#genre: intrusive fantasy
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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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Let the Sun Set, Let the Day End
Paolo's parents rarely ever talked about the Catindig family, but when they did, it was always with a touch of soft pity. He could detect it in the, "Of course we must be kind to them," and the "Your grandfather never forgave himself for what happened to Edgar Catindig."
There was also an undercurrent of wry humour in the ways Paolo's parents whispered of sumpa. It meant curse or oath, if one used the ratty old Tagalog-English dictionary they brought along from Caloocan five years ago, but from his parents' tone he was sure it wasn't the latter. And while it was a word one could freely ponder in the streets of the Philippines, even among crowds in front of San Roque Cathedral, it wasn't a concept that sat comfortably in his mind as his family rode down the neat, disciplined streets of North York, Ontario.
Read More
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@inklings-challenge Here’s my challenge story for this year.
Grandfather's Story
(Not a true story.)
There’s a story that my grandfather always liked to tell about his days working in a coal mine. He would always tell it to his kids and then us grandkids. Most of us weren’t sure whether to believe it, but he swears that it’s true.
His story starts with a tragedy.
A tunnel had collapsed and miners had died. Others were injured and managed to get out of the mine.
My grandfather had been one of the men tasked with shoring up the tunnel so that the dead could be safely removed to be given to their families for proper burials.
He and the other men took a canary in with them. An important alarm system for them even though they weren’t actively mining.
They had been working for several hours and had managed to bring all but one of the dead up. This particular gentleman had been buried in the wall collapse more than any of the others had been. As soon as they had managed to recover him, my grandfather and the other miners swear on their lives that the canary spoke. Telling them that they needed to leave before the tunnel collapsed further, before the bird fell completely silent.
Not a single man my grandfather worked with hesitated. They grabbed the dead man and booked it out of the mine as quickly as they could. Just making it out before the tunnel did indeed collapse behind them.
The canary returned to its regular singing once out of the mine.
Not a single one of those miners; my grandfather included, heard that canary or any other, speak like that again. My grandfather was certain that if the canary hadn’t spoken that all of them working to retrieve that last man would have been buried and died.
When that canary died, he was buried with all the dignity of a human and was given his own highly attended funeral. All the miners who were there that day, came to honour the bird that not only saved their lives but allowed families to bury their loved ones as they wanted to.
I still find it hard to believe that the canary spoke, but it’s also hard to argue with the amount of witnesses. Plus my grandfather loves to tell the story and I won’t tell him what to believe when he was the one who was there.
🐦⬛🐦🐦⬛🪹🪺🐦⬛🐦🐦⬛
So fun fact. I wrote this fairly short story during the duration of a one of the sprints that I've held this year. It came from out of nearly nowhere where, as I certainly never had anything planned like this for Team Chesterton, either this year or previous. I also have only given it a basic once over before posting it. (Mostly out of fear of not deciding to not post it if I leave it too long.) I'm still not super confident about it. Part of that is because of how I wrote it feels very much like a post that you would come across in the wild on this site in some ways. By which I mean I feel like it's more written like a post telling a story than how I typically write stories. Anyways I think I should stop over explaining before this becomes more of a mess than this note might already be.
(Three days after originally posting; post note. I'm pretty sure the nerves about sharing this were more just typical new posting than actually about the style. Because the story does exactly what I intended it to do. Be a quick story told in a way like I'm telling friends/explaining this story that is passed down by family. So I mean it's definitely not that I don't like it, it's just generally not how I write fictional stories. Anyways this is to say that while I might not have been confident, doesn't mean that I don't feel accomplished in what I have written. Now I probably really have over explained at this point.)
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Look to the Birds of the Air
Inklings Challenge 2023 Team Chesterton: Intrusive Fantasy
A quiet day for mother and son may be more than it seems
Look to the Birds of the Air
@inklings-challenge
by Meltintalle
It was a quiet day. A cloudy day, with the world muffled in a soft gray cloak, and tiny bits of moisture flecking the grass. Thousands of worlds were reflected in miniature, each alike and yet unique. Mary brushed a branch on her way back from the mailbox, scattering the droplets to reform anew elsewhere. Her son skipped at her side carrying the nature magazine he'd been watching for since the arrival of the previous one but his eye was caught by a wave of migratory birds shifting positions on a nearby maple tree. Their soft chatter was kin to waves in the shore, an everswelling roll of sound.
Mary lingered in the doorway a moment, caught by the mood of the slow fog, then closed the door and returned to her world of bills to pay and phone calls to make. She caught herself looking out the window and wondering if there was a world somewhere where she would be doing some heroic deed instead.
A clatter from the kitchen shattered her daydream.
"What are you doing?" she asked, finding her son chasing a spoon across the floor. His magazine was open on the table and surrounded by a motley selection of ingredients.
"I have to feed the troops," he explained, emerging triumphant from behind the table leg.
Peanut butter, crackers, and sunflower seeds would have to multiply in an unnatural fashion, and besides…
"What troops?"
He pointed out the kitchen window toward the maple tree where the birds were tucked together for warmth. "Don't you see them? They patrolled here all summer and now they're on to their next posting."
"An army, is it?" asked Mary.
"Oh, yes. We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret."
"I see." Mary looked down at the magazine with a bemused smile. She saw the connection between the project on the glossy spread and the peanut butter, but the army of birds was less easily explained.
"Did you know they migrated?" asked her son, round face serious and concentrated on his task.
"Every year."
"It's amazing. All those miles. I couldn't do it."
True enough. Some days he could barely sit through the ride to his grandmother's house. "Maybe if you were part of a troop–like the birds?"
His eyes gleamed with the new idea as he dropped generous dollops of peanut butter to be mixed with the other ingredients. "Maybe."
Satisfied no further silverware would be dropped, Mary returned to her to-do list. In the other world perhaps feeding the birds was an important endeavor, but here it was a few seeds and a picture.
It was twilight when the bird food was ready, and Mary helped her son carry the tray outside. The cloud cover had torn, scattering glowing pewter across the horizon. Wet grass clung to her feet and Mary watched a wave of birds rise and spiral across the sunset.
Maybe it was more than a few seeds. Maybe it was a child, happily occupied for a few hours.
We don't even know half their missions–they're top secret.
Maybe, she told herself. Maybe it was true.
#inklingschallenge#inklingschallenge2023#team chesterton#theme: food#genre: intrusive fantasy#story: complete
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THE DRAGONS WE SLAY
My entry for this year's @inklings-challenge on Team Chesterson! This was my first year doing this challenge, and though I don't usually write intrusive fantasy, I'm very glad I got put on team Chesterson because it made me step outside my comfort zone.
The story is set in 1895, and is loosely based on the Dragonology Book. It follows seven young Dragonologists as they are assigned to travel to the United States to investigate a disturbance in the world of dragons. The story can be read after the "read more" line.
Word Count: 3625
Nora rubbed her forehead, squinting at the figures Tomas had drawn up. “Explain it again, will you?”
Tomas nodded and pointed to a long number. “This represents the number of dragons counted in North America in 1885. And here–” he moved his finger down “is the number counted this year. The amount has dropped significantly in the past ten years, and we suspect it’s connected to the romanticization of dragon-slaying that has surfaced recently. And here are the numbers compared to the population of dragons in China, England, and South America.” His finger moved in a circular direction around the numbers. “The Dragonologists are worried this ideal will spread to other countries and result in a mass murder of dragons, and eventually several of the species will go extinct from such killings.”
Saanvi frowned from her position sprawled on the chaise longue, her thick black hair tumbling over the armrest. “What’s romantic about killing dragons?” she asked. “If a man wanted my devotion, the worst way to receive it would be to kill a dragon.”
“There are many stories centered around young knights receiving a princess’s hand by slaying a dragon,” said Tomas. “Such stories are often told to children, and those ideas could have set off a chain reaction resulting in an idea that killing a dragon would result in fame and riches. And, unfortunately, the people of the United States have only supported such delusions.”
“Does Theo know all of this?” asked Nora.
Tomas nodded. “I informed him of it before this meeting.”
Saanvi sat up. “Where is Theo? Didn’t he say the meeting would begin at seven?”
“Did he?” asked Nicolas, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole conversation. “I wasn’t paying attention.”
“You’re here, though,” said Tomas. “You must have known when to come.”
“Saanvi got me right before it started,” Nicolas said with a raised-brow smile, his hands pressed in a steeple.
Nora rolled her eyes and settled into her chair, watching the door carefully. It wasn’t like Theo to be late, especially for a meeting he had said was “vitally important”. He had probably been held up by someone at the headquarters, but there was always a chance that something else could have happened.
Thankfully, the door opened and Theo walked in only moments later, his suit unbuttoned and hat placed crookedly on his head. He smiled at the room and dropped a stack of books onto his desk. Tomas perked up, shutting the journal he had so carefully recorded the dragon population in, and sized up the titles of the books Theo had brought in. “Children’s stories?”
Theo nodded. “All about dragons. Almost impossible to get my hands on too. The librarian didn’t want a grown man taking away what could be used for curious children.”
He took off his hat and suit coat, hooking them gently on the coat rack. Underneath the black wool of his suit, he wore a gray and blue waistcoat in paisley designs, subtle enough not to distract the eye. “Did you discuss anything important before I arrived?” he asked as he lowered himself onto the desktop, bracing his hands against the dark lacquered wood.
Tomas shook his head. “I filled them in on the current situation, but otherwise we spoke of nothing important.”
Theo nodded thoughtfully. “And Khepria isn’t here?”
“Khepria isn’t here?” asked Nicolas from the floor where he had been painstakingly sketching the grandfather clock in the corner. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Theo gave him a raised eyebrow and turned back to Tomas. “Did she tell you why she isn’t coming?”
“She said nothing to me,” said Tomas. “Nora?”
Nora wished she had an answer to give, but she didn’t, and her head shake was met with a sigh. “Does anyone know where Khepria is?”
Just as Saanvi opened her mouth as if to answer, the door opened and Khepria entered, her many braids swinging over her shoulders as she not-so-gracefully set down the parcel she had been carrying. “Next time you tell me to pick up your orders, Saanvi, don’t neglect to mention that your two pickups are ten miles apart.”
Saanvi smiled nervously. “Sorry?”
Khepria pressed her lips in a thin line. “You owe me a drink at the bar.”
“Deal.” Saanvi picked up the parcels and flashed a smile in Khepria’s direction. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Khepria sat down in her usual seat, the green wool chair right next to the fireplace. When Nora had asked her why she didn’t get hot sitting so close to the fire, Khepria had just said with an annoyed sneer that it reminded her of Egypt, where she had grown up. Nora supposed it made sense; England and Egypt had very different climates, though she had never been to Africa.
Theo clapped his hands together, snapping everyone’s attention to him. “Dr. Drake has asked us to do something for him,” he said.
“I don’t like where this is going,” whined Nicolas.
Saanvi slapped him on the shoulder. “Hush!”
Theo smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Saanvi. Now, as I was saying, Dr. Drake has proposed something to me, which is partially the reason I was late. As you probably know, the people in the United States have recently been very eager to kill the dragons there, as it has become a symbol of heroism to slay a beast that–though it has little effect on the villages nearby–is in an area close to a town or a heavily populated working site.” He paused to take a breath. “Of course, the Society is horrified by these actions, and they wish for someone to travel to the United States and take care of this problem.”
“And you volunteered us, didn’t you,” said Khepria flatly.
Theo took a deep breath. “Well, yes–”
“Oh, come on!” cried Saanvi. She threw up her hands and gave Theo an impressive glare. “We’ve gone on two missions in the past three months. And all of them have been overseas! Couldn’t you have gotten us an assignment a little closer to home?”
“This mission is more important than patrolling the woods for knuckers,” Theo said, his eyes boring into Saanvi’s. “Dr. Drake even has reason to think that the division of the society in the United States has been corrupted, or that there are spies working for the Dragonologists and using classified information to kill dragons. The implications of this are horrendous. Just imagine if the children here grow up thinking that dragons are creatures to be slain. Would you want that?”
Nora felt Theo’s words sink in. He had a way of making others’ arguments feel petty, though Nora knew that wasn’t what he intended. Saanvi flushed and turned away. “When do we leave?” she asked.
