry, Meryan,” Meluan muttered, not sounding sorry at all as she grinned impishly at their guest.
The figure swallowed, their eyes flitting from Meluan and Meryan.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” Wynan spoke up, settling behind the sofa. When the figure flinched at her voice, jolting to look at her, Wynan added more carefully, “…would you care to give us a name?”
The figure swallowed, opening their mouth before closing it, hanging their head.
Meluan and Wynan exchanged a glance.
“Ah, can’t speak?” Meluan guessed, staring at the person, trying to get a better read when they nodded, confirming Meluan’s guess.
At first glance, the figure seemed to be a rather short and scrawny man, with dark brown hair closely cropped and sharp almond-shaped eyes. Their skin was about a shade darker than Relani’s but lighter than Wynan’s, and though their hunched posture was not very impressive, the knives they had strapped in multiple places and the muscles carefully hidden under their concerningly sheer sleeves—almost covered by the blanket—were not missed. Also not to be missed, Meluan noted, were their prominent tapered ears decorated with rather intricate earrings.
“Uh, don’t hate me for this but are you a man?” Meluan decided on blathering, sensing their discomfort at her staring.
Their guest blinked and rather guiltily nodded before grimacing at Meluan’s nonjudgmental gaze and quickly shook their head.
“…woman?”
A pause before they nodded, not really meeting Meluan’s eyes.
“Do you want to write down your story? Would you rather sign? Meryan here knows all the languages in the multi—er, world,” Meluan continued easily, taking a seat on the coffee table and smiling at their guest.
Their guest hesitated before slowly taking out her arms. “…who…are you? All of you.”
Fortunately, the sign language was one all three present knew. Given that, Meryan and Wynan stayed silent, letting Meluan do all the talking.
“Us? Uh…well, that’s difficult. You could say we’re sisters—we have another one but she’s currently outside,” Meluan answered, leaning back and looking up to the ceiling. Thinking about it some more, she returned her gaze to their guest. “I mean, our living situation is odd but we’re not anyone you should know, you know? But what about you? Do you have a name?”
The guest hesitated before signing the symbols for “solar eclipse.”
Wynan and Meluan both glanced at Meryan, unable to parse the language from the signs. For her part, Meryan took a seat on the rocking chair, frowning.
“Your name is…Sinnelia?” she tried and received an eager nod. Meryan smiled. “That’s a lovely name.”
The beam Sinnelia gave back to Meryan transformed her hesitant and somewhat pinched features into something softer, rather…adorable, too, despite her height. Actually…
“One moment, Sinnelia. You don’t have to answer this if it makes you uncomfortable,” Meluan broke in, tilting her head in suspicious curiosity. “But you’re…not a man or woman, are you? You’re a child, a girl.”
Sinnelia froze, whipping her head at Meluan, her brown eyes widening in fear.
“Woah, no need to look so afraid of us,” Meluan soothed, tapping the table. “We’re at the edge of the universe. And there’s no reason for us to send you back to wherever you came from. You’re a guest here, and you can run away from here at any time, too…though, uh, please at least steal some provisions from us first. And preferably a space suit.”
While Meluan’s words managed to take the edge of Sinnelia’s skittishness, she still looked tense. And also confused.
Wynan sighed. “Ignore her, Sinnelia. She doesn’t know what she’s saying half the time.”
“Well, it’s true,” Meluan protested, making a face at Wynan before her expression morphed back into something friendlier for the wide-eyed Sinnelia. “Don’t listen to her either, dear. Wynan’s just cranky because I caused some trouble.”
“If I was cranky every time you caused trouble, I’d be perpetually in a bad mood.”
“Are you not?”
A loud sigh from the stairway leading to the living room interrupted their argument. “Children, don’t fight,” Relani’s quiet soprano voice chided them.
Sinnelia jumped at the new voice, turning to see the other women’s dark-haired “oldest” sister in a space suit. When Relani caught Sinnelia’s gaze, she gave her a kind smile. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“And that’s Relani, our oldest sister,” Meluan explained to Sinnelia, handing her the still-steaming drink before the child could huddle back into the blanket.
Sinnelia took it, gratefully sipping the warm liquid and blinking at the pleasant taste. That was Meryan’s specific kind of magic for you.
“And our guest is called Sinnelia,” Meluan introduced. “Happy to see you back, Relani! How was space?”
The flat look Relani gave Meluan was response enough, and Meluan took that as permission to focus on their guest again. “Sooo…Sinnelia. Again, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. But what brings you to the edge of the universe?”
Sinnelia stopped drinking, the mug still in her mouth before she set it down and looked down at her lap, her hands tightly clasped together there.
“You don’t want to tell us? That’s fine,” Meluan waved off, nodding with a look that one would call smug if it wasn’t so full of mischief.
When Sinnelia looked up at her, she laughed. “I’m serious.” Meluan gestured at the other women and herself. “Again, we have no reason to probe about your life story, though you’re welcome to probe us about us! We love talking.”
“You love talking,” Wynan corrected while Meryan and Relani laughed. But her expression softened somewhat when Sinnelia stared at her. “But she’s not wrong. You must be feeling overwhelmed, after all, lost in space and now suddenly having four people be loud around you. We’re always happy to answer any more questions you have.”
Slowly unfurling her fingers from their tight grip, Sinnelia looked up, blinking at Wynan and Relani behind her before her eyes traced the line between Meryan and Meluan, settling at the last woman.
Lifting her fingers, she carefully asked, “What…is this place? I thought…there was nothing at the edge of the universe.”
Meluan laughed, throwing her arms out and almost hitting Meryan. “This place? This is the Abode Before the Void—”
“That’s the best name we have so far,” Wynan supplied.
“—it’s a…resting stop, if you want,” Meluan continued as if uninterrupted, tapping her fingers against the wood again. “It can also be a place to resupply, a place to talk, a place for…anything, really. Because you’re right that there’s nothing at the edge of universe, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t something before it.” Her sparkling dark eyes softened as she met Sinnelia’s brown ones. “And, you know…it can also be a home.”
Sinnelia blinked. “Is it…your home?”
All four residents of said home nodded as Meluan chirped, “Yep! It used to just be Meryan’s home here, then Wynan’s, then Relani’s, and finally mine. We weren’t always sisters but…the relationship kind of built from there.”
Meryan’s eyebrows went up at the comment. “Uh huh…don’t listen to her, Sinnelia. It was actually Meluan here first.”
Meluan glanced sideways at her sister. “Well, perhaps, but I said it was your home first. It was never my home until all three of you were here.”
At those words, Meryan and Relani’s eyes almost instantly teared up, and even Wynan looked away.
“Meluan…” Relani sniffed, skirting around the sofa to crush said woman in a hug.
“Argh, get off, Relaniiiii! What did I do this time?!” Meluan protested, startled at the sudden display of emotion from the other ladies. “Sorry, sorry, Sinnelia!” she sputtered, looking over Relani’s shoulder at the girl. “They’re all so sensitive, honestly, and I always make them cry—ouch! Too tight, Relani…”
“Sorry,” Relani unrepentantly apologized, letting the shorter woman go, turning to smile at Sinnelia. “Do you want a hug as well?”
Sinnelia startled and shook her head, blushing at the offer. “I see that you’re all very close…” she quickly commented. There was something almost longing in her gaze, a story untold before she shook it off, adding, “But I still don’t understand this place.”
Still behind her, Wynan crossed her arms over the sofa’s backrest, humming in thought. “Well, I’m not sure how to explain this,” she pondered. “It’s like Meluan said. It’s an abode at the edge of the universe…and anyone who finds this place can do whatever they want. Stay, leave, rest, even attempt to destroy it.”
There was a knowing smile exchanged between all four women at the last words that seemed to bewilder the poor child.
“Preferably don’t destroy it. I’m rather fond of this place, not that it can be easily destroyed,” Meryan added, grinning mischievously as she took a biscuit from the plate. She broke half of it and offered it to Sinnelia, who took it after some hesitation.
“Just know,” Meryan continued between bites of the bready pastry, “we’re very serious in telling you that you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Or want.”