Theo smiled. “Ten days,” he said, clasping his hands together. “We just have to wait for Nikandr to arrive.”
Nora felt her head turn sharply to give him an expression of shock and anger she didn’t think was possible, and in her peripheral vision saw the others do the same. Khepria was the first one to speak.
“Are you out of your mind!” she shouted, her hand flying in the air so fast it looked like a blur. “Nikandr is the worst possible addition to this expedition.”
“As if it wasn’t already bad enough,” Saanvi added.
Nicolas crossed his arms, all of his limbs in roughly the same position. “Really Theo?”
Nora felt an obligation to speak as well, though she tried to fashion her question with a bit more tact than the others had shown. “Are you sure this is the best idea?” she asked quietly. “Nikandr may be smart, but it hasn’t gone well when we’ve had him join us in the past.”
Theo looked at the ground. “It wasn’t my idea. Dr. Drake would like Nikandr to have some practice working in a group he himself is not in charge of. Submitting to authority isn’t his strong suit, apparently.”
“I think we all knew that already,” said Khepria, and Nora had to nod.
“Nevertheless,” said Theo optimistically, seemingly ignoring Khepria’s comment and Nora’s agreement, “he will be joining us and we will treat him with respect, no matter what he does. Understood?”
The group nodded, and Theo pressed his hands together excitedly. “I suppose that’s all for today,” he said. “I’ll purchase our tickets. Prepare to leave for the United States!”
It took them a little over a week to arrive, and by the time they made it to Virginia, Theo had just about lost all patience with Nikandr.
It wasn’t that the man didn’t have manners, or didn’t know how to conduct himself in public. He was a polite fellow when he desired. Unfortunately, those wishes did not seem to appear often.
Nikandr stood a few feet away now, his blonde hair framing his lightly tanned face. Tomas was next to him, and they were arguing about something. Tomas seemed to be losing.
Theo winced as Nikandr made what Theo assumed to be a rather clever jab and Tomas flushed. Tomas may be the smartest person Theo had ever met, but he tended to be rather unpracticed in the art of insulting others. Which, Theo supposed, was a good thing to be bad at, but insults were Nikandr’s specialty, and Theo knew that such wordplay would leave Tomas feeling unintelligent. He felt for his friend, and if he thought he’d be able to keep Nikandr from being so unkind, he would walk over right now and pull the man aside for a talk, preferably one that would leave Nikandr blushing as hard as Tomas.
Theo shook the thoughts from his head. No, that wasn’t the way to do things. He would continue his method, one he had assured Nora would work the night before when she had stomped into Theo’s room and issued a loud complaint about Nikandr’s behavior. Theo had been confident then, assuring her that all things would work out. But now, seeing how Nikandr squashed Tomas with just his little finger, he wasn’t so sure.
As Tomas hurried away from Nikandr’s presence Theo got closer, until both young men stood next to each other at the railing. Theo glanced carefully at Nikandr. “What were you and Tomas talking about.”
He tried to keep his tone jovial, but Nikandr must have sensed that Theo was pretending because he laughed and said, “I’m sure it won’t take you long to figure out.”
Theo frowned. “You know, the rest of the team is petitioning to have you sent back to England.”
They weren’t. Theo had made it clear that Nikandr was staying through the whole mission. But a little intimidation couldn’t hurt.
Nikandr shrugged. “Then send me back.”
“I’m not going to do that.”
This made Nikandr laugh. “And why is that?”
Theo faced the water, watching the port grow closer. He squinted his eyes against the wind and said, “I believe that you can learn to work with the others. Stay long, and you’ll learn that we’re in need of fresh perspectives.”
“You’re just reaching for words.”
“Maybe.” Theo shrugged. “I just want you to know that you’ll have a place in this crew no matter what. Don’t forget it.” He clapped Nikandr on the back and made his way to the other side of the boat, where he could see Nicolas’s tall frame dancing to the band on the deck.
Theo made his rounds, engaging in short conversations with his entire crew until he finally came to Nora, who leaned against the rail, her chestnut curls pinned back in a loose twist at the nape of her neck. A few strands of hair had escaped, and they blew in the wind, dancing with the currents. Theo settled himself next to her, watching her eyes roam the tops of the waves.
“Are you looking for something in particular?” he asked, and Nora shook her head. “I’m just watching,” she said, turning to smile at Theo. “Watching and waiting.”
“Aren’t we all,” murmured Theo as Nora turned back to the ocean, her brow furrowing in concentration. The sudden urge to reach out and smooth the wrinkles between Nora’s brow came over Theo’s body, and his hand twitched. He smiled to disguise the movement. “The captain says we’ll reach port in about half an hour. When we do, be ready to leave. I’ve already told the others, but if you would make sure Nicolas is prepared . . .”
Nora laughed. “I can do that.”
Theo smiled. “Thank you.”
Saanvi kept next to Nicolas as Theo asked around about areas heavy with dragons. A few sailors laughed at him and said that lads who went looking for a kill would be roasted, but several people gave helpful advice and pointed the group towards a town in the rural parts of the state. Theo bought train tickets, and they all crammed into a train compartment.
The ride began in silence. Tomas pulled out a book, Nora went through her bag, and Khepria spent the first thirty minutes with her eyes pressed closed. Then Theo turned to Nikandr and asked, “Do you miss Russia?”
Saanvi relished the momentary look of shock that crossed Nikandr’s face, but the boy shook himself off only a second later. “A bit,” he said, shrugging. The display of indifference was convincing, but Saanvi could see through the show. He did miss his home, a feeling Saanvi herself understood very deeply. She had lived in London for the past five years, but almost every day she wished she was back in India, wrapped in jewel-toned silks with her mother and father and siblings. But she had left them for a different life, and though she missed home, she didn’t regret her decision to come to London.
“What is Russia like?” asked Nicolas. He shook his light brown hair. “I hear it’s cold.”
“It is,” said Nikandr. “You get used to it after a while, though.”
“Why did you leave?” asked Nora. She seemed genuinely interested, and Saanvi thought she saw Theo glance over with approval. Saanvi recalled that Nora and Khepria had been the most resistant to Theo’s plan to include Nikandr in their group. Nora had told Saanvi that Theo had been insistent, even after the voyage on the ship, during which Nikandr had been rather horrible.
Nikandr tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair. His blue eyes were pointed at the floor, seemingly intent on the interlocking pattern of the rug. Then he said, “Russians aren’t too keen on the whole Dragonology venture. Tsar Nicholas is vehement that the sciences be kept strictly to the government, and that common folk shouldn’t dabble in them.”
Saanvi got the sense that such a statement was an oddity coming from Nikandr. She smiled kindly, and for a moment, Nikandr seemed to give her a similar expression. Then he turned to the window, his pointed nose facing the glass.
Nicolas sighed deeply. “Will we arrive soon?” he asked, his voice almost a whine. Saanvi laughed and elbowed him. “We only just got on the train,” she said. “Distract yourself or something.”
“Distracting myself is a feat I don’t think I’ve managed to accomplish yet.”
Khepria opened one eye and raised the corresponding brow. “Yet you always seem to get distracted.”
Even Nikandr laughed, though it was quiet, and he continued to look away. But Theo seemed to brighten, and even Tomas looked up from his book. Perhaps Theo has been right. Perhaps including Nikandr was the right decision.
Nora wished she hadn’t packed so many things as she carried her bag through the station. It had been a horrible decision to bring all her equipment, and Theo had told her that she should pack light. But she had insisted that she would need everything and was regretting that decision now as her shoulder began to ache.
“They’re saying that the dragons have been attacking,” said Theo as they made their way across the fields. “I have a hard time believing that, and if there have been dragon attacks, they must have been provoked.”
Nikandr raised an eyebrow. “You have a hard time believing there have been dragon attacks?”
Theo nodded.
Nikandr laughed derisively. “Then that smoke must be from a bonfire.”
Theo’s head snapped in the direction Nikandr pointed. Indeed, a column of black smoke rose from the fields nearby, drifting through the wind. Nora was surprised she hadn’t picked up the scent before. It was one she had smelled more often than she wished to admit.
“Tomas?” asked Theo.
Tomas cocked his head. “It certainly looks like dragon smoke. The color is too dark to be from a typical campfire, and it has the proper scent. We can only be certain if we check.”
Theo gestured to Nikandr. “Lead the way.”
Nikandr bowed in Theo’s direction. “Nothing would please me more.”
Nora sighed as they turned to the smoke, groaning as she anticipated the ache in her shoulder and back.
By the time they arrived, Khepria’s shirtsleeves were stuck to her arms with sweat and her face dripped with the liquid. She flipped her braids from one shoulder to the net for the millionth time, feeling a faint breeze on her skin from the lack of weight. Then the heat pressed back down on her.
She may have said she enjoyed the heat of Africa, but she had grown far too accustomed to the coolness of London. The others looked worse off, especially Nikandr, who had shed his red wool coat and had rolled his shirtsleeves up. Nicolas had taken off his teal waistcoat, and Nora’s face was flushed deep red. She grunted as she let her bag drop to the ground. Khepria decided she didn’t want to know how heavy the thing was.
“This is definitely the work of a dragon,” said Tomas. He was the only one who looked unaffected by the heat, but that may have been because he was only dressed in a thin white shirt and trousers instead of the suits the other boys wore, and the vests and skirts the girls had donned.
In front of them lay a scar, a village burnt to the ground. The grass around the village was scorched and gone. Khepria saw Nora crouch down and take a vial from her bag. She filled it with ash and set a cork in the top before sticking it back with her supplies.
Theo looked the most mournful of them all. He did have the strongest ideals, and Khepria figured that the broiled bodies strewn about the ground pained him. Saanvi had her head turned away, and Nicolas looked serious for once. Even Nikandr had lost his usual cockiness.
Theo stepped forward and kneeled next to the burnt body of a little girl. He touched one of the intact fingers. “We should bury them,” he said in a whisper, his voice lifted by the bitter wind. Nicolas nodded, a sharp movement that Saanvi copied. Tomas, who had been pulling the handcart with their bags, set down the handles and began searching the carnage.
Khepria joined them a moment later. She assumed they were looking for a shovel or something similar, and when Nora held up a slightly charred shovel her suspicions were confirmed. Theo took the shovel and began to dig a grave. Soon, the others joined with their own shovels. Those who didn’t have any gathered the bodies, dragging them to the newly dug graves.
Khepria’s hands had never felt dirtier, yet some invisible force made her continue. She didn’t know if it was Nicolas’s smile or Tomas’s constant badgering or Theo’s unwavering energy, but whatever it was gave her strength until the final bit of dirt was laid on the final grave. Khepria heaved a deep sigh and felt whatever had kept her going wither away until she was an empty husk of herself.
They had spent all night burying the village, and the sun had just begun to paint brushstrokes of orange and pink on the horizon. Theo turned to Tomas. “Is there a prayer for the dead?” he asked, his voice soft in the stillness of the cool morning air.
Without answering, Tomas stepped forward and bowed his head, his close-cut dark hair damp with sweat, his golden skin glimmering with little beads of the liquid. He faced the plain white stones they had used to mark the graves and began his prayer.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen.
I commend you, my dear brothers and sisters, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator.
May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth.
May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life.
May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace.
May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise.
May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock.
May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen. Amen.”
The final vestiges of the prayer drifted away. Khepria wasn’t keen on Catholic prayers. There were too many words, too little action. Though she didn’t believe in the Egyptian gods, she preferred their method. Sacrifices, a few simple words, then indifference until the next day.
Theo placed a hand on Tomas’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said softly.
They stood silently for a few more minutes, watching the sun bathe the fresh graves in golden light, the carnage of the village resplendent in the glowing sunshine. The wind picked up, and for a moment, Khepria thought she could hear laughter from the graves. Perhaps the Catholic saints had come.
#genre: intrusive fantasy#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#theme: burial#story: complete#original work#short story#dragonology
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Ugh so I am not happy with how my @inklings-challenge story is turning out. I like the idea, don't think it's executed the best and it's not done, but I want to publish some of it anyway. Maybe sharing some of it will help. This as been a great exercise so far for me though. Any feedback is appreciated.