Setting her treat back on the plate, Sinnelia stared at Meryan, her hand gestures small and tense as she asked, “I’m not…intruding?”
“Of course not. This house is always open to anyone who needs a home for the time being,” the bespectacled woman assured. Her eyes falling on Meluan, who was stacking the cookies while Relani was carefully rescuing them from breaking, she added, “And to anyone who ever needs to come back.”
“You couldn’t intrude on us if you tried,” Relani agreed. “Besides, didn’t Wynan and Meryan bring you here?”
They had, in fact, and while neither Relani nor Meluan had been present, they could guess that they had saved the poor child from the emptiness of space. The somewhat healthier state they saw Sinnelia in right now was probably due to Meryan’s particular touch on the drinks. After Wynan used her own touch to give the girl a restful sleep, and Relani whipped up some of her special food, she’d likely be in tiptop health.
But the child didn’t know any of that.
She merely nodded at Relani’s observation, her shoulders relaxing from the tension they’d been locked in. And looking back at Wynan, Sinnelia signed clearly to her, “Thank you for helping me when I was going to die…I suppose…I didn’t really want to die, given how grateful I am to be alive.”
“And thank goodness that you’re alive,” Meryan quietly muttered, rocking back and forth quietly. “I hope you don’t ever feel so burned and trapped that you believe you must flee to the cold edge of the universe to find healing.”
“Mhmm,” Wynan agreed, smiling when Sinnelia’s head jerked back forwards to gape at Meryan. “I’m just glad we found you when we did.”
Tears began to form in Sinnelia’s eyes.
Clearly, they had touched a sensitive area.
“Oh, woah! Ladies, keep the sappiness down a bit!” Meluan stammered, back on her feet. “There, there, Sinnelia, don’t cry. Or, no…just let it out. You’re all right to cry here.”
And she did…crying silent tears, head lowered and one arm covering her face. Wynan rubbed the girl’s back soothingly while Relani went to the kitchen to fetch some of her more savory treats and warm up more of Meryan’s drinks.
When Sinnelia had collected herself, however, she looked up at them all, eyes rimmed with red and looking more and more like the child Meluan had earlier noted she was. “I’m sorry,” she managed shakily. “I just…am scared that this is a dream.”
“No, no…dreaming is for sleeping—oof,” Meluan sputtered when Wynan threw a pillow at her face.
“There’s no real way to tell if this is a dream, true, except for our assurances that this is very real,” Wynan offered the girl. “But there’s nothing to be scared of here.”
That only set off more tears, though they seemed tears of relief.
“Unless you want to be scared! But again, if you want to run, at least steal some of our stuff before heading back out—ach, Meryan!” Meluan gagged when the other woman unexpectedly grabbed her in a chokehold.
Meryan chuckled. “Enough, Meluan, you’re confusing the poor girl, and she seems confused enough already.”
Tentatively, Sinnelia wiped her eyes as she offered the two of them a smile. “I’m…all right. And…if it’s all right, can I stay? Just for a little bit. I know I’m asking a lot when you don’t know me but I…want to stay.”
“Of course,” Relani laughed, offering the girl one of the more savory cold pastries. “I wish we could explain better what this place is, but for now, if you know that you’re allowed to stay here at this Abode Before the Void and rest, that’s enough.”
And after another drink from the mug, Sinnelia took the pastry, watery eyes shining.
…………
“Are you lost at the edge of the universe? Have you reached the final frontier and realized you want to go beyond? Well, my friends traversing this cold emptiness, my fellow lost ones who have wondered if going beyond to the void and emptiness is better than wandering this eternal frost…before you decide to take that step across the edge of your universe, won’t you consider sharing a meal with four rather bored personages? Our company may be wanting but our home and food should hopefully be enough to make up for it. And you won’t even have to look for us either. We’re more than happy to find you if you so wish. And anyway…”
A merry little laugh interrupts the cheerfully dramatic monologue.
“Our home is always right there before the edge of the universe. Feel free to come in.”
#inklingschallenge#team lewis#genre: space travel#theme: shelter#i suppose food and drink and a touch of visiting the sick as well?#story: complete#for the words!#lemon duck quacks#i hope i got the story posting format right for tumblr....#anyway christian themes in spaaaace! woohoo!#lemon duck tales
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2023 Inklings Challenge Stories By Theme
Feed the hungry
Give drink to the thirsty
Clothe the naked
Shelter the homeless
Visit the sick
Visit the imprisoned
Bury the dead
#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge 2023#theme: food#theme: drink#theme: clothing#theme: shelter#theme: visit the sick#theme: visit the imprisoned#theme: burial
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The Lasting Memory
Here is part two of my story for the @inklings-challenge 2023!
Team: Tolkien
Genre: Secondary World Fantasy/Time Travel
Themes: Burial/Visit the Sick
Word Count: 5,621 [PART 1] | 4,467 [PART 2]
―
PART 2
Treasa mounted the steps to the grand pavilion. Its moonstone columns shimmered in the glow of the setting sun. Detailed glyphs in the lost language of the ancients covered the round pillars from top to bottom. Her eyes ran up the rows upon rows of carved symbols. They were said to be an explanation of how the stones worked, or perhaps computations showing the movements of the stars. Scholars had spent lifetimes arguing over the possible meanings of the glyphs and the ancients who had created them.
The Order had grown up around these scattered pavilions, studying them, learning their secrets, and eventually using them for their own purposes. What the ancients had intended them for no one knew for certain. Traveling back in time, if only as an observer, was useful to be sure. It seemed to Treasa, however, that there had to have been more to the mystical structures. Why were they the only remnants of a clearly advanced civilization? She couldn’t help wondering if the pavilions had taken the ancients to the far future or even to other worlds.
Treasa took a deep breath. Now was not the time to ponder such things. She was only putting off the inevitable. Clutching the moonstone medallion hanging around her neck, Treasa walked to the center of the structure. A cool breeze whispered through the columns. She patted the leather scrip at her side, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of her neck. No one was here to check how many crystals were in her bag. She wasn’t sure if she’d packed Timon’s extra crystals because she still doubted herself or because his threats had intimidated her more than she was willing to admit. Either way, it was time.
Carefully positioning herself, Treasa planted her feet within the crossing lines of the star mosaic at the very center of the pavilion. She cupped the amulet in both hands and gazed into its milky depths, building the picture she wanted in her mind’s eye. Her stomach lurched and everything wobbled as if the ground were falling out from under her. She tensed, reminding herself this was a normal part of traveling. Treasa took a slow breath and closed her eyes. Her fingers curled around the amulet and she focused on the image in her mind, the Battle of Kareth. Silent winds buffeted her. She was at the eye of a great storm, and then nothing. A moment of suspended silence stretched out around her before reality snapped back into place.
Treasa stumbled, her boots ankle deep in mud. Men swarmed around her, officers shouting orders, soldiers caring for horses and readying weapons. Her eyes scanned the men’s faces, searching for the First Guardian. She shook her head. General Valleth. He would be young here, blond hair instead of gray. Treasa trudged forward, glad to be wearing breeches and a woolen tunic covered with a serviceable half-cloak in the midnight blue of the Order. People flowed around her, rarely even glancing in her direction. She approached an officer taking reports from various regiment leaders and sending them hurrying off in different directions.
“Excuse me, Commander.” The man glanced up, squinting with that slightly confused look people always gave.
“Yes, scholar?” he said, looking back down at the papers in his hand.
“Could you direct me to General Valleth?”
He frowned, eyeing the crest that caught her cloak up on her right shoulder. With a sigh, he jerked his head toward a collection of tents near the southern end of the encampment. “Try the officers’ mess.”
“Thank you,” Treasa replied, even knowing he would soon forget the entire interaction. She turned and trudged along the muddy path. The way the past flowed around intruders such as herself still made Treasa uneasy. She was alien here and the whole world seemed to pull away, refusing to acknowledge her presence. It was better, the scholars said, that people forgot you the moment they looked away and that their eyes slid right past you unless you called attention to yourself.
As Treasa approached the crowded row of makeshift tables, her eyes were immediately drawn to Valleth. He should not have stood out, having discarded his uniform jacket with its golden braid and tassels. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his neck cloth loosened like the other men at the table. His presence, however, was undeniable. His fellow officers at the table, passing soldiers, even the aides serving the food, hung on his every word, laughing as he came to the end of a humorous story.
Treasa smiled to herself. She remembered the tale. It was the first one he’d told her on a stormy night when the candles had guttered low and they had seemed to be the only two awake in the tower. She slipped in among the onlookers and listened carefully for any clue that would tell her how close to the battle she had arrived. Briefly, she was tempted to record this exact moment. Valleth was happy and confident, laughing with his friends and comrades. Most of these men would be dead in a few days’ time. The Battle of Kareth would be a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. A turning point in Damaria’s history, without a doubt, but a victory won at a steep price, hundreds giving their lives to push out the foreign invaders once, and for all. She sighed. Timon would undoubtedly choose his father’s glorious victory over a moment with his men.
A courier sprinted up and handed the general a sealed letter. Valleth called for food and drink for the man while he scanned the contents of the missive. He straightened, his eyes snapping. “The Rethans have crossed the river at Drytos,” he said. The men fell silent, a few blanching at the news, but all looking confidently to their leader. “Ready the men,” Valleth said and the camp exploded into a frenzy of activity.
Treasa sighed. Tonight, then, would be the famous midnight ride to outflank the barbarians and drive them south, forcing them to fight with the cliffs at their back instead of on the open plains where their greater numbers would have the advantage. She slipped in among the scurrying soldiers and secured a mount. She rode until evening melted away and the sky became a vast black dome with stars scattered across it like spilled diamonds. Her view from the vantage point she and Sir Damerel had discussed was spectacular. She pulled the recording crystal from her pouch and prepared it with a few chanted words and the pressure of her thumb in the right spot. Then she waited.
Horsemen pounded into view as the first streaks of dawn colored the sky. One force harassed by the other, gaining ground inch by inch. The clash of weapons, the cries of the fallen, and the shouts of victory rode the wind, swirling around her. The moment Treasa’s eyes landed on General Valleth astride his silver gray horse, saber raised, she activated the crystal. It caught everything, Valleth’s victory, the stunned rejoicing of the survivors, and his grief over the fallen. It was beautiful and stirring in its way. But it seemed too simple and the young general with a stricken expression in his eyes was not the man she had come to know.
Sighing, Treasa reviewed the recording. It felt both too removed from the action of the moment and too intimate in the emotions it had captured. She doubted if even Timon would find the recording acceptable. Tucking it safely into her scrip, Treasa trudged over to a copse of trees around a muddy stream, well out of sight of any sharp-eyed soldiers. She chanted under her breath and stared into the medallion, willing herself to the second location on Lord Timon’s list.
―
Silent winds swirled and Treasa opened her eyes to a shadowed alcove. She waited a moment for her breathing to return to normal and peered out into the street. The position of the sun put the time around late morning. Venturing out, she heaved a sigh of relief to find herself on the familiar streets of the capital. There was no need to hunt for clues with the Order’s Central House so close. She slipped among the bustling populous, her feet almost tripping over themselves in her haste.
Treasa pulled the bell string at a nondescript gate tucked around the far end of the east tower of the Central House. A young cleric answered, her eyes widening at the sight of Treasa in her muddied boots and travel stained cloak. Treasa held up her moonstone medallion and the girl bobbed a courtesy. She hurriedly unlocked the gate and waved Treasa in with a furtive glance up and down the path.
“How may I serve you, scholar?” The cleric asked as soon as they had crossed the small courtyard and closed the wooden door behind them.
“Is the First Guardian’s installment ceremony soon?” Treasa asked.
“Yes. It is set for tomorrow evening.”
Treasa’s shoulders relaxed and she peeled off her cloak. “Good. I’ll need something appropriate to wear to the event and some food and drink in the meantime. And I’m not a scholar yet. Cleric will do.”
“Of course, cleric.” The girl smiled, diligently recording Treasa’s requests in a large leather bound book with the date neatly inscribed at the top of the page. “Would you check to see if I have listed everything you require.”
Treasa leaned over to examine the list, seeing that the girl had noted her size correctly, even adding a few details about her coloring for whoever ended up with the job of locating a last minute dress for the biggest event of the year. “Thank you. It looks perfect.”
“I am happy to serve,” the girl said, “The log is checked every half hour. All items requested will be put in the anteroom there.” She pointed to a door to their left. “The library is down the hall. The most current publications and public communications are on the table in the center.”
“Thank you,” Treasa said, “You have made my task much easier. I am sorry you will not remember my gratitude.”
The girl shrugged, a smile in her eyes. “It is part of serving in the Order.”
Treasa nodded in agreement. “Blessings on you, sister.”
“And you,” the girl responded, “Good luck on your endeavor.”
Treasa nodded and wandered down to the library. She confirmed the date on the latest public notices and settled down on a comfortable settee. Kicking off her boots, she pulled her knees up to her chest. Her stomach growled and she hoped the book would be checked soon so she could get something to eat.
Sighing, she pulled her braid around and began undoing it, her fingers pulling at the tangles. She was acutely aware of the extra crystals in her pouch. Soon she would have to decide whether to use them or not. Normally, she would record over her previous attempt or, if there was enough room, fill up the rest of the space on the crystal with this second event. She was expected to present one recording for the Lasting Memory, though how she went about recording and choosing was up to her.
―
Treasa stared into the mirror, not quite recognizing herself. The dress that had been delivered was precisely what she had expected. It was stylish enough to blend in, but not so stunning that it would attract undo attention. Even so, it was the nicest thing she had ever worn. The underdress was a silk the color of burnished gold with voluminous skirts that swished when she walked. Over that, was a robe of dark green chiffon trimmed with a tasteful amount of golden embroidery and fastened at the waist with a wide sash. She smoothed her hands over the dress and slipped them into the deep pockets, checking for the tenth time that the crystals were secure. She patted her hair, which hung loose around her shoulders in accordance with the fashion of the day. It felt strange not to have it up. At least the front was swept up in a gold comb that kept it out of her face. She sighed. It was time to go.
The town-coach she had arranged dropped her off at the entrance to the basilica and she joined the throng of attendees. The atmosphere was jubilant and the crowd laughed and chattered as they squeezed themselves into the lofty space, filling the anterooms and hallways to bursting. Navigating through the crowd was a surreal experience. No one paid any attention to her unless she bumped into them. In some ways, it made it easier to slip between the knots of exquisitely dressed dignitaries and solemn elders in their formal robes. However, no one stood aside for her either, and as remaining unremarkable was her goal, she found herself stuck more than once, hemmed in on all sides, unable to move.
Finally crossing the wide antechamber, Treasa showed her medallion to a guard at the foot of a staircase roped off with a thick golden chord. She was allowed in with a nod and a formal, “Blessings on you, scholar.”
She made her way up the curved stairs, holding her skirts to avoid tripping over them. At the top was a balcony, overlooking the sanctuary. She glanced down to where she had been standing among the clerics a few short weeks ago, or would be standing in several decades. She shook her head. Thinking about it too much brought on a persistent throbbing behind her eyes.
Eventually a hush fell over the crowd and Treasa began her recording as a choir of young voices swelled from a soft chanting to a chorus of multiple voices harmonizing and then diverging in a spectacular rendition of the anthem of the Knights Reverend. She held the crystal steady on the balcony railing to get the best view of the ceremony. As the chorus was joined by a symphony of instruments, a procession of elders and scholars came up the center aisle. They were followed by a color guard of high-ranking knights in full regalia. When the attendants had taken their places, the music swelled once again and everyone turned to watch Peatar Valleth III stride down the aisle. Head held high, his smile seemed to reach every corner of the basilica. He bowed to the High Elder and saluted his fellow knights before taking his place on the central dais.
Treasa recorded the entire ceremony, including the First Guardian’s speech that had everyone laughing and wiping away tears at different points. At the conclusion of the service, Treasa retraced her steps and slipped in among the crowds toasting the First Guardian’s installment. She could leave now. She had recorded more than enough grandiose formality. Timon would be thrilled. She winced at the thought.