I fully intend to rework this into something bigger. I've got other ideas...
Anyway. Here is part of Strange Gods.
Look, you won’t be hearing telling this story at any other time, but it’s a party and I’m a little drunk. You know how it is, after almost everyone’s gone home, it’s late August and the air’s warm but it’s almost midnight and it’s got that coolness in the air, plastic chairs are huddled around a dying fire and it’s only the friends that are closer than brothers. The heart’s nocturnal. I guess this is when it comes out.
So here we are and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you and I don’t care what you think. Well. I guess that’s not true. I don’t know if we did the right thing. But you’re not the one we have to answer to.
Since Brad brought you in with us, I guess you know we used to be a band. Strange Gods. Ever heard of it? Well, little before your time. We were never big. Mostly local shows and Metal Fests. Opened for some bigger names a couple times. We had fun, we had hair longer than our girlfriends’ and sometimes more makeup then them too. Mostly we were just guys in jeans and T-shirts with a passion for music. We fancied ourselves artists. My wife calls music “the art most like divinity”. Like how God could just speak and His words obeyed and music is a little like that. Ours was more like a sneeze than divine speech maybe but she loved it still. I still play for her, sometimes.
Oh the best part was the fans. The girls. You know how it is. You’re kinda weird in high school, a little awkward, but then you start strumming on a guitar, you say oh yeah I play drums in a band and suddenly you’re doing ok.
The worst part? The fans. We weren’t too big, but you’d get recognized every now and again. Sometimes it was all cool, just talking about music and shit. Other times people got a little weird. They thought oh, here’s someone famous, and then you’re almost not human to them anymore. But it was usually alright. And there was one in particular that I—none of us—will ever forget.
The kid was a local. Not much younger than us, but a hell of a lot more awkward. It was alright though. He wore these glasses and those kinds of shirts with full moons and yellow-eyed wolves scattered on the front and he’d sort of talk at the ground instead of at you and he loved the fact that a lot of our songs were based on local history and legend—half-hanged witches, wolves with a thirst for human flesh in winter, earth that won’t accept the dead—a lot of what you’d expect. Well this kid’s name was…I’ll call him Louis. Louis met us at Outer Realms (you know that pub on 114th?) after a very small gig, but we hadn’t been in Strange Gods for very long, so even small gigs were celebrated. Maybe we would have been more weirded out by this kid kinda staring and shyly shuffling up to us if we were sober but you know what, it was ok. Jason even let him have one of his guitar picks and we got him a beer, which he accepted enthusiastically but didn’t drink once. He said he loved having someone write songs about all the stories his dad told him as a kid. He said if we wanted more inspiration, he could help us. He collected stories, he said, the ones you whispered at sleepovers and summer camps, the ones that changed a little bit every time you told them, the ones almost nobody really believed. And we were like, hell yeah brother. That’s how Louis became our consultant for lyrics. Winter Walker, Thy Iron Refine, and Dance at the Bottom of the Sea all had songs with lyrics by him. But he never wanted credit, never wanted his name listed on the albums. He just seemed content to hang out at our house and tell us stories. Whenever we went on tour he would ask us to collect legends of the cities we visited. Brad told him he was welcome to join us but he just smiled at the ground and shook his head. He liked it here. Why would anyone ever want to leave?
Louis was friends with us for almost two years. He even spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with us since he didn’t have anyone else since his dad had died. He worked two part-time jobs, one at Seeny’s Pizza Arcade and one at the post office sorting letters, but most evenings and weekends he would come join us, sometimes bringing over a new boardgame all the way from Europe or a home-baked apple-pie (this guy could bake). Or he’d go on long walks wandering in the woods and fields outside town.
One day in November Louis didn’t show up for our usual Saturday night jam. We were working on the song Night Rite for the album that ended up being Seven Red Seeds and he was supposed to show up and work on lyrics with me and Jason. We were supposed to be filming a music video to go along with the new release and that was pretty exciting. But the kid never showed. We shrugged it off. After all, he was a bit of a loner. Besides us he didn’t seem to have any friends. He took long walks, sometimes after midnight.
Yeah. I’ll have to answer for not looking a little harder sooner.
Brad tried calling him Sunday with no pick-up. We drove down to the house that he rented from Mrs. Ozeki, but she said he want out on one of his little tramps at around 4pm yesterday, but she hadn’t heard him come in.
No, it’s alright. I’m fine, I’m just getting a little too sober I guess. I mean it’s not alright but it has to be.
We reported his disappearance after checking in with his work and learning he didn’t show up there either. The police investigated us, briefly. We were basically the only people he hung out with and maybe all the songs about murdered kings and lost whaling ships freaked them out a bit. Ultimately they ruled us out. They ruled almost everything out.
Brad, Jason, and I were all volunteers for when they swept the woods in long lines looking for scraps of clothing, his glasses, anything. I remember us all looking at each other, thinking the same thing, but Jason was the only one who said it out loud. He said, I don’t want to be the one to find his body.
The most they found when they swept the woods was his camera. Someone else had found it and we never got to see what exactly was on the film. Someone clearly has. The newspapers speculated about if it had held any clues, but any questions for the Sheriffs department was met with a “we do not believe the photographs from the victim’s camera hold any information about what led to his disappearance.” Yeah, bullshit. We heard stories around about most of the pictures just being of the few remaining winter robins, which Louis loved. And then everyone had a different version of what was on the last three. Some said close shots of a man in a red windbreaker. Some said blurry images of a great white wolf like the legends.
But the one that we all thought sounded the most real, was that of a field. You know the one near the old Pressfield cemetery? Photos of seemingly nothing but brown grass and gray skies but in the distance what looks like an enormous black bird flying near the ground. And over the last few photographs, the thing gets closer and closer, until the last picture is a smeared mess of Louis turning around, I guess to run. I don’t know for sure though. I pray to Christ I never do.
What we saw was enough.
In the end the case ran absolutely cold. They had nothing. If some psycho got him, he left no trace. If he got hurt and died of exposure, where was the body? If an animal got him, where was the blood and torn clothing? He sure as hell didn’t just ditch town out the blue.
We took a little time off from everything. It just didn’t feel right, you know, writing about death and ghost stories when our weird little friend had just become one. I’ll always wonder. If he thought, you know, this is fitting. To become what I have always chased. God I’m still drunk. Of course not. You don’t think about all the badness you write songs about until you can’t even bury someone’s son.
His uncle and a few cousins came down to collect his things and clear everything up. The oldest cousin met with us a few times, let us know that she was glad Louis had had some people here after his dad had passed away. She invited us to the little funeral they had at Salve Regina Church. Brad almost didn’t go. He gave in eventually but he sat in the back and didn’t stay afterward. No, I’d never been until then. There were moments, you know, moments where I forgot why we were there and the strange chants and the candles and the silence dropped over you like heavy night and bright day and I remember looking at the wrinkled man in black and gold and thinking, this is crazy and I think I’m wanting to be crazy too.
The priests shook our hands as we left and spoke to us about Louis and about how he would pray for us and ask the other Fathers to pray for us too. And they nodded and smiled gravely and the taller one, Father Nicholas, said, we will be happy to see you next Sunday. And Jason said we’d think about it.
Eventually we had to get going with life again. Things felt a little more somber. I mean really somber, not this adolescent misery we’d been playing with. We stopped going to Outer Realms after every work day, Brad flushed all our weed. It just felt cheap. Jason spent more time with his little sisters during his free time, Brad flew back to Chicago for a few days during Christmas to spend it with his parents. Me? I hung around. My future wife was here and that’s where I wanted to be.
It was mid-February when our producer started kicking us to get back into finishing our songs and making the music video that had been put on hold. And you know I guess without really discussing it, we knew what we wanted to do.
Dies Irae isn’t our most famous song, but I don’t care, it’s our best. When we talked it over with our producer, we drew a hard line: Pressfield cemetery. That old one where they found that kid’s camera? Yeah, that’s the one. We want it filmed there.
That’s what we said and that’s what we did. And yeah, old natures die hard, it was still over-the-top, it still had some goth-looking girls (one of whom eventually became my wife), and when we got there it was freezing and gray and brown-iced earth. It was still us and we hoped it would still be Louis.
We had a couple of days to film. On the first day Jason went for a little walk around the perimeter of the cemetery, fingers red from the cold as he held his cigarette, and when he came back around he looked a little jumpy. He said, I don’t like it here. Them birds are talking. Talking? Yeah talking. Well, laughing.
It felt weird being there again. There was a feeling in the air even from the film crew that had never been there before. One said it was bad luck to be walking around all these bodies and the only reason he was doing this was because he needed the money.
And it was weird to think that the gravestone that had Louis’s name carved into it was just a false monument.
On the third and last day it started pouring rain. Just pounding. You couldn’t hardly see a damned thing in front of you. It was the kinda rain that hurt when it hit you it was coming down so hard.
We were packing up, almost everyone had left, when Jason comes up to our pick-up and asks if we heard a weird noise. Weird noise? Well hell yeah, those girls were wild. No, he says, I ain’t kidding. Like a growl but more human. Like a scream, but more animal. Well, we kind of laugh at him, say it’s probably a cougar. And before Brad can make a joke about that—
There it is. It’s not a scream. It’s something that slices through the tombstones and rattles the eardrums so it was a sound—but of what I don’t know. I don’t know. Everyone got this look, this dead look like the world fell out beneath our feet. Nobody said a word. It sounded like it had come from somewhere in the middle of the cemetery. And there was a smell too. You know when it rains it mixes up the dirt and the plants and it just shocks you with the scent? It was like that, but as if the dirt was freshly dug and something rotten was unearthed.
And like I said, you couldn’t hardly see. Just dark blotches where the graves were blinking in and out of sight between raindrops. We just stood there, watching, listening. My heart has never pounded harder. I saw those rumors in my mind of gray skies and something big flying towards you and those are the last pictures you ever take.
Finally nothing happens and we start looking at each other, feeling like of course it was just an animal prowling around. Gosh, you had us scared man. Let’s get the hell out, let’s get back to my place, I’m cooking alfredo and Brad’s got a couple of bottles from the producer’s vineyard. Sure it was nice of him to share. Yeah actually I did get that girl’s number, the one with the green eyes? Come on, get the heat on, I’m freezing.
And we’re driving away, the noise forgotten—except Jason keeps looking out the rear window, just quick little checks. I pretend not to notice. But he twitches a couple of times, opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but no. He keeps quiet. Eventually he stops looking and seems to relax.
I don’t stop though. And a couple of times through the sheets of rain and the obstruction of the trees, I wonder if I see something wet, dark, and shiny slinking along the road. But it’s impossible to tell.
I get up the next morning and find this thing slung across the back porch. The ground is still soaked from last night’s rain but it hasn’t managed to wash away the shear amount of blood that’s coating the concrete patio. And I need you to get this. It was so much blood. You could’ve splashed around it. My stomach almost couldn’t take it. My sense of smell certainly didn’t.
Brad and Jason got up because of the smell. They shuffled out like the dead awakened and found me staring at this thing on the porch. Jason started retching and I told him to puke in the sink. I wasn’t about to clean up this thing and then clean up after him. What the hell is it? Brad says. Who cares? It’s got to get off the porch. Looks like a malformed-newlyborn-mut or something. Maybe it got suckered by a car.
We dug it as deep as we could and it crossed my mind that, damn, maybe we shouldn’t have a thing that smells that bad, a thing that looks that rotted decomposing God knows what into the soil. And Brad didn’t say anything but I knew we were thinking the same thing. Something about it just feels wrong. Like we shouldn’t be touching it. Like we shouldn’t have even looked at it. It crossed my mind that maybe Father Nicholas could come over and do whatever it is priests do to make things clean.
The paws though, check those out. They kinda look like hands, thinking maybe it’s a raccoon but the bastards too big. Good lord, it looks almost rotten. Maybe something else dropped it off. On the porch? On my porch man? Get the hose too, we got to wash off the whole backyard after this. Get the shovel and help me out—of course we’re going to bury it, that’s just what you do. Something’ll dig it out of the trash if we chuck it in there. It looks sorry enough, that’s just what you do.