Her feet dragged, and she came to a stop, the multitudes flowing around her like a stream parting around a small rock. This was not why the First Guardian had chosen her. His installment and the Battle of Kareth were so obvious. Odd were high most people would have chosen one of the two. He had entrusted her with this task.
She moved into the grand hall and spotted Valleth greeting dignitaries and carrying on a jovial conversation with those around him. As she approached, the group laughed at something in one of Valleth’s stories. Blinking, Treasa drew in a sharp breath. His stories. He was famous for them. There was always a point to them, whether to bring comfort, teach a lesson, or simply raise everyone’s spirits. A recording of the actual events of one of his stories would be the perfect Lasting Memory. It would be as if he was telling it again every time someone visited his memorial. Treasa almost gasped. She immediately knew which story. Her favorite. The one he had repeated so many times she knew it by heart.
Treasa hurried back to the Central House and changed out of her finery. She downed some bread and cheese that had been left on a tray in the library, and paced the room. Finding the exact moment in time from Valleth’s description of events would be tricky. Treasa bit her lip as she went over the details in her head, running through the timeline she had memorized of Valleth’s life and accomplishments. It was a narrow enough window. If Damerel was right about visualizing the scene being the crucial part of traveling, she might be able to pull this off. With a silent thanks to Keltris and her insistence she commit to memory even the smallest detail of Valleth’s daily life, Treasa chanted the words of traveling over her medallion and hoped for the best.
―
Treasa leaned against the high, stone wall that separated the university gardens from the city proper. The narrow street running along the back of the gardens was used by students and faculty alike as a short cut to the Central House. If she had traveled to the right day, Valleth would soon be leaving after a day of teaching at the military academies. The winter sun slowly sank behind the tall spires of the basilica, casting long, cold shadows.
Treasa pulled her cloak tight to ward off the chill, thankful she had taken the time to change out of her fancy dress. She looked up as the gate to the garden creaked. An older man walked out, a satchel of books slung over one shoulder. He turned, eyes sliding right past her, and Treasa smiled. It was Valleth. He still walked straight. His hair had only touches of gray, though his short beard was all salt and pepper. He wore a serviceable coat, military in cut, but without any of the trappings his rank merited. Treasa breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good.
Treasa activated the recording crystal and followed Valleth as he walked down the street humming snatches of a tune. As Valleth rounded a corner, a boy with tousled brown hair and a dirty face stepped out into the road. Valleth came to an abrupt stop to keep from running him over. He chuckled as the boy’s eyes widened.
“Can I help you, young sir,” Valleth asked.
The boy regarded him with narrowed eyes as if considering his request. “Do you have any coppers?” he asked.
Valleth patted his pockets. Treasa tried not to smile. Valleth’s description of searching for and not finding a single coin was always comical.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Valleth said and the boy shrugged as if it was no more than he expected. “I do have something, though.” Opening his satchel, Valleth pulled out a wrapped honeycake. “I’m sorry. It isn’t much, but it’s from Rena’s bakery, so you know it’s good.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect! Better than a fistful of coppers.” He grinned from ear to ear, accepting the treat. “Thank you, sir. It’s my sister, Erin’s nameday and she loves honeycakes!”
Valleth straightened. “Do you mean to say that you are going to give this cake to your sister?”
The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. She will be so happy. We hardly ever get sweets and Rena’s are the best.”
“I see,” Valleth said, his eyes softening, “Does your sister like books by any chance?”
“Mama taught us both to read,” the boy replied proudly, “Erin wants to be a scholar some day and I am going to be a knight of the Order.”
“That is a worthy ambition One that should be encouraged.” Valleth rummaged in his satchel. “I have a gift for your sister’s nameday that I think you will both enjoy.” He pulled out a slim leather bound volume. “It’s a bit worn,” he said, dusting off the book, “but only because it’s one of my favorites.” He held out the book and the boy’s mouth fell open.
He tucked the honeycake under one arm and wiped his hand on his shirt before taking the book. He stared at it, reading the title in halting accents, “The Tales of Damar.” He looked up at Valleth, eyes wide in awe. “You’re giving this to me? For Erin? Are you sure?”
“I am very sure,” Valleth said, smiling.
“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” The boy danced around in circles, hugging the book to his chest.
Valleth laughed. “Take care not to get it sticky, son.”
“I’ll be careful,” the boy said, “Thank you, sir. Blessings on you.” He turned and ran down the cross street. Valleth watched until he was out of sight a smile on his face.
Treasa held the crystal up, finishing the recording as the last rays of sunlight lit Valleth’s face. He always said he had felt more joy in that moment than he ever had before or since.
Treasa held the crystal tightly, blinking back tears, and watched Valleth continue on his way. She could almost hear his voice recounting the story and see the laughter in his eyes. This was how the man should be remembered. Not as a battle hardened warrior or a brilliant statesman, but as a man who brought joy into the world with simple acts of kindness. She pulled the other two crystals out of her bag. They shone from within with the pale violet light that showed they held a memory of the past. She had no doubt, if she returned with all three, Timon would find a way to force her hand.
Before she could change her mind, Treasa took the crystals from her previous trips and cast them onto the stone walkway. She inhaled sharply as they shattered, the soft light dying away to nothingness. She took a deep breath and carefully wrapped the remaining crystal and placed it in her scrip. It was time to go home.
Clasping the medallion to her heart, Treasa chanted the words to activate it, and thought of home. The winds pulled at her and she felt lifted off her feet for a moment before being dropped in a heap onto the polished floor of the grand pavilion. She blinked and Damerel was there, helping her up. He steadied her as she gasped for breath.
“Are you all right?” he asked, supporting her arm.
Treasa nodded. “Just a little winded.” She looked past Damerel and saw a veritable array of people clustered around the pavilion entrance all with various looks of concern and surprise on their faces. There were several blue-robed scholars and, most notably, the High Elder Reyes and Lord Timon Valleth himself. “What’s going on?” Treasa asked.
“You were gone a long time,” Damerel said, “Several days, in fact.”
“Days?” Treasa blinked. Recovery missions usually took hours, half a day at most. “But why is everyone here?”
Scholar Keltris stepped forward. “Lord Timon was insisting that someone else be sent to recover the First Guardian’s Lasting Memory.” She sniffed. “He tried to force the issue.”
“It was my right,” Timon growled, pushing forward. The crowd muttered, seemingly divided between those who supported Timon and those who had been trying to stop him.
Treasa’s knees felt weak, but she straightened, mustering a serene expression. “Well, I’m back now,” she said.
“Yes. And I believe we should speak in private.” Timon jerked his head and turned to walk away as if he fully expected her to trot after him.
Keltris’s eyebrows shot up and Damerel put his hand on his sword. Treasa gave her head a slight shake and then said in a loud voice, “That will not be necessary. I have completed my mission, and am ready to present the First Guardian’s Lasting Memory to the High Elder.” Scholar Keltris and Sir Damerel exchanged a look, but straightened and stood ready on either side of her.
Timon protested, but Elder Reyes held up his hand. “You forget yourself, Lord Timon. Let the girl complete her mission. It is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Timon nodded, but the hard look he shot Treasa made her knees quake again.
“Is everything all right?” Keltris whispered.
“It will be,” Treasa answered just as quietly.
“I will be glad to accept the memory you have recorded,” the High Elder said, “If only to end all this nonsense.”
Treasa went down on one knee and retrieved the crystal from her bag. She held it up for a moment for all to see, then presented it to the High Elder. “I give you the Lasting Memory of First Guardian Peatar Valleth III.”
―
Treasa leaned against the balcony railing and watched the fireworks that lit up the sky to celebrate Lord Timon’s installment as First Guardian. She sighed as Damerel joined her. “Do you think he is still angry with me?” she asked, twisting the end of her braid.
“First Guardian Timon does not seem like a man who forgives easily,” Damerel said, “but I do not see how he can hold it against you. Everyone loves the memory you chose. Hundreds of people have seen it already and they cannot stop talking about how perfect it is. Timon got what he wanted, in a sense. The people’s goodwill toward his father is passing down to him, for now at least.”
Treasa nodded, straightening as Damerel stepped closer.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you find that particular moment in time?” he asked, his voice low.