How big? Maybe about four feet long. It looked pathetic and disgusting and I didn’t tell Brad this but I almost was glad. Maybe that ain’t it. But it felt right that we had our shovels and we were digging a hole and we were going to lay this bloody pulp in it. Father Nicholas once told me about things being fitting. And I guess that’s what it was, fitting.
No, I didn’t, make that connection, between this thing and what we heard in Pressfield cemetery. Not yet. But you know how it is. You never think you’re going to get a story out of something while you’re in it.
The thing was buried and we scrubbed ourselves off and then moved on with our day. Jason seemed much quieter, but he’d been that way since Louis vanished. So maybe it was nothing.
During the night I drempt I was on a boat. It was a boat that my parents had taken me to once, on a family vacation to Main. It was white and blue and unlike that July day years ago, the sea was wine-red and wild with storm. The waves were flooding the deck and the red foam left behind looked like clumps of flesh. I was stumbling around, looking for my mom or my dad or anyone at all—but the deck was empty. I found the door that led down into the lower deck, and the wood was almost black. I put my hand against the icy door, about to push it open, but somehow through the crashing of the waves I heard a scratch, like a single long claw dragging from the top of the frame all the way down to the bottom. I pressed my ear to the door. I don’t think I was breathing. And I listened to the scratching go all the way back up and down, slowly, over and over again.
When I woke up, it was still dark and at first I was thinking I was still sleeping. The scratching sound was still ringing in my ears, and I sat up trying to shake it away. My stomach churned. The clock said 2:36 A.M. I turned my head to the small window that looked into the dark backyard and realized that the scratching noise was coming from that direction. A long, slow scratch from the top of the window to the bottom.
I wasn’t as scared as you’d think. Maybe I was still too asleep, maybe all my panic had been used up over the last few days but I found myself crawling over to the window and just—waiting. I couldn’t see jack. I hadn’t flicked on my lamp. I just waited until the scratching started over at the top and I followed it down the glass, trying to see something, anything. But all I could see was what looked like a glint of a knife and a clearly defined scratch down the middle of the pane. And that’s when it kicked in, me getting scared. Someone was dragging a Goddamn knife down my window.
The most sensible thing to do, or at least the most sensible thing my half-awake brain could think of to do, was go wake up Brad and get the rifles from underneath his bed. He was not happy. He told me I should quite drinking so much before bed, but eventually he got up, gun on his shoulder.
I kept the light off and nodded to my window. We held our breath listening. Brad got closer, looking out into the blackness. The scratching had stopped and I didn’t see anything outside. But Brad noticed the crack in the glass and suddenly looked very awake.
I’m going to go check outside, he said, and as he headed toward the back door, the one closest to my bedroom, there was a series of loud slams that sounded like a person jumping off the roof. At this point Jason was up, and he’s asking what the hell was going on and Brad told him there’s a wildcat clawing Steve’s window or some crap. I’m going to fire a shot up and scare it away.
But two things happened before Brad could slide open the back door. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but there was an familiar smell that had been growing steadily stronger, a rotten, turned-earth smell, and I couldn’t say anything except stop. Don’t open it, wait.
And Jason, stone still looking out the back window at the porch right behind the door, called out the same thing. Stop.
That’s not a cougar. You gotta look.
I’m telling you, we did look. And there was the slimy pink thing with long skinny limbs crouched in front of the back door. It looked like it had a fleshy cape on its back and it twitched as if in pain. We watched unmoving as one long claw flicked up, digging into the door, dragging it down slowly to the ground, and then repeating the act, slowly, slowly.
And you just knew, you just knew, this was the thing that wasn’t supposed to be here.
No, no way, Brad was saying, this is getting too weird. We buried this thing. We put it in the ground. And it crawled out. And we saw it. It was dead. We threw it in the hole and it got back up.
Jason was still watching the thing as it lay on the doorstep. We don’t know if it was actually dead, he said. He said it in a whisper. Well you didn’t bury it, says Brad.
***
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Inklings Challenge Story Archive
2021 Inklings Challenge
2021 Team Lewis Story Archive
2021 Team Tolkien Story Archive
2021 Team Chesterton Story Archive
2022 Inklings Challenge
2022 Team Lewis Story Archive
2022 Team Tolkien Story Archive
2022 Team Chesterton Story Archive
#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge 2021#inklings challenge 2022#inklings challenge stories#team lewis#team tolkien#team chesterton#genre: portal fantasy#genre: space travel#genre: secondary world#genre: time travel#genre: intrusive fantasy
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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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Stars and Shadows: A Fairy Tale
An extremely experimental piece I've decided to submit for @inklings-challenge.
If you wait patiently, there will come a day--in a month, in a year, in a hundred-thousand hopeful days--when you will stare outside into the deep blue-black of a cold winter night and not be able to tell the snowflakes from the stars. It will call to your heart and pull you from the warmth and light of home--wrapped up in coats and boots, scarves and gloves, and one thick woolen blanket thrown over your shoulders like a cloak--in the hope of becoming, even for a moment, a part of the beauty of this moment of creation.
The cold of night will bite your face and steal your breath, but in a moment, you will find yourself racing across the white expanse, snow crunching beneath your boots, soul expanding toward the shining heavens in one upward rush of joy. As soon as home and family are safely out of view, you will slow from your sprint and find yourself content to amble, and wonder, and be, with the shy, slender moon watching patiently above.
You will carry no light, for the world will be light, with the moon and the stars and the snow wrapping all the world in bright illumination. Your breath will shine before you in delicate white clouds, your very life made visible for the fragile, lovely thing it is. In the silence you will hear the snowflakes fall, hear the hushed sound of your footfalls, feel every beat of your strong and pulsing heart.
And then, if you close your eyes and listen long enough, just at the moment when your heart is near to breaking from the beauty of it all, you will hear a cry. For a moment you might think it a phantom of thought, your own soul giving voice to all the aching loveliness that surges through you, but then, you will hear it again. Over and over, thin and wailing, the cry of a child newly born horrified to find the world so great and cold.
The sound will travel like an arrow in that crisp, cold air, and you will follow it without hesitation--over a rise, down a hill, through a twisting stand of trees and countless banks of snow, and at last to an old well, such as you've only seen in illustrations--a construction of wood and stones, covered with moss and aged with time, that you can say with certainty was not there a day before.
Standing by that well will be, not an infant, but a child. A little girl three years old, reaching desperately for the rim of the well and crying for water. Everything about her--her skin, her hair, her eyes--will be white as the snow she stands in, and she will gleam faintly with the light of the stars above, and she will wear nothing but thin, white rags, torn at the edges and singed at the ends, a ragged line of ash the only color in her form.
You will notice all these things and think it strange, and then you will forget everything because the child is crying. You will find a wooden bucket on a chain by the well, and in sheer desperation you will throw it down, though there will be nothing but ice in an open well on a night so cold.
But to your shock, you will hear a splash, and you will pull up a bucket full of liquid water that looks like light itself. You will give it to the girl--you would not dream of taking even a drop for yourself--and she will drink with cupped hands and lapping tongue, and gaze at you with silent gratitude.
When she has drained the last drop, the faint gleam of light around her form will become a white glow. She will seem a bit taller--perhaps a bit older than you first assumed--and for the first time, she will seem to feel the cold. She will shiver and wail and curl in on herself, and you will suddenly understand--or at least bless--your mad impulse to take a blanket out into the night. You will take it from your shoulders and wrap it round her form, head to foot, with only her shining white face peering out. Then you will take her in your arms, settle her on one hip, and carry her across the vast expanse of snow toward your home.
It will be a long trip--you have walked a long way--and before you have gone far, the child will grow too heavy for your strength. You will look to her and find that the blanket you have wrapped around her no longer seems so large, and clings more closely to her form--like something between a deep blue dress and cloak--so you will feel safe in setting her on the ground and letting her walk beside you, her thin white hand in yours.
You will wonder for a moment if you've fallen into a dream, for all seems so strange and perfect--the light, the snow, this silent child--but the bite of the cold and the burn of your legs will assure you that you remain in the waking world. Yet you won't think to question the child--who or what she is, or from whence she arrived--because she is so like the snow and the light and the stars of this crisp, cold night--things that do not become, but simply are. Your wonder make peace with the night's mystery.
The way back will seem longer than you remember--the trees taller, the stars brighter, the air colder. The night will seem large and you so very small, but you will not be afraid, for there is one beside you too innocent for fear. You will walk in the tracks you left on your way, stretching between footfalls that seem much more distant than you expected. Yet the moon will look larger, and you will take comfort in that. You will need the comfort before long.
For just when you are in the very midst of the trees, you will hear a sound from the shadows--dark and dangerous, like the growl of a wolf or the rumble of a distant train. And then the shadows will seem to take shape, growing arms and legs, teeth and claws, and they will gather in a great black wall that blocks the way you mean to take.
The voice that speaks will be less of a voice, and more like the clench of fear in your chest, the monster that mocks you as you lay awake at midnight with all the shame and sorrows of your wasted youth.
We will have the child.
You will know that the voice promises death for disobedience, and you will know to the depths of your soul that you would rather die than obey. You will hold the child close, and she will cling to your neck, and you will sprint with all your strength back toward the well. The shadows will surge and swirl around you, grabbing at your clothes, tearing at your face, and once--only once--drawing blood that drips a red path upon the snow.
You will sprint through the snow and twine through the trees, each step seeming a mile, each moment a lifetime. The shadows will gather--closer, darker--and the light of the child in your arms will fade with fear.
At last, you will see the well at the base of the hill, seeming to shine in a circle of light. If you can reach it, you know, you will be safe--every childhood game seeming suddenly like training for this very moment.
And yet, at the very edge of the clearing--somehow you always knew this would happen--you will lose your footing and fall face-first into the snow. You will shield the child's face from the snow by holding her close, and you will shield her body with your own. The shadows will fall upon you, tearing you to pieces. Your very body will seem to dissolve in pain.
Through their snarling, the shadows will promise relief, if you will only relent--the child's life for yours. Not so great a sacrifice, is it, for a child you've known for mere minutes? These words will tear at your mind, but it is your heart that will reply, drawing strength for defiance from you know not where. And you will. not. move.
You will feel the night fading--the stars and the snow and even the cold growing distant, like some faraway world in which you have no part. Even the pain will seem like something happening long ago and far away to some ancient hero in a dusty, tattered book. Yet you will feel the child beneath you, her beating heart still alive against yours, and that hope will keep you clinging to the tatters of breath in your body.
Then, at last, there will be light. So bright that it blazes white even through your closed eyes. The shadows will crumble like ash, retreat like the dark from a flame, and the destruction of your battered form will cease. The child you shelter will cry with joy.
A gentle touch will lift your shoulder so you lay on one side, and attempt to pull the child from your arms.
With a cry of defiance, you will hold her with what remains of your strength.
But then a voice will flow through you, lovely and feminine, like water and winter and moonlight given tongue. Peace.
Peace will come, perfect and pure, and you will release the child without fear. But without her presence, your need for strength will fade, and all your pain will come rushing in upon you, dark and hot and crushing, and you will have no strength to hold it back.
Absurdly, you will be most aware of an all-consuming thirst. Tears will pour from you--precious, wasted droplets. Then it will be you, and not the child, who cries for water. Then it will be the child who will draw water from the well and put the shining liquid to your lips.
You will drink, and the first mouthful will bring the cold climbing back upon you. But you will welcome it as re-entry into this world, and drink deep, again and again, until you find yourself freezing, but wholly alive, your wounds as if they never were. You will sit and gaze up at a woman dressed in midnight blue, as white and glowing as the child, who clings to her as she would to a mother, and you will find yourself alight with the same glow.
You have served my daughter well, that lovely inner voice will say again. Come and be at peace.
She will turn your eyes toward the heavens, and offer you a place there in the shining light, far from the troubles of this dark world. It will draw you as the snowflakes drew you from the warmth of home, so many long moments ago. Yet you will find yourself standing, and bowing your head, and with utmost humility refusing the honor. You will not leave this world, be there ever so many shadows, while there is still more beauty to behold.