“It was one of his stories,” she said, “my favorite one. I think that’s why he chose me to find it.”
Damerel laughed softly. “Well, I certainly never would have chosen that particular memory.”
“Why not?” Treasa turned and looked up at him. “You said it was perfect and beautifully conveyed the essence of who the First Guardian was.”
“It does,” Damerel said, taking her hand.
Treasa blushed, but tightened her fingers around his. “Then why?”
“Because the boy in the Lasting Memory is me.”
Treasa shook her head, laughter shining in her eyes. “Do you think he knew? That you actually joined the Order?”
Damerel shrugged. “I have no idea. I never forgot that day, but I didn’t know it was him. Not until I heard him tell the story for the first time.”
Treasa sighed, a smile playing at her lips. “Do you think your sister will mind that I memorialized her nameday?”
“I think Erin will love it,” Damerel said, “You can ask her yourself, if you want.” He paused, his voice growing soft. “I would very much like you to meet her while she is in town.”
Treasa leaned in, wondering if the First Guardian had imagined anything like this when he had chosen her to find his Lasting Memory. She smiled up at Damerel. “I am ready.”
#inklingschallenge#team tolkien#genre: secondary world#genre: time travel#theme: visit the sick#theme: burial#story: complete
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Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Original Work
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Characters: Original Female Character(s), Original Male Character(s), Original Dog Character(s)
Additional Tags: inklings challenge, Inklings Challenge 2023, Team Chesterton, Genre: Intrusive Fantasy, Theme: Visit the Sick, Post-Pandemic, Mental Health Issues, Isolation, Québec, Bigotry & Prejudice, Forgiveness, Empathy, Friendship, Parent-Child Relationship, Knitting, Dogs
Summary:
When a lonely woman wishes for a pet, one of her craft projects startles her by coming to life. But is she ready for the responsibilities as well as the joys of connecting with others?
#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge 2023#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#theme: visit the sick
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Terrarium Lights, pt. 3.11
Previously on Terrarium Lights: the ghost continues to wrestles with what to do next; Gail tries to understand.
(Next part coming soon)
"What I meant to say," she said over her shoulder, "is that I would make you as much bacon as you'd like."
Jonathon chuckled, a bit more lightheartedly this time.
Gail watched the eggs for a bit. "On the other side of the fear, there will be good things," she said quietly. "Like bacon."
"I know," Jonathon said in a small voice. "But I'm afraid. Of disappearing. Who will I be when I'm not me?"
"Someone else," Gail agreed. "But you'd be someone else in a year, no matter what form you took. To be a person is to be changing, even in small ways, even just by having been alive for another year. And I know that’s not the same as what you’re facing, but in a way it is. It’s just… a bigger change. That can be difficult, but it's not so bad."
"What if I don't like who I become?"
"Then become someone else in the next year."
“That sounds easier than I think it is.”
Gail chuckled. “Oh, for sure. It’s not easy. But it happens, and it’s possible, and we don’t have to do it alone.”
“‘Thou must save, and save by grace,’” Jonathon muttered. Gail nodded encouragingly.
Jonathon turned around to look at her notepad, letting his weight (as far as it existed) fall on the counter.
"You're still worried about Samuel, too," Gail guessed.
He nodded. "I don't know how his parents will find him if I go back, you know? I might not remember. And… what if I forget him? Not just where his body is, but who he was? What if this means leaving behind my friend, someone who seems to have almost been my brother? I have little enough of him left, anyway."
"Would he want you to stay a ghost for the sake of his memory?"
Jonathon's head flopped down onto the counter between his arms. "I don't know. I… I already can't remember."
Gail came over to pat his shoulder.
"I don't want to doom all the rest of my senses for the sake of my sight," he said, voice muffled by the counter, "but I don't want to lose my sight, either. I don't want to cut off future memories for the sake of what I have now, but what little I have is precious, meager and lacking as it is. I don't want to say good-bye to my friend and then never know him, but I don't want to move on without helping him, and so risk not being able to. I don't know if he even likes me anymore, but I want to help him anyway. I don't know what will happen if I stay, I don't know what will happen if I go, but I don't know that I have any other choice than to make a choice."
Gail rubbed his back slowly, wondering if he could even feel her.
"There doesn't seem to be any easy path," she said. "But… if it’s my place to say something, I do know that sometimes we must die if we want to live again."
"Like… like the Rock of Ages," he said, looking up slightly.
Gail nodded, not quite sure if he meant the hymn or the person. But either way, it worked. "It doesn't mean that the dying doesn't hurt."
Jonathon pushed himself up by his arms and stood there for a bit, propped up. Gail let him think as she rescued her eggs and put the second piece of toast in the remaining bacon grease.
“It’s all still a muddle,” he said, gazing intently at the counter with an almost defensive glare. “I still don’t know what all is the right thing to do, or the easiest or the best, or whatever.”
Gail flipped the toast, watching him, spatula in hand. “But you’ve reached some kind of decision, haven’t you.”
“As much as I can,” he said. “With all the uncertainty, I think there is still something that is plain to do.”
When he didn’t continue, Gail messed with the toast again.“Oh?”
"Ms. Gail," he said, frowning at the counter and pushing each word into being deliberately, "would you go with me to visit Samuel's ghost?"
She smiled at him. "Of course, dear. Just let me finish my breakfast, first."
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#how do you be a person when you're like. technically not a person#jonathon the ghost#gail goffrey#terrarium lights#the santa juliana files#inklings challenge#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge 2023#team: lewis#genre: portal fantasy#theme: burial#theme: visiting the sick#story: finished#salt and light#first draft#scribe writes#scribe does inklings
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I finally finished my entry for @inklings-challenge! Just a month and a half late, but what's six weeks between friends? 😆
Tagging @lady-merian and @kanerallels because I think you were kind enough to comment on the first part
Anyway:
Greenroot Growing
Posted on Ao3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/51990529 or read below
"Where should we be next, Zillah?" Vesta asked.
Zillah straightened up, shook her long brown braid back, and surveyed the ruins of the village of Cubrickton. The survivors of the fire had been relocated to the remaining homes, and wounded were being treated in the Home's infirmary. Hestia was helping to rebuild some of the houses, but high summer meant there would be plenty of time and available hands to rebuild before the harvest. They could probably move on.
"How is Eden doing?" she asked.
Vesta shrugged. "She's okay. Getting tired, but everyone has been treated so the heavy triage is over."
Zillah nodded. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms together, focusing inwards on her Gift. She opened her eyes again. "We're still supposed to be here," she said, frowning.
Vesta looked around. "Why? Did we miss someone?"
Zillah shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe there's something else coming and they need our help building?"
"Might as well." Vesta moved towards the nearest burned-out shell. She picked up a half-burned board, tucked it under her arm, and began sifting through the rubble for others.
Zillah worked her way along the side of the ruined wall, collecting china plates that must have fallen from an interior shelf. Some of them were intact.
A purple light formed in the air between them, rippling oddly in the air. Both the sisters turned to look at it, then look at each other in consternation.
"Or maybe we're here for that?" Zillah suggested.
"Any idea what it is?" Vesta asked, backing away carefully.
"My Gift just says it's a portal, which is less helpful than you'd think," Zillah replied.
"Is it dangerous?"
"Don't know."
The sisters watched it grow larger and brighter. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it vanished, leaving a young man in strange clothing behind. He dropped hard against the stone and rolled over to slam against the foundation of the house, as if he'd fallen from a height.
"Well." Zillah looked at him, then bent over to check his pulse. "Still alive. Better make a stretcher for him, in case that fall rattled something."
"What's his name?" Vesta asked. She laid one of her boards on the street, then pulled a length of twine from her pocket and began tying shorter sticks to the top and bottom. Under her hands, the air shimmered as her Gift turned the boards into a full stretcher.
"Paul," Zillah replied. "I can't see his home. It's very far away. For now he belongs with us, I think."
They carefully loaded him onto the stretcher and carried him towards Home. The big egg-shaped structure, apparently woven from willow branches, was on the edge of the town, and they passed through a hole in the side into the clay-lined infirmary inside.