The woman will smile, pleased with your answer, and the light surrounding you will fade. And you will see your home alight on a nearby hillside, waiting for your return.
You will say your farewells to the child--who embraces you with gratitude--and turn your path toward home. The child and her mother will do the same, fading as the sunset fades with the coming of night. And you will notice two stars in the sky above where you had noticed none before.
You will smile up at them and walk home--warm, alive and fearless. There will be no more shadows lurking along your path. But high above, and all around, you will know there is--and always will be--light.
#adventures in writing#have this weird fairy tale#i threw this together on a whim with this morning's writing session#i've been wanting to write a fairy tale#and to write something in second-person future-tense#and to write something in a self-indulgently florid style#and i guess this is what resulted#and i'm debating whether to make it an official team chesterton entry#i'd still write a 'real' story#but i want to run this by you guys first#to see if this is worth sharing further or if it's too weird and self-indulgent#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#theme: drink#theme: clothing#story: complete
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The Rainy Hyades and Desert Hills
My 2023 @inklings-challenge entry for Team Chesterton!
Frankly I kind of hate this piece; it was planned to be part 1 of 3 but it is not working out at all. I'm glad I participated this year, though, even if intrusive fantasy is far from my preferred genre. Father Rivas is a recurring character of mine; people who've read any of my other horror writing set in modern-ish times might recognize the name.
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The church is on the edge of town, with only a small parking lot and an old wire fence separating it from the sagebrush flats and the grit-red hills beyond. March came in warm this year, and rainier than usual, the storms carving divots of silver water into the gritty earth. Little pockets of scarlet and orange flowers grow in the shadows of the desert hills, half-hidden by the gray spines of sage.
Stations of the Cross are over, and the following fish fry is winding down in the dim evening light. Overhead, the steel-blue sky plays reluctant host to a spangling of early stars.
Father Rivas leans back against the clapboard side of the little church, keeping a sharp eye on the little groups of children playing in the lot. The adults are clustered around the grill and picnic table, the murmur of voices crescendoing now and then in laughter. A few beers were briefly brought out and shooed away– it is still Lent, after all. Almost Laetare Sunday. (Laetare, Jerusalem.)
Rivas is still a young man, but his back gives him trouble. The priest’s lanky frame can usually be found leaning on something, propped up at an angle like an abandoned scarecrow in black. He doesn’t miss much, despite preferring the company of the desert to that of his congregation. It’s been almost six years since he came out here; not far from his hometown, but smaller. A municipality and not a proper town, constantly threatened by the red-gold desert grit and the encroaching tumbleweeds. He likes it out here, even if he has to chase snakes and scorpions out of the sanctuary from time to time. The people are nice, but they don’t mind too much if you spend a lot of time staring out across the sagebrush flats, or if it takes a few tries for you to answer when you’re spoken to.
“Eden,” he calls warningly, as one particularly tall girl breaks away from the others and heads for the fence, “Be careful out there. Darkness sets in fast out here.”
Eden turns to look back at him, her amber eyes catching flame off of the single yellow porch light in front of the church. She leads most of the children here, and often leads them into trouble– though in fairness to her, they’re usually long out of the trouble by the time any grown-ups catch on. She’s clever, and unfortunately knows it.
“Rest assured, I won’t go far,” she says lightly. “But the starlight’s bright enough for me. I have good night vision.” She hops over the fence, and Rivas starts splitting his attention between her and the other children. A few of the younger kids run up to the edge of the fence, grabbing onto the old wooden fenceposts, and he sighs and disengages himself from his comfortable wall to go pick up Jasper, age four, and return him to the circle of porch-light.
From what he understands, there’s been a schism of sorts in the children over the last few months. Perhaps it started earlier, with the summer baseball team (the Woodpeckers.) Some of the boys from the baseball team have started their own little operation, with a base built somewhere out in the desert. Seems that Eden takes this as an insult; she’s been getting into fights with their unofficial leader, Asher. Both of them were dragged to Confession a few weeks ago after an incident with a baseball bat.
What is she doing going out into the desert at night?
There’s a bright flash of light overhead, and a shooting star– a low-flying airplane– a white bird burning– arcs across the sky, stunningly blue-white. Rivas barely has time to track it across the firmament before it strikes the horizon, afterimages blurring his vision in its wake.
“What was that? Did you see that?” calls Eden, running back towards the fence. He blinks a few times, the bruise-bright echo of light fading off of his eyelids. He takes a deep breath, the sharp smell of sage and dry earth.
Eden, her hands full of cicada shells and bone. The light of the porch reflects off of her startled face. “Was that a plane, Father? Should we go look?”
“I don’t think it was a plane,” he says, recovering himself a little. His back aches. “It looked like a meteorite to me.”
“If it was a plane that crashed, you might have to give people Last Rites,” she pursues.
“We would have felt the impact if it were a plane, or heard it.”
Eden frowns and looks back across the sagebrush flats, tucking her handfuls of cicada-shells into the pockets of her skirt. Something is building behind her face, clever-eyed, thin grim mouth. But then again, it always looks like there’s something building there.
The night grows deep, and parents collect their children and start home. The cicadas scream sporadically in the sagebrush flats, underneath their blanket of stars. “Hey, Father,” says a voice at his shoulder. Asher, with a pile of dirty paper plates in his hands. “We thought we’d stay and help clean up.”
Asher has a round freckled face and wears an outsize leather jacket whenever he can, even over his church clothes. He’s got one of the other boys with him; Cody. Black hair, dark eyes, big smile.
“Thank you, boys.”
“What’d you think about that falling star? Do you think there’s any of it left?” Asher’s bottle-green eyes are bright. He doesn’t look down at his hands at all as he works. “I bet Eden’s gonna want to give it to the Professor, but we think it should go in our museum.”
Rivas ties off the trash bag and heaves it into the dumpster. “Your museum?”
“Well, more of a collection. All kinds of cool stuff from nature and the desert, like skeletons and geodes. But it’ll be cooler than the Professor’s stuff, because he never lets anyone touch his things and they’re all hidden away in boxes. Like a museum for real people.”
“...All museums are for real people, Asher. Dr. Kaestner has a personal collection that he sometimes lets you kids look at.” He sighs and rubs his shoulder as a new twinge of pain goes down his shoulder and spine. “It’s good to have a collection of interesting things; I had something like that when I was a boy. It was mostly eggshells.”
Asher looks around. “Well, it looks pretty clean here,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “We’re gonna head out. See ya, Father.”
“It’s long past dark,” says Rivas dubiously, looking up at the starry sky. The silver haze of the Milky Way can be seen dimly at the top of the sky, softening the hard, bright edges of the stars. When he looks down again, Asher and Cody have already scrambled over the fence, pushing through the gray-green sagebrush and scaring cicadas into the air. Cody sweeps a flashlight through the air, carving a blinding yellow path in the dark.
Unlike Eden, most of the Woodpeckers don’t have parents who will miss them out past dark. He paces at the edge of the fence, chewing on the inside of his cheek. When he looks out after the boys, cresting a hill and disappearing into the sharp shadows of the sage, he sees something shining on the horizon.
There is a great light and a soft wind out of the desert, and before he knows it he’s managed to scale the old fence, cattle wire snagging on the edge of his cassock, and headed off after them.
The light is almost blue, very pale, and would be too faint to see if it were not long past dark, but here, in the desert, in grit and darkness, in the balsamroot and sage and tufted desert grasses, he can see it. Almost like a second dawn. The light reflects gently on the narrow spearhead leaves of sage. The wind smells fresh-made tonight, sharp with the smell of distant juniper trees and quite cold for this time in the spring.
“Boys,” he calls warily, “Slow down. We don’t know exactly what it is.”
The trepidation in his voice makes Cody stop, catching at the sleeve of Asher’s oversized jacket. “We’d better wait,” he says, slowing down.
Asher sighs, climbing up onto a lichen-covered boulder to survey the landscape. His head is framed by a bright crown of stars, the face itself in a dim blue shadow. “I want to beat Eden there,” he says, scuffing a foot on the rock. “She’ll take all the magic out of it.” His sneakers are taped up with duct tape to hold the soles on; Rivas remembers that he needs to scrape together the money to get new shoes for the kids. Asher, Cody, Cody’s little sister Nina…
“Meteorites don’t glow like that,” says Rivas, squinting at the light. He thinks, now that they’re closer, that it’s coming from a cleft between two hills, some half a mile off. A small worry squirms in his gut. “It could be radioactive, or something.”
“You can feel it, though, can’t you?” asks Asher, sitting down on the boulder and sniffing the air like a dog. “The wind smells like it’s from another world, or something out of a myth. Surely it’d smell different if it were a bomb or something.”
“It’s not radioactive,” calls Eden. “Sillies.”
Rivas turns to see her picking her way across the sagebrush flats, holding up a plastic box that ticks sporadically. “Is that a Geiger counter?” he demands.
“I borrowed it from the Professor,” she says, with a sniff. “Father, what are you doing out here? This is our business.”
“No, it’s not. You’re thirteen.”
“I’m fourteen,” says Asher. “C’mon, Cody, let’s go.” He grabs the smaller boy and starts marching off. In places, the sagebrush is over the boys’ heads, and Asher has to use a stick to beat his way through it.
Rivas looks down at Eden. “Did you steal that?”
“...I plan to give it back,” she says, tossing one dark braid over her shoulder. She holds it up and starts walking, keeping a careful eye on the meter. “If it does start clicking more you should shout for the boys; they won’t believe me if I tell them.”
It’s a long walk, pathless through the sagebrush flats. The ground between the bushes is mostly bare, flecked here and there with flowers and wild, tufted grasses. The ground is gritty and flecked with small flakes of mica here and there that sparkle on the ground like another set of stars. Rivas mostly keeps his eyes turned downwards, focusing on keeping his footing without stepping on any scorpions or snakes that might still be out so late or tripping over the protruding roots. His shoes crunch in the rough sand as he follows Eden down a narrow cow-trail, into the sloping valley between hills.
“Father? Father?” calls Asher, from ahead. There’s a note of panic in his voice; Rivas’ head snaps up, and he starts to run.
“Asher? Are you boys hur–”
There is a crater at the impact site, dark spines of vitrified sand rising from the edge of the pit. The sagebrush around it has been singed and blackened, the sand and gravel piled in echoes of shockwaves,
and in the center of the crater,
there is a small girl.
She can’t be older than seven or eight, and her hair is ashen blonde and glowing. Her skin is pale, tinged with blue at the lips and on the fingers, and she has no clothes except for the grit and ash that covers her body and the long, shining curtain of her hair.
Her eyes are mirrors, dragonfly-faceted behind a mask of ash.
“...She must have come from the sky,” says Eden, scrambling down into the crater, and holds up the Geiger counter. The clicks become slightly more pronounced; a slow heartbeat. The girl turns to look up at her, shuffling away a little as Eden begins to chatter– switching languages every few words, English to Spanish to broken Navajo.
“Get away from her,” Asher snaps. “Look, she doesn’t understand what you’re saying.”
“She must understand something,” says Eden. “Father, you know Latin, right?”
“Why would she know Latin?” demands Asher. He shucks off his jacket and tries to give it to the girl, who switches her mirrored gaze over to him as the jacket falls limply onto her lap. He sighs and picks it up again, trying to wrap it more closely around her shoulders.
“She might be an angel…”
Rivas’ thoughts spin frantically, trying to figure out what to do. She looks like a little girl, surely, and not an angel. He feels like an angel should be older. What if someone comes looking for her? The second, more worrying question– if something comes looking for her?
“Hello,” he says, and swallows hard. He smiles weakly.
“Are you a Night Warden?” she asks. Her voice is high and slightly accented, the formal speech of a young child who hasn’t quite learned how tone works. “Can you help me find my mama?”
It’s a slight shock to hear her speak, but the relief more than makes up for it. She can understand him. “I’m a priest,” he says, squatting at the edge of the crater. The wind is cold, but he can feel heat radiating from the sand. Good thing it took them a little while to get out here, or Asher and Eden would have been badly burned. “Where did you last see her?”
“...In the garden.”
He probably should have expected that line of questioning to be less than useful.