Eden looked up as they entered. She helped Zillah transfer the young man to an empty bed, then unwrapped the orange band that wrapped over her curls and covered her ears. "What's his name?" she asked.
"Paul," Zillah answered. "He was unconscious when he....appeared."
Eden looked Paul over, focusing intently while her hands hovered over his body. "Just bruised, I think," she said. Briskly she refastened her headband and grabbed a pot of salve from the workbench, then rolled him over and began peeling his short tunic away from his back so he could apply the salve to his back and shoulders.
Vesta allowed the stretcher to fall back into pieces of wood and twine, and put the twine back into her pocket. She headed back towards the entrance to throw the pieces of wood away, and met her twin sister coming in.
"Another?" Hestia asked, seeing Paul on the bed.
"He's not a villager. He just appeared. Like a Major Gift, but there wasn't anyone there to use it," Vesta explained.
Hestia raised her eyebrows. "A True Miracle, then?"
Zillah joined them. "I think so. He's from far away."
"Well, there's not much to do until he wakes up," Hestia decided. "Does he need to stay here or can we get moving?"
"He belongs with us, so probably we can go. Did you say our goodbyes?" Zillah asked
Hestia nodded.
"Good."
They made their way through the clay-lined rooms of Home to the driving bench at the front, where a woven window opened into the streaming sunlight. A map of Gasardia was pinned to the wall, covered with careful annotations in colored ink.
Hestia found Cubrickton, on the road between Thire and Philomel. She added a purple X and the date to the map, tracking their journey so far. Zillah would update the logbook with details of their work while they traveled.
Zillah sat on the bench, facing the map, and pressed her palms together. She allowed her eyes to unfocus, looking at what her Gift was saying rather than at the map itself.
Finally she looked up, puzzled. "We're supposed to be in Acoda Keep."
"We can't get to Acoda Keep!" Hestia objected.
"I know that and you know that," Zillah replied. "But apparently my Gift thinks we can."
Hestia sighed, and traced the road south. "Acoda Point is at least a three day journey," she said. "I guess we could start in that direction. If we end up having to stop, we'll figure it out from there."
Zillah nodded. "Thanks. We'll pass through Lorton tomorrow, so I'll check our stores. We can stop at the market."
Paul woke up. His last memory was of hiking in the woods near his home, so waking up in a bed was concerning. It didn't sound like a hospital, but he couldn't decide whether that was better or worse than the alternative. Also, his head hurt. And he was thirsty.
"Here's some water, and then I have a Head Healing Potion for you," said a nearby voice. A hand touched his shoulder and then helped him sit up to drink from a cup.
Paul opened his eyes. The person helping him was a young woman about his own age, with wide blue eyes and softly curling brown hair. She put the cup down on a table next to his bed.
"I'm Eden. Do you know your own name?" she asked.
"Paul," he said.
She nodded. "Good, then the fall can't have exploded your head too badly." She handed him a smaller cup, this one filled with a thick liquid that tasted of rosemary.
Paul drank it, and reached for more water. "Where am I?" he asked.
Eden twisted her fingers together. "I'm not sure how to explain, exactly. You're in our Home, in Gasardia. My sisters say you came through a portal, and you came from very far away. Maybe even a different world."
"Gasardia is....?" Paul asked.
"Gasardia is all the land from the Northern White Mountains to the Besstwing Sea. We're currently on the road between Thire and Philomel, though we plan to turn south soon, but I don't think that helps you."
Paul shook his head, then stopped when it made the pain worse. "No. I think you're right about this being a different world. Unless you just have different names for places I know, but I doubt it."
Eden nodded. "That's what Zillah thought. She said your home was farther away than anyone she's seen before."
Paul nodded, then thought about what Eden had said and frowned. "Wait, how does she know that?"
"That's her Gifting," Eden said, taking the empty cup from Paul's fingers and turning to put it away. "Zillah knows what a person's name is and where they belong. She says that your home is far away but you belong with us for now."
Paul's shoulders stiffened. "So you're—"
"Of course not!" Eden whirled around, wide-eyed. "We don't make anyone go anywhere. Zillah's job is to tell the truth, not make people do things. We can't return you to your home, but if you wish to go somewhere else in Gasardia we'll give you what help we can." She paused, and then added, "I'm sorry, I didn't let you finish your question, did I? I try not to do that. That's my Gifting: I hear intentions and emotions."
Paul blinked. "These....Giftings. Are they magic?"
"They're gifts, Paul. I don't know how else to explain them. I don't think anyone does."
"Oh."
Eden shifted back and forth on her feet, then said, "Do you want dinner? I can bring you food here, or you can come join us at the table."
Paul followed Eden through the interconnected clay-lined rooms of the Home, feeling the floor sway slightly below his feet.
"Is the floor moving, or is that dizziness or something?" he finally asked.
"That's real," Eden told him, "We're moving, and Home always rocks when we do that. It's the legs moving."
"Legs?" Paul asked, ducking through one last doorway and entering a wide room.
The room had several tables. At one end, a round table was set near a fireplace, covered in brightly woven cloth. At the other end, four long workbenches were covered in books, tools, fabric, and all sorts of creative detritus.
In the middle of the room, a young woman was standing on a platform that was set below the floor of the room, so that her head was level with the tables. Her clear similarity to Eden marked her as another of her sisters, though this one's hair was pulled back into a long braid. She appeared to be walking on the unseen platform.
She turned to smile up at Paul. "Legs!" she confirmed. "It's the simplest way to move Home. We keep the legs partially assembled when we're not using them."
Paul looked at her, puzzled. When he listened, he could hear thumps and creaks from below. "So...you're controlling legs on the house?"
She nodded. "I'm Hestia. Vesta and I have the Crafting Gift, so we manage the legs."
"So Eden has empathy or something, and she said Zillah knows where people should be, and now you and Vesta have a crafting gift. What does that do?" Paul asked. He crossed to one of the chairs at the round table, so he wouldn't tower about Hestia so much. Eden served him a slice of bread and some roasted vegetables, and then went to sit over by the benches.
"We make things - assemble them out of rocks and sticks and whatever else is on hand - and they become real," Hestia explained. "They only last as long as we're paying attention, but that's long enough. We have six legs for the Home, like an ant, and we make them work by walking or swinging when we need to move."
A few minutes later, two more women entered. One was a mirror image of Hestia, and Paul realized she must be Vesta. She came over to the table and set down a sizzling pan, which promptly turned into a piece of flat slate rock with hot sausages on it. The other woman looked a little older, and her brown hair streamed straight down her back, well past her waist. She sat down and began slicing the rest of the loaf of bread.
"Any progress?" Hestia asked, looking up at them.
Vesta sighed. "We have the list for Lorton, of course, but no. Zillah still says Acoda Keep, and I don't see anything that will get us in." She turned to Paul. "I'm Vesta, by the way, and this is Zillah. Your name is Paul?"
Paul nodded. "What's Acoda Keep?"
Zillah sighed. "Acoda Keep is a fortress controlled by Brusha, the harbor city to the south. There's an herb, greenroot, that can be used for powerful healing. Brusha's army torched most of it, about a decade ago, and now the only greenroot is in Acoda Keep."
"I assume it's heavily defended?" Paul asked.
Vesta nodded. "We've dreamed of getting some for years, so it can be grown again, but there's no way we can get in."
"So why try?" Paul asked.
"Because that's what my gift says, and Giftings only work if you listen to them. And maybe we'll find something unexpected - you never know - but the point is obedience. If you aren't careful to listen to your gift, it'll seem to be working just fine, but it'll be less and less effective." Zillah stabbed her sausage and took a bite.
"Do you want to swing in a bit?" Hestia asked.
Zillah sighed. "I should. It'll help me sort out my thoughts. Unless you need a turn, Eden?" she called across.
Eden flapped a hand but didn't turn around.
"Okay," Zillah replied, and continued her meal.
"So you have the Crafting gift too, right?" Paul asked Vesta. "What sort of things do you make? I mean, what do you like making?"
Vesta's eyes lit up. "I don't get much use out of them, but I love making weapons. Swords and spears in cool shapes, and especially powerful bows and arrows, and I like making armor too. Though temporary armor is ridiculous. Once in a while there's a use for the ranged weapons, but armor that falls apart if you're knocked unconscious is just dangerous."