“We could take her back to our base,” says Eden. “In the auto junkyard. We have sleeping bags there for when we go stargazing, and none of the adults would find out about her; this doesn’t seem like something the adults should know about. They might call…the government.” Her bright amber eyes flick up towards Rivas, weighing him thoughtfully.
“I don’t think Father Rivas counts,” Cody stage-whispers. “Right?”
Asher gently takes each of the girl’s arms and pushes them into the sleeves of the coat, which comes down past her knees. “She’s about the same size as my sisters,” he observes, fastening a button to hold the coat in place. The girl reaches out and touches his face with a small, silver hand. “Eden, you won’t tell the Professor, will you? Even if we do bring her to your base?”
She shakes her head grimly. “We’re going to have to carry her back,” she says. “The cheatgrass and sage are going to cut up her legs otherwise. How do shifts sound?”
Rivas’ forehead furrows. “I should carry her,” he says, and is met with three flat stares.
“Your back, Father,” says Eden.
“She’s not very big, we can do it,” Asher says with a wave of his hand. He looks almost unfamiliar without his jacket on, in a slightly oversized blue t-shirt and nervous goosebumps covering his bare arms.
“Fine, but I’ll carry her first,” Rivas concludes. “And we’re taking her to the church, not the junkyard. Cody, Eden, do either of you have any little girls’ clothes at home?”
Eden nods.
He approaches the girl carefully, becoming aware that the sand in the crater is almost painfully hot. It’s a good thing it took them a while to get out here, otherwise he’d certainly be burning his hands right now. The wind is still cold. “Let’s get you somewhere inside, okay?” he says to the girl, putting on a friendly smile. “What’s your name? Do you want something to eat?”
She touches her lips hesitantly and nods. “Heliaca.”
It’s a long walk back. The girl Heliaca gazes up at the moonless sky the whole way, her dragonfly eyes tracing the milky way. She seems unbothered by the sharp, thin twigs of the big sagebrush scraping against her bare legs.
They make a line against the sky as they trek along the ridged earth, gravel and sand shifting beneath them. Rivas, and then Eden, tall and lanky, and Asher, smacking his arms to keep warm, and Cody trailing a little behind to pick up pebbles. The girl, shining, outlines their silhouettes in liquid silver.
Eden breaks away at the edge of town. “I’ll go get her some of my old things; I can get in and out without my dad noticing,” she says, scrambling up and over the fence and taking off down the road. “He shouldn’t be back from his shift yet, anyway.”
Asher jogs after her, his duct-tape sneakers snapping against the asphalt.
“...I guess they’ll be back soon,” says Rivas to Cody.
The younger boy nods, his dark hair flopping down over his eyes. “Can I have a snack, too?”
“I’ll see what we have.”
They have chocolate-chip granola bars and juice boxes in the church basement, as it turns out. Also, a couple of very crushed fruit rollups, a clementine, and a rather stale loaf of whole wheat bread, which Rivas decides to throw away. These must be leftover snacks from the last time 4-H was in here.
He sits Heliaca on the floor and puts an unwrapped granola bar into her hand. “Cody, can you help her with the juice box? I’m going to go make some tea, or hot cocoa or something.” He feels the urgent need to make something with his hands, to shoo away the worries that are building in his head.
What’s going to come after her? Ordinarily he’d laugh at Eden’s whisper about the government finding out; she picked that up from her parents, a parroted turn of phrase. She might not actually be wrong this time, though. There’s bound to be some investigation, even a small one, and their footprints are all over that impact site.
He rubs his aching shoulder absentmindedly and leans against the small kitchen table in the rectory as the teakettle boils.
And what about that mother? If she does come after the girl, will she be like a human?
What if she doesn’t come at all?
The whistle of the teakettle makes him jump. He pours the water into five mugs of varying sizes, digs out honey and packets of creamer and tea. When he gets back to the basement, Asher is back with a pile of clothes.
“Eden’s dad got home early, so she had to go to bed,” he explains, sifting through the rumpled pile. Underwear, mismatched socks, a couple of dresses and a rather faded sweater that Rivas remembers Eden wearing constantly when she was ten or eleven. “I brought all the stuff, though. I was worried she might snitch, but it seems like she really wants to keep this quiet. Helps that the Professor is probably asleep.”
Heliaca, sucking quietly on a juice box, examines the clothing.
“Don’t you know how clothes work?” asks Cody. He starts pouring honey into his mug of hot water until Rivas reaches over and wrestles the squeeze bottle away from him.
“I know,” she says, putting down the juice box and picking up a sock. “I’ve seen Earth people wear all these things. I’m just not normally so small.” She pulls the sock on, upside-down, and then puts a second one on correctly. “You have so few hands,” she adds casually, which is a little worrying in implication.
“Hey, Father, can I have the honey?” asks Asher, leaning over to try to take the bottle out of Rivas’ hand. He, at least, has actual tea steeping in his cup and not just boiling water.
“Yes, fine.” Rivas is picking up one of the dresses to hand to Heliaca– she can’t keep wearing Asher’s coat forever, after all– when a sharp knock sounds on the door upstairs.
Not likely to be continued. But maybe; if I do continue it I'll put links to the other parts down here.
#inklings challenge#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#theme: clothing#story: unfinished#theme: food
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✨A Rare Bird (click here)✨
team & genre: Team Chesterton, intrusive fantasy (stories where the fantastical elements intrude into the real world)
imagery used: light, water, wind, bread
story summary: it is 1921 in the Age of Babel Rising according to Seelie reckoning. At Dragonsbane, two university students - the ferocious and reclusive Petra Wilder and the warm-hearted and lonely Galen Wong - make a bargain to change their reality. Human and faerie, peasant and prince will work together to undo a family curse and fulfill a family prophecy. But greater forces are at work in the world, including ancient personages, the mysterious and missing Dreamland, a little spirited sister who doesn't know how to give up, a nosy cook with a heart of gold, the power of a reluctant friendship, and a much of a which of a wind...
status: Chapter 1 out of (originally) 3 completed for the challenge; future of the story TBD
main characters: Petronella 'Petra' Wilder from Northern Fairyland & Jinliang 'Galen' Wong of the Middle Kingdom
pinterest board here & spotify playlist here & writing updates here
#YAAAAAY I'M DONEEEEE#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#story: complete#or kind of anyway#imagery: wind#imagery: bread#the water and light imagery was supposed to come in future chapters so i won't tag them#also 1 chapter isn't enough to develop the wind part BUT the bread part IS there!!!#slings and arrows of outrageous fortune in year 21#writing adventures#inklingschallenge2022#round 2: songbird's inklings challenge story
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Perscribed Burning Part 1 - Inklings Challenge
Eleanor had fire-fingers and the rains weren’t coming.
But that’s a lot to throw at you in one go, so let’s back up.
When Eleanor took her first steps as a toddler, tiny baby footprints of fire sprung to life beneath her heels, trailing across the room. They caught the carpet and spread, licking up the walls until the room was an inferno. No one but Eleanor ever noticed.
That room was never put out and the fire soon spread through the house as she wandered back and forth, growing in its constant flickering light. As soon as she could she tried to talk about it, but every time her parents made funny expressions at each other across the table so she soon learnt to laugh it off as a joke. She was young when she figured out to keep secrets, to avoid staring too long at the flames even as they consumed the chair she was sitting in. She wished they would go out inside the house, even just so she could see her way around the rooms clearly, but it never got wet enough in there to douse it.
Outside was a different matter, things still caught alight but Eleanor lived in a rainy part of the world so her footprints didn’t matter much. It was her fingers that were the danger – a sharp dark knot would form just below her heart and flames would begin to swirl down her arms, flashing out from her fingertips. She could have burnt the city down if she tried, she thought sometimes. She didn’t want to try but sometimes it was hard, content never came easy to her. Although, she thought often, no one else ever noticed, maybe if she set the whole world alight they’d just keep on with their lives, hardly looking up as the ash cascaded around them.
Despite the fire, Eleanor had a fairly uneventful childhood – she quite liked Chemistry, hated History, learnt to swim fairly decently but did it rarely because it gave her chills (she expected the fire didn’t like to be put out), dyed her hair red in her teen years, and eventually, as we meet her now, went to university. Unfortunately, to go to university, she moved further south. And most of the year the south wasn’t that much more dry than the north, but it got hotter in the summer and the doom of a drought was bandied about regularly. And then this year there was the problem of Liam.
It should probably be said first that Liam was Not Interested, although (he promised) he still wanted to be friends. It should probably be said second that Eleanor nodded and agreed and said it was for the best and went home and sobbed her heart out on the phone to her mother.
“Oh, sweetheart! Oh no, he sounds horrible.”
“But he’s not,” Eleanor somehow choked out through her tears. “He’s so interesting and he laughs at all my jokes! And he cares so much about like, being mentally healthy, y’know, he said we can still be friends but he needs space but he’ll let me know when that sort of changes, he doesn’t know but it probably will! I mean can you imagine dad saying all those kinds of things?” (Eleanor and her mother both loved her father deeply, but he had very little grasp on self-reflection.) The flames on the girl’s fingers quivered in sympathy.
“Alright, I’m sure he’s very nice if you say so,” replied Eleanor’s mother with a little sigh. She trusted her daughter, but she did always worry for her – something about Eleanor had always been a little away with the fairies.
The third thing you most definitely should know is something Eleanor most certainly would never tell her mother: she had noticed Liam first because he was on fire.
It wasn’t the same as with her, fire from her feet and arms. He was wrapped up in a ball of fire, a great swathe of flame covering his body and a globe of it circling his head. She didn’t know what he looked like. She had mentioned the fire a little once or twice, but he had seemed confused so she passed it off as a joke. She loved him for the reasons she said, of course, but the fire was intriguing; she thought she had seen everything before in the way that young women often do, but this was most certainly new. (And her friends assured her he was attractive, which was always a bonus).
And so, of course, the heartbreak hit her hard, but more than that there was the worry about the fire: grief added to the knot, made it worse, she kept accidentally setting her notes on fire in lecture and having to bat them out without anyone noticing. Sure, no one had ever seen the flames, sometimes she wondered if they even existed at all or she was just hallucinating them (ok, a lot of the time. She wondered that a lot of the time). But she saw them burning things, her home in a constant state of almost-but-not-quite-ash, leaves charring and curling under her toes and when she picked them up they crumbled into the wind. So of course she was terrified that one day they might be strong enough to actually hurt someone else, and the dry spell lasting into late September wasn’t helping one bit.
#inklingschallenge#imagery: fire#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#story: unfinished#my writing#writing#SO I LIED ABOUT MY STORY AGAIN HAHAHA IT WAS AN ACCIDENT BUT THIS IS THE ONE I'M CAPABLE OF WRITING RN#yes yes I know I'm 10 days late ok leave me alone#also not to spoiler this but a secondary title for this could be: spot the red flags! because El sure won't for a WHILE#because in fairness they're subtle
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THE PRINCE, THE GIRL, AND THE ASSASSIN
for the 2023 inklings challenge // part of the areotia duology
Elijah Anworth finds himself banished from his home kingdom. Instead of being sent to the far reaches of his world, though, he ends up on Earth. And as the prince of a nation at war, where he goes, trouble follows.
@inklings-challenge
read on my website
Everything was ordinary in New York, New York, and it was a perfectly ordinary night. The soft lights inside the buildings lit the windows up orange and yellow, and the glaring screens on the sides of those buildings cast more light everywhere, increased further by street lights that buzzed with electricity, and headlights from cars flying by too fast, and light from phones in the hands of every person out walking, and every kind of light in the world ― except for the moonlight or starlight that couldn't reach this bubble of artificial light ― all mixing together in one city to cast a glow nearly as bright as daytime over the city. Very few places were not splashed with light, in fact.
There was one unique corner on the outskirts of the city. It was far enough away from the center that most people didn't consider it New York City anymore, though it was indeed within the city limits. It was decidedly dark, a contrast to everywhere else.