"Do you see much fighting?" Paul asked, worried. He didn't have any background in weapons training!
"We mostly see the aftermath," Vesta explained. "The cities are all fighting each other, and there's bandits as well, but Zillah's gift keeps us where we can be useful, which means avoiding a lot of the fighting. Even if we were better at fighting, Eden's gift means she can be overwhelmed easily, so we have to be careful."
"Oh, okay."
Zillah had finished, so Hestia brought the house to a halt and climbed out of the hole in the floor. She lay on her stomach and stuck her head and arms into the hole, apparently rearranging the legs. Paul felt the house settle onto the ground, and then pick itself up again. Hestia got up and served herself at the table, and Zillah descended into the hole and disappeared from sight.
"Zillah likes to swing instead of walking," Vesta explained.
"How high are the legs?" Paul asked. The movements up and down had surprised him.
"The Home is usually around ten feet off the ground, but it varies a little," said Vesta, passing her sister the vegetables. "We need the legs to be long so they can take long steps."
Some time later, Vesta knelt by the hole in the floor and helped Zillah out, and Eden took her place walking Home. Hestia and Vesta set up a loom and set up fabric they were weaving, and Zillah moved to one of the work benches and pulled out a box of dried herbs and a mortar and pestle.
"Can I help?" asked Paul.
"You could read to us," suggested Eden.
"Uh, sure," Paul said, looking around to see if he could spot any books.
"Before you read, we should discuss Lorton tomorrow," said Zillah, smoothly working the herbs into powder. "We need more flour and cheese, but Cubrickton gave us enough vegetables to keep us for a while. Eden? How are your stores?"
Eden cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I have plenty of bandages, but I'm shorter on burn paste than I'd like to be, especially going into the dry season. We should get more."
"We have quite a few lengths of fabric to sell," Hestia piped up. The loom click-clacked steadily under their hands.
Zillah nodded. "Paul? Anything you need? Lorton is a market town."
Paul shrugged. "I'm okay, I think. I guess I might need different clothes, if we want me to fit in." He hesitated, then added, "What about for Acoda Keep? Will you need anything for that?"
The sisters looked at each other. The room was quiet with nervous energy for a moment.
"It's hard to say, since we don't know what we're going to do," Hestia said slowly.
"That's fair," Paul replied. He pursed his lips, thinking over what they'd said. "Do we know anything about the keep?"
Zillah shrugged, then began transferring powdered herbs to a new container. "Not much. We've been near there, even to Brusha, and it's all cliffs and rocky islands down there. I've seen the keep from a distance, but I don't know anything about the inside."
"We could visit the bookseller in Lorton," Vesta suggested. "They might have maps."
Hestia nodded. "I'll ask around. Someone is bound to know something."
"We need pots for the plants," Eden spoke up. "And jars, for cuttings. Aunt Comfort told me once that greenroot propagates easily."
"What about seeds?" asked Paul.
"It wouldn't hurt to bring papers for seeds," said Vesta, "but I don't expect we'll find any. They're keeping it restricted, and leaving seeds out just makes them easy to steal. Any seeds they have are probably in a vault somewhere."
"Okay," Paul said. "So maps and information, and pots and jars and...I guess shovels? For digging up plants?"
"We have trowels," Eden assured him.
"Right. Okay. And...." Paul searched his memory for adventure stories and the supplies needed. "Rope? Just in case it's useful?"
Zillah nodded. "It wouldn't hurt, especially with all the cliffs."
"Right. And then....I guess we don't know," Paul ended.
"Do you have a gifting?" Hestia asked.
"I....don't know. People where I'm from don't have gifts," Paul explained. "Is there something I can do to get one? Some trick to get it going?"
"The only 'trick' is obedience," said Zillah. "You get quiet and listen, and do what comes to mind, as long as it isn't dangerous or anything of course. It takes practice to know what to listen for."
Paul blinked at her, but she didn't seem to have anything more to say. "Okay then. I guess I'll try that."
"And we'll fit it together," Vesta added. "Now can Paul read?"
Since the topic seemed to be over, Paul turned to the shelf Zillah indicated and looked over the books available.
They left Home and split up when they reached Lorton. Eden and Paul went with Hestia: Eden would use her gifting to help Hestia haggle and ask for information about Acona Keep for as long as she could, and then Paul would accompany her back to Home if she got overwhelmed. Zillah and Vesta would go to the book sellers, to look for maps, and then stock up on necessities.
Vesta had found a tunic for Paul. It was worn and a little threadbare, but it would attract less attention. She'd also given him a few coins. "We don't have much spending money, but you can have a share in case you see something useful. It's only fair."
Paul thanked her and slipped them into his pocket.
Lorton wasn't a large town, and the market reminded Paul of a large flea market from home. He hefted the bundle Hestia had given him and followed her to a row of stalls selling fabrics. As they approached, Hestia looked over at Eden, whose fingers flickered as she indicated who was in a good mood and who should be avoided.
"Can they hear us from here?" Paul asked, surprised that she used hand signals instead of speaking.
"No, probably not. But sometimes speaking is difficult," Hestia replied.
Hestia approached the seller Eden had picked, and Paul followed Eden as she drifted towards the back of the stall, running her hands over the colored fabrics. Hestia called them back a few minutes later.
"All set," Hestia announced, looking pleased. She turned to look across the market, pursing her lips as she considered where to go next for information. "We'll try the brewery, I think," she decided. "There's usually a few older soldiers and sailors there."
An hour later, Eden was safely back at Home, the other women were still in the market, and Paul had some time to himself. Remembering Zillah's words, he thought he might as well start listening for a gifting.
He sat down on a fallen log and tried to listen. Nothing happened.
Paul sighed, rearranged his legs, and listened again. This was stupid. There was nothing there. They had no reason to believe he had a gifting in the first place, so that was to be expected.
He tried once more, and the only thing that popped into his head was that the inside of the huge clock tower, with all its gears and springs, would be interesting to see. That obviously had nothing to do with a gifting, so his mind must be wandering.
Still, Zillah had said to do what came to mind, so he went and looked. The clock tower's narrow stairs were a long climb, but the workings at the top were pretty interesting to watch. Still, nothing magical happened.
The next morning, they headed south again, into Brusha territory. Zillah's gifting still said Acoda Keep.
"We did find a map," Zillah announced, spreading it out on the table. They all crowded around to examine it.
The Keep was a five-sided fortress, with thick walls and reinforced towers. It took up practically all of the island it was on. The center was open, so that greenroot could be cultivated, and storage rooms were marked along the perimeter.
The oceans and cliffs nearby were marked, and it was obvious that there was no easy way in or out. The rocks were steep along this part of the coast, and the water was too deep to easily cross.
"We don't know how many soldiers are there," Vesta explained, "but we're not exactly fighters anyway. If there's a back door or a secret entrance, nobody we spoke to knows about it."
Hestia nodded. "Same here. There is a loading dock," she pointed it out on the map, "but that's guarded as well. Though that door can't be locked from the outside, so if we do manage to get in, we could use that as our way out."
"Can Home go in the ocean?" Paul asked.
Vesta frowned. "Like a boat, you mean? We've never done it, but probably. We don't know much about sails, though."
"I suppose we could make very, very long legs," Hestia said.
Vesta thought it over, then nodded. "It would be tricky, though, with the waves and the rocks."
"You don't feel very certain," Eden commented.
Vesta shrugged. "I'm not."
"So we'll keep it as a possibility, but not a strong one," Zillah decided.
They headed south. Paul told Zillah about how he'd listened and nothing had happened, and she'd shrugged and said that was how it was sometimes, and to keep trying. So he did. It was still pointless.
He read to the women in the evenings, or helped with the simpler parts of medicine-making. He tried to help with the weaving as well, but Hestia and Vesta could settle into a rhythm so fast and smooth that his efforts were obviously slowing them down. Eden taught him to spin yarn, and kindly told him he was doing well for a beginner before re-spinning his attempts.
During the days they often came across people who needed help: broken bones to set, fevers to heal, houses to build. They were away from the contested territories, so military attacks were rare, but accidents still happened.