It was a dark little alleyway, just a short pathway between buildings with a chain link fence at the back and a sidewalk at the front. There was light from the street stretching toward the alleyway, and in an ordinary place, it would have stretched just a bit into the alley. Curtains covered the windows that faced the alley, but a little light would have cast a glow into the alley in an ordinary place. Even on the sunniest of sunny days, shadows shrouded the little corner, keeping it dark and quiet and just eerie enough that everyone around avoided it, though they didn't know why they thought it so un-ordinary. But this, of course, was not an ordinary place, and it was hardly an ordinary day for one person, in particular.
And in that alleyway, for the first time in years, light appeared, and that alone made it extraordinary.
The light didn't come from the streetlights or headlights or building lights. Instead, it appeared from nowhere and from nothing, just a tiny pinprick of life hovering in the air in the middle of the alleyway. Then it crackled loudly, sparks flying from it and arcing in circles from it, creating tiny loops that sparked more light that created circles of their own. This all happened very quickly, hardly more than a blink of an eye, and the light expanded and grew until it was taller than even a very tall person, an ovular shape with a blue-ish tint to it, white lines of light crackling around the smooth perimeter of it, oscillating back and forth in wavering lines.
And from that oval of light suddenly appeared a young man. He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes and a solemn expression. He was dressed in all black, but his clothes were unusual for New York, even for this city. He wore a tunic and trousers and boots, all the same shade of black, and a matching piece of leather armor over his chest, with a black belt hanging from his hips. Sometimes, most of the time, a sword hung from the belt, but just now, there was nothing, and his hand at his side was empty as well, his grasping fingers straining for that weapon that wasn't there.
Elijah Anworth stepped out of the portal, glanced around at the city, and swore.
Elijah didn't swear, as a rule. He was the prince of Areotia, and it was unseemly. His mother had drilled that lesson into him early on, and neither his teenage years nor the battlefield had broken him of the habit of biting them back. But sometimes, the situation warranted a curse, and this situation certainly did. Besides, his mother wasn't here to chastise him, and if she were, he would be yelling right back at her, for it was her who had put him here in the first place.
He knew where he was. He had studied the other worlds extensively just in case a predicament such as this arose, so he wasn't worried about that. What he was worried about, however, was getting home. Despite the arguments he had with his mother, the arguments that had landed him here, he was still a general in a war, and he had responsibilities. He wasn't deserting, of course, and even his mother wouldn't brand him with that disgraceful reputation. But he had a duty to the soldiers under his command, and he needed to get home for them. For Areotia.
There was only one thing to do, and that was to move. He didn't have anywhere to go, didn't know anyone in this city, but loitering around this alleyway wasn't doing him any good, and it wouldn't no matter how long he stayed here. He had to start moving. So he headed for the entrance of the alleyway.
Just as he turned the corner, something flew by his ear, struck the brick wall, and clattered to the ground.
Elijah ducked around the corner quickly, flattening himself against the wall. He glanced around, and the first thing he spotted was the object on the ground. A knife. Not a crudely fashioned one, either, but one with intricate carvings on the handle and markings etched into the blade. A knife from his world, then. His assailant stood at the back of the alley, clad similarly to Elijah in all black. However, he wore more armor, made of thinner leather than Elijah’s. That alone would have told him all he needed to know, but the hood that the man ― judging by his figure ― wore low over his face and the mask over his mouth and nose confirmed it. This was not an ordinary knife-throwing assailant. This was an assassin. He was from Keoterra, too, if Elijah remembered correctly the language he’d studied as a boy, because those markings on the knife blade were familiar.
Despite his rule against swearing, Elijah muttered another curse, this one a low whisper under his breath. Somehow Keoterra knew he was here already, which was disconcerting, to say the least. Elijah had barely even arrived, and his own people didn't know where he was. And even worse, they had tracked him well enough to have an assassin sent over.
Elijah’s mind whirled through possibilities, just as his training dictated. The first possibility was that this was coincidence, but he dismissed it instantly. The only other plausible possibility was that this man had been on him for a while, and he was taking advantage of Elijah’s vulnerability, however momentary Elijah intended that weakness to be.
Since he was weaponless, fighting off this assassin was hardly a smart choice. Running was generally thought of as a coward’s option, but Elijah was a general. He knew the benefits to a tactical retreat, and just now, that was his only option with enough benefits to be a convincing option. So instead of flinging himself around the corner at the assassin, he turned sharply on his heel and sprinted down the sidewalk.
He was rewarded for this strategic move with another knife whizzing past him. Really, he was lucky the assassin wasn’t Areotian. Anyone in the army or just in his mother’s employ learned to throw knives as part of basic training, and even the most timid maid among their servants could hit a target on either of the two center rings every time. Clearly, Keoterran training was subpar in comparison.
Elijah dashed down the sidewalks past all of the tall buildings, wishing there wasn't quite so much light so that he could hide easier. But thankfully, as he raced around another corner, the roads widened and the number of people grew. He slipped into the crowd, hoping to just blend in like another New Yorker. Assuming, of course, he was correct in his assumption that he was in New York.
Slowing his pace, Elijah ducked his head and set a course through the crowd that looked enough like meandering to fool most anyone. He wasn't sure how good a defense it would be against this assassin, though. He wasn't stupid enough to think he’d lost the man, and even if he had, he wasn't safe until he got off of the streets.
It was late, apparently, enough so that most of the doors at ground level sported bright signs that said “Closed.” Elijah didn't know much about this world, of course, but that was an easy enough signal to figure out. He ruled out each of those places as options, scanning the sides of the streets for anywhere he could go. There were loud, noisy, crowded places that he immediately clocked as bars, but those he crossed off of his mental list because bringing a knife-wielding assassin into a place full of drunks was not a good idea. He had had poor experiences with inebriated civilians before, and if his own safety was important at all, he would avoid that. And with weapons within reach? Forget it.
Finally, he spotted another alleyway, and though it was hardly a defensible position, if he hadn't been trailed to this exact position, he could hide there for a little while before relocating far away from this city. So, keeping his head down, he ducked into the alleyway, slipped behind a large metal container that smelled horrific, and he shut his mouth, waiting and watching.
Several long moments dragged by, and Elijah’s legs started to hurt from the position he’d put them in, and he longed to shift. But he was a soldier, and he wasn't safe yet, so he mentally chided his legs and stayed put. Then, almost imperceptibly over the noise of the crowds, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Glancing behind the container, he had a good enough view of the owner of the feet making the sound but they couldn't see him. It was the assassin, and the man’s hood had fallen off when he’d given chase. Most people weren't as good at picking up the subtle differences between Areotians and Keoterrans, but Elijah knew what to look for. There was a small tilt to the eyes of Keoterrans, and Areotians’ were narrower. Areotians tended to have narrower noses, as well, and darker hair. He couldn't have been certain of the man’s nationality just going off of the blade markings ― it had been a long time since he’d studied their language ― but now he was sure of his guess.
“Anworth,” the man said. Elijah added the man’s accent to his list of proof of this man being from Keoterra. “You're a coward.”
Elijah kept quiet, fighting the urge to scoff. He did roll his eyes. This was a tactical retreat, not cowardice. He didn't have a sword; a one on one fight was hardly fair, and at any rate, attacking a man when his back was turned was generally considered cowardice, and that had been what the assassin had done upon arrival.
“And what is it that you are doing so far from home and from mother dearest? She must be so worried about her precious son.”
Elijah doubted it. She’d sent him here. Mostly unknowingly, but the sentiment applied, and so he felt her worry over him was rather up for debate.
“Son of the Blood Queen. Perhaps the tales of your mother are exaggerated, or perhaps you just don't live up to her legacy. Is that why you’ve run?”
He hadn't run, Elijah thought indignantly. No Areotian would ever have believed that of him, and, despite the fact that they were at war, he would have thought the Keoterrans respected him and his mother enough to know better than that. His own reputation certainly showed that, he thought.
“I will be the one to end your life, and you may die peaceless, knowing that I, a Keoterran, your enemy and a man of common blood, will own your lifeblood.”
Elijah lost sight of the assassin as he slipped into the alleyway, hardly making a sound now. Refraining from a third swear of the day, Elijah braced himself to jump. Fighting unarmed was hardly a fair match, but he was running out of options. At least he wouldn't be taken by surprise this time.
“There you are, princeling,” said the assassin, and he moved around the container, his hand loose on his knife.
If he moved quickly enough, Elijah could take it. He lunged forward, slamming into the assassin. The assassin pushed him off, slashing out with a knife as he knocked him back to the ground. The knife dragged deep across Elijah’s arm, tearing the shirt and drawing blood that stained his forearm. Elijah shouted in pain, wincing as he landed on that arm.
Then, the utterly unthinkable and completely baffling happened.
A girl stepped around the container, feet planted wide, and she lifted a small cylindrical object to the assassin’s face. He clearly hadn't seen her coming, just like Elijah hadn't, and both men stared at her. And then there was a slight hissing sound, and the man began to scream.
“Come on!” the girl said, shoving past the assassin and reaching for Elijah’s arm. She grabbed his uninjured hand, pulled him ― with a lot of assistance from Elijah, since he was a good foot taller than her ― to his feet, and yanked him around the corner at a brisk pace that turned into a run when they hit the sidewalk.
Utterly bewildered, Elijah let the girl pull him along. He kept his arm close to his body, but the quick pace still hurt it. Still, he had to get away. He could still hear the assassin’s screams echoing off of the alley walls. She led him down the sidewalks, slowing down as they got farther away until they were almost at a walk. Her hand was still firmly clasped around his.
Finally, she stopped moving beside a tall building that looked a little on the older side. There were a couple of crumbling pieces along the wall, and the bricks were weathered in various shades of dark reds and browns. A door was set in the middle of it, a plain white wooden thing that matched the trim around the windows on the floors above it. The girl grabbed the door handle, pulled it open, and pulled Elijah in behind her.
“There,” she said, letting the door swing shut behind them of its own accord, “now that man won't find you. I saw him following you, you know, for a really long time. I'm not so brave as to have followed him to help you, but our paths just crossed there, and I thought, you know, I might as well. Who knows what he would have done? He’s already hurt you. That looks deep.”
“He would have done his very best to kill me,” Elijah told her. “You may have saved my life. I am indebted to you.”
The girl blinked, a faint blush creeping over her cheeks. Elijah was trained to notice changes in people’s body language, and he was always thankful for that ability when conversing with women. This particular one, he noticed, was beautiful. The first thing he had noticed was that she was much smaller than him. This wasn't unusual, since Elijah was both tall and well-built, but he was fairly certain she was shorter than most. She had long hair that wasn't quite brown but wasn't quite blonde, either. Though he was sure their flight had messed it up, he was sure it wasn't quite curly and wasn't quite straight, either, but it was mostly held back from her face by a thin band of dark gray. Her skin was fairer than his, but she looked as if she spent time in the sun. Despite the dropping temperature outside, she wore a dark gray sleeveless shirt that matched her headband and her shoes. His favorite part of the outfit was a short, light blue skirt that hit a bit above her knees, not ordinary attire back in his world where women wore either trousers or floor length dresses. He brought his eyes back up and away from her skirt, but that only landed his gaze on her eyes. They were light, and like the rest of her, he couldn't quite fit them neatly into one description. The only word that he thought matched her was captivating. And she was. Quite.
“Ah, don't worry about it,” she told him, waving a hand dismissively. “I'm Natalie, by the way.”
“Elijah,” said Elijah.
“Can I help you bandage that up? It looks bad, and I don't like the idea of going back out there with that man lurking around, and it’s rather late, you know. Unless you have to be somewhere.” She watched him, and Elijah had the distinct feeling that he was being examined. Her eyes studied him, flitting over the rest of his body and face, taking him in, before lingering back on his eyes. It made him uncomfortable, but not in an entirely unwelcome way.
“You have medical supplies?” Elijah asked, stalling for time to shake off that feeling. He was a soldier, a general in the Blood Queen’s army, by the gods. He did not need to be this thrown off by a girl, even if she did have utterly bewitching eyes and even if she had single handedly fended off his assassin and saved his life.
“At my apartment, yes.” Natalie gestured to one of the doors. Elijah hadn't noticed, yet, too lost in her ― an extremely ridiculous thing, for a soldier to let his guard down like this ― to see that they were now in a short, square hallway with a staircase against the wall that traveled straight up, then turned over their heads to continue up and out of sight. There was one door next to the staircase, and another across from that. The third, the one that Natalie gestured to, was underneath the stairs. Her place.