When Paul was on his own and was tired of listening to nothing, he started drawing. Paper was expensive, but a slate and chalk were easy to find. He drew Home in its various configurations, and his bedroom and bicycle from his real home, and animals they passed, and odd bits of half-remembered machinery. It passed the time.
Finally they stopped, at the top of the cliffs on the shore near Acoda Keep. The cliffs were high above the waves, and the salt air blew fresh against their faces.
"That's Acoda," Zillah said, pointing. "And there on the shore is Brusha Harbor. The big island in the distance is Pofash; it's controlled by Brusha also."
Paul peered down over the cliff. The waves broke on a narrow shore of rocks and sand. "Are there ways to the bottom?" he asked.
Hestia leaned over too. "Not easy ones."
"We could make one," Vesta suggested. "It wouldn't be any harder than our tree-climbing rig. Just longer."
"That sounds fun," said Eden, sitting at the edge of the cliff to run her fingers through the sandy soil.
"Well, let's have lunch," Zillah said, always practical. "Maybe something will come to us."
Paul finished his bread and leaned back on the stiff grass, letting the sun warm his skin. An insect buzzed above him, its wings flitting in the sunlight.
Suddenly Paul got the urge to draw. His fingers felt almost itchy with it. He sat up, frowning around.
"What is it?" Zillah asked.
"I want to draw," Paul said. "It's...weird."
Zillah smiled slightly. "It always is."
Eden crouched next to them and handed Paul his drawing slate. He hadn't noticed her get up in the first place. He thanked her and set to work.
He drew the bug first, with its slim body and flitting wings. Then he rubbed it away and began to draw again: something that was like the bug and like a helicopter and like an old da Vinci drawing, but not exactly like any of those.
Finally he passed it to Zillah. "I can't think of anything else to draw."
"Then it is done," she replied. "What is it?"
Paul shook his head. "It looks rather like some of the flying machines from my home universe, but not exactly. And it needs someone who knows way more than I do to build and construct it."
Zillah smiled and passed it to Vesta. "Can you and Hestia make it?"
"It - it won't work!" Paul objected. "I have no idea how these things really work!"
Vesta grinned at him. "Hestia and I don't need it to actually work, Paul. Just mostly."
Paul couldn't believe he was doing this. Hestia and Vesta had assembled a coalition of rocks and sticks and ropes and a bedsheet, and now he was inside it and flying over the edge of a very high cliff. It took both of them to focus enough to make the linkages work, but somehow they were off the ground. Zillah was in the front, calling out directions to the island she could barely see in the moonlight. Eden sat next to her, straining her ears for attention or aggression from the guards ahead.
Paul sat in the center of the ship, helping to pedal the wings of the flying ship. Pots and jars were strapped into a net behind him, and Hestia and Vesta sat on either side of him, their focus entirely on the ship.
They flew out to sea and approached the keep from the rear, trusting the darkness to hide them. Eden reported that the guards were sleepy and bored and unlikely to wake up. Paul held his breath as they crossed into the keep, the tension of the moment thrumming through him, but no one shouted out their presence.
They landed with a thump in the center of the keep. Eden immediately pointed in two different directions; someone had heard them. Paul and Zillah scrambled out, hoping it was gardeners and not guards they had to deal with.
Their luck held; the two men who came to investigate had no weapons and seemed stunned by the sight of their flying contraption. Paul didn't blame them for that. He and Zillah were able to use the confusion to their advantage and soon had the men tied up.
Eden came out next, carrying pots and jars and a trowel. Paul and Zillah took the pots and began digging up greenroot plants and packing them to be transported. Eden drew a sharp knife from her belt, and added cuttings to the propagation jars.
Paul was just finishing his second plant when Eden hissed. All three of them turned and sprinted for the flying ship. They made it inside just as a pair of guards entered the courtyard and saw the ship.
"Fly!" Eden whispered to her sisters. She secured the jars as Paul ran to his set of pedals.
They heard shouts outside, and a few spears or arrows clunked off the side of the ship, but they were already airborne.
Paul laughed with relief as they flew into the clear sky. They could go back to Home and disassemble the flying ship, and no one would be able to figure out what had happened. They had done it.
They were still breathing in their success when the air in the middle of the ship began to glimmer purple. "Zillah!" Vesta called, "is that another of those portal things?"
Zillah turned away from her navigation to look at it. "It is," she said. She got up and came back to hug Paul. "I think you're going home."
Paul nodded. It felt right. "I'm glad I could help after all."
"Come back if you can," Hestia said, as she and Vesta came to give him their hugs. Eden didn't say anything, but she squeezed his hand and smiled gently at him.
"I will," Paul promised, and went home.
The end
#Inklings Challenge#inklings 2023#Team lewis#genre: portal fantasy#theme: visit the sick#Spiritual gifts as fantasy magic#Salt and light
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PSA if you are posting about the Hamas conflict with Israel, and posting about the following themes: child abuse, terrosim, opresion of the palestins, war crimes, genicide , And you are putting the tags #ginger bread #recepi # pokemon # MCU # books # reading
And you are ading as many miss leading tags as possible so that people who are actualy looking for a ginger bread recepi can accidentaly find your war crime , infanticide related post when they # 1 weren't ready for this information and #2 weren't Even looking for it.
Be aware you are doing a bad thing, you are not "spreding awarenes" you are forcing very trigering subjects upon people who are not ready to stomac it and for many of us neather do whe want to.
So please stop 🛑🫷🏻 re consider and chage the tags onto the right tags and triger warnings.
#tw disturbing themes#tw genicide metioned#tw war#tw war mention#Tw war crimes mention#The Hamas conflict with Israel#tw infanticide mentioned#assholes putting this disturbing shit in my recomendations#and giving me fucking nightmares#Im sick and tired of being afraid of my own Tumblr#Tumblr was suposed to be fun#not something That leaves me feeling worse every time I visit it#it's ok to use Tumblr for political ventures#and social justice but this types of themes shouldn't be forced on people#who just wanted to see a fan art of their favorite Marvel hero or People looking for actal books
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#these are fun to makeaaaaaaaaaugh#ive made three in one day i am stopping here ok thank you#polls#i can show you my gnome if you want#hes a silly little guy#also my lego oc was resurrected last time we visited my nephews cus we donated our lego to them#i couldnt find his original skirt tho :((((#me exploring gender through lego as a kid: hes a wizard and a chef and he has a little mustache :))) and he's friends with a parrot#hes so perfect i need to actually make an oc based off of him istg#also that 6th one: in my defense i was like 7 and sick so#but also the whole theme of him being inhuman rly got to me
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Doodled a Deleted moment from my fic:
Shinya vs fish:
Deleted scene part two
Backseat trio
#ajin#my art#ajin au#cosmic princes au#my fic#ajin fic#shinya nakamura#I don’t wrote out this entire chapter and I’m not gonna post it cause it kinda wandered off plot and became more supernatural themed#and it’s just Kei hearing voices and going to visit the sick water princess to help her out#meanwhile Tanaka is inspecting some weird new rock they keep finding on their planet#Kei catches the same illness as the princess when working with the water though and so while he’s bed bound#shinya and Tanaka and Araki are having their own detective spin-off#and while it’s fun writing it… it’s so unnecessary to plot lmaoo#so I’m just gonna keep it in my files n not post it
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im going to budapest tomorrow on a train all on my own i havent travelled alone for so long and im so nervous . ive never been to budapest and there are many train lines
#i think last time i travelled abroad completely alone was 2 years ago#i actually really like train rides but i think this one will be absolutely packed and also its so hot outside and trains a/cs really suck#here sometimes#also i should change my blog theme ive had this one for so long it kind of annoys me a little bit by now#txttxt#its just a day trip im going back during the night thatll be fun#i love night trains so much#i miss when i would visit my friend and took the overnight train for eight hours in the winter#it was completely dark all around and it felt like you were going through space#i hope its a train w compartments though i really hope#i think euronight usually has compartments#im actaully really excited for it now i only got the tickets today#i was worried abt going bc my mom is really sick rn and i didnt want to leave for too long#but its just a day so i think itll be ok#i hope
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