“I wouldn't dream of imposing like that―” Elijah started to say, despite how much he wanted to accept her invitation, but Natalie cut him off.
“You wouldn't be imposing. And I offered. Come on,” she said, taking his arm again, looping her right arm through his left. With her left hand, she pulled out a ring of keys from a cross body purse, and she unlocked the door with a pink one and gently pulled him through.
Elijah followed. That was something he was unaccustomed to. As a prince, there had been very few people he was supposed to listen to at all, much less follow, and now as a general, he really only answered to his mother. But here was this girl with her assassin-fighting and her hand-holding and her gentle kindness, and he didn't know anything about her, but he found himself following her into her place all the same.
They entered into a tiny, dark hallway, but Natalie flipped a switch on the wall, and a light above them crackled to life. Natalie locked the door behind them and gestured down the hallway.
“Make yourself at home,” she said. “Let me grab my things.”
With that, Natalie headed down the hallway, and Elijah followed. The hallway opened up into two rooms, though it continued around a sharp corner, that section dark and unilluminated. Natalie made her way down that hallway. While she was gone, he peeked into one of the rooms and realized it was the kitchen. Above the sink, one small window was set in the wall opposite him, the dull view of the street behind her building made better by the flowers growing outside of it and the plants hanging in the corner by it. The cupboards around the room were painted a color that was almost white, and they matched the wooden countertops. The walls were painted a light blue, and there was a picture of the ocean and seagulls and waves on one of the walls. A cut out section of the wall across from the stove above the countertops provided a view of the second room.
That room was painted light green, and a darker shade of the same green colored the thick rug on the floor. There was another window in that room, on the same wall as the kitchen window, with more flower boxes outside. Her seating ― a couch and two chairs ― were almost white, like her cupboards and counters, and they were arranged around a light wooden table. A similar table was set across from them, opposite the window wall, with a black rectangular something set atop it. A bookshelf of the same wood as the tables sat in the corner opposite the window. Blankets and pillows in varying shades of pink and blue and purple were strewn about, mostly on the chairs and couch, though there were some on the floor as well. There were more paintings on the wall here, another sunset, a field of flowers, a couple of horses running in a plain, among others. Assorted knick-knacks filled the room, too, like small stacks of books or a journal next to a pile of pens. Empty cups littered the table in the middle of the room.
Before a few minutes ago, Elijah would have said his house was the best in the world. After all, he lived in a castle, when he wasn't on the battlefields, anyway. It was just him and his mother, cared for by a plethora of servants who cleaned up every empty cup. The walls were made of stone and covered in woven tapestries made long before Elijah was born. Their history was depicted in paintings of rulers set on the walls, a history he was proud of, not just because it was something to be proud of but because his mother had had to fight to earn her crown and her nickname and her throne. But now, those stone hallways seemed empty and plain. He’d only been in this building a few minutes, but he had the vague idea that the place where he lived was a house, and this was a home. It made him uncomfortable in the same way that everything about Natalie made him uncomfortable.
Natalie reappeared, carrying a white box, and nearly ran straight into Elijah. “Sorry!” she exclaimed. “I thought you’d… but never mind. Please, come sit.”
Elijah walked to the other room, Natalie trailing behind. He seated himself on one of the chairs. She knelt beside him, opening the box and drawing out bandages and rags and bottles of liquids. He couldn't quite see what she was doing, but then she reached out for his arm wordlessly. He flinched at her fingers on his skin, a soft, light, cold touch, and she whispered an apology, starting to bandage him up.
“So,” she said, and Elijah glanced up at her. “How did you end up there? I mean, I know this city has a bit of a reputation, but I’ve been here for nearly five years, and I’ve never been mugged. I assume that was what that was, anyway. What was he trying to steal off of you? And why did you go down the alleyway in the first place? You're very lucky I saw you at all. I would have stayed in the crowd, I think, especially if I’d seen him following me. And I know you did. I saw you checking.”
Elijah stared at her. “He was not trying to steal from me. He was trying to kill me. I was attempting to hide from him or at least take him by surprise and take his knife.”
Natalie frowned. “Trying to kill you? You ought to report that! Do you know who it was?”
“Some assassin,” Elijah said, waving his hand dismissively. “I expect he has been following me for some time. He is fortunate to have gotten so close. He would never have stood a chance in my home, and he is especially fortunate I did not have my sword. He would not be here any longer.”
Natalie blinked, and Elijah sensed he’d said something wrong. “Sorry,” she said, “but what on earth do you mean? You would've killed him? You have a sword?”
“I suppose swords are not common here, then?”
“Where in the world are you from?!” Natalie asked, a slight laugh escaping her, but Elijah suspected it was less amused and more terrified.
He opted for a safer route than explaining magic to a girl in a very magic-less world, saying, “I do not think you would believe me if I told you.”
“Try me, please.”
Elijah frowned. “You will think me insane. I do not wish to trouble you further. I will take my leave―”
“Oh, no,” Natalie said. “You have to explain yourself now. I mean, clearly you're not from here, and I really need to know why you have a sword. And why you would have killed him!”
“Is it not a custom in your world to defend oneself when attacked?” Elijah asked. He instantly berated himself, not meaning to have let on that he wasn't from her world.
Natalie didn't seem to have caught on, just reluctantly admitting, “Well, yes, I suppose that’s alright. But to kill him?”
“He would have killed me.”
“Alright,” she said, and then, to his dismay, she exclaimed, “Wait, my world?!”
Elijah sighed. “Natalie, you will not believe my tale if I tell it.”
“Try me,” she repeated. She finished her work and set the box down on the table, settling into the couch. Elijah surveyed the bandage and decided it was a good job, better than some of his quick fixes on the battlefield.
“Very well,” Elijah said. “There are other worlds, Natalie, other worlds like your own but different. In the world I come from, magic is a common thing. It vanished from this world many hundreds of years ago, but it used to be here as well. In my world, we used magic for many things, but most especially portals. That is the most common use of magic. They provide a quick source of transportation between countries. You may open them from anywhere, but they go to only one place in a country to regulate the passage of travelers. That is how my would-be assassin caught up with me. I exited a portal into your world, and he was very close behind me.”
Natalie gaped at him.
Elijah continued. “My mother banished me from my kingdom. In her wrath, she underestimated the strength of her magic, and instead of sending me elsewhere in our world, she sent me here. That is how I have come here. The assassin is from another kingdom we are at war with. Keoterra, it is called. I am from Areotia.”
“You're right,” Natalie said, staring at him with a completely inscrutable expression on her face. “I don't believe you at all.”
“Would you believe me if I proved it to you?”
“Prove it?” Natalie asked, halfway through scoffing, but then she stopped and just stared at him again. Or, more accurately, stared at the glowing flames flickering in Elijah’s hand. They were small and weak, as he wasn't much of a mage, but they were there.
“You weren't lying,” she said in a very quiet voice.
“No, I was not,” Elijah said pleasantly. “As you can see for yourself.” With a flick of his wrist, the flames vanished.
“You…” she paused, clearly collecting herself. Elijah refrained from saying anything that might cause her embarrassment. After all, he knew this was a bit of a shock. It was why he hadn't said anything to start with. “Your mother sent you here?”
“She did not mean to, I know,” Elijah said. “She can be a bit harsh at times, but she would not send me here meaningfully.”
“But she sent you away.”
“Yes, well, I did say she can be harsh.”
“But that's awful!” Natalie exclaimed.
“Ah,” Elijah said. “It is just how my mother is.”
Natalie shook her head, but she didn't say anything more, for which Elijah was grateful. It was hard to explain his mother even to people who understood where she was coming from. Natalie knew nothing of his world and the tumult that his mother had been put through at a young age. So Natalie could not hope to understand, and he really had no wish to explain. At best, were he to explain, she would understand enough to drop it. At worst, she would pity him and his mother, and he had no desire to have that particular feeling exerted on him. Especially not by her.
“How do you get home?”
This, he could answer. “I must construct a portal. They can be created anywhere, as I said, but they must have a solid base in order to draw magic into it. There are five magical gems that I must find, and they must be set in a circle. Once I have that, it is a simple matter of pulling on the magic in the gems to create the portal and send myself home. That is easy. Getting to the gems will be more difficult. It will take a very long time to walk across your country, as I have no horse or the fast metal vehicles your people ride in.”
“Cars.”
“What?” Elijah asked, frowning.
“They're called cars,” she told him. “That's how we get places. Mostly. There’s other ways, too. Where do you need to go?”
Elijah waved his hand, and a map of the world appeared in front of him, soft yellow lights forming outlines of countries and landmasses. Natalie gasped, and she set her mug down on the table. With two fingers, Elijah moved the map until he found his location, and he pointed to a place not far from it. “There is one here, and one just north of it. Those are not far. However,” he said, moving to the northern middle of her country, “there is another here.” He moved south and west. “Here.” He moved back north and farther west. “The last is here.”
“But that's almost completely across the country!” Natalie said. “How are you going to get there?”
“I will walk,” Elijah told her. “It will not be an enjoyable trip, but I will manage.”
“Do you have money?” Natalie asked.
“No, of course not,” Elijah said. “Not your currency, at least. I have a few coins from my world, but they will hardly do me any good here.”
“No, they won't,” Natalie agreed. “I can't drive you across the country,” she said, frowning again. This, Elijah noticed quickly, was a sorrowful sort of frown. She felt bad. “I have to work. I would if I could, but you know rent in New York― Well, actually, I suppose you don't―”
“Do not trouble yourself on my behalf, Natalie. I will be perfectly fine on my own. I have made journeys of this sort before,” Elijah told her. “If I might ask, however, do you know of any place where I might find employment for a short time? I must buy some supplies before I set off, and as you have mentioned, I have no money for those things.”
“Oh,” Natalie said, waving her hand, “no, let me take care of that.”
“I insist―”
“I've got it, really―”
“Allow me―”
“Elijah.” Natalie’s tone was firm, and he froze. “No one will hire you because you don't have the correct paperwork, and I don't know how to get it for you without a million other issues. Plus, you’re hurt. Let me take care of it.”
“As you wish,” he conceded.
“And you'll stay here, of course―”
“I could not possibly―”
“I don't know where else you would go―”
“It would be a horrible imposition―”
“Elijah.” He froze again. “I'm offering.”
“As you wish,” he said.
“Right,” Natalie said. “Now, that’s settled. Do you mind awfully sleeping on the couch? I don't have another room to put you in. And with your arm…” To his horror, she looked apologetic again.
“The couch is perfectly fine. I have slept on far worse grounds on the battlefields in my own world, you know.”
Nodding, Natalie stood abruptly and then she vanished back into the dark hallway where he now assumed her bedroom was. She returned shortly afterwards with a stack of deep blue fabric in her arms. She unfolded the fabric, revealing it to be a set of sheets, and she tucked them onto the couch. She vanished to her bedroom again, then returned with a pillow, which she shrouded in the blue fabric and set on the couch.
“There,” she said. “I don't suppose you’ve got any other clothes. You may not stand out much here, but you will in other states.”
“I am afraid all I have is what is on me.”
“We’ll have to get you some clothes, then,” she said decisively. She found a piece of paper and a writing utensil that, when he asked, she told him was a pen. She scrawled a few quick words ― “clothes” and “food” ― then passed it to him. “Write down anything you need me to get for you,” she told him. “If we can't get it all this weekend, it might take a bit for me to get it all because I really do have to work still, but I’ll get it.”
“You really are too kind,” Elijah said, but he took the pen and wrote that he needed a knife, flint, a container for water, and a bedroll. But only if that was not too inconvenient, he told Natalie. It wasn't that important to him. Natalie just shook her head at him vaguely.
They exchanged few other words that night. Natalie looked exhausted and confused, and Elijah was a bit tired himself. So he bade her goodnight, slipped off his boots, and promptly fell asleep on the couch in her extremely cozy little home.
When the sun rose the next morning, the light woke Elijah up. He remained on the couch, not wanting to wander and poke around Natalie’s home. That was rude, he thought. But after a long while of laying on the couch and waiting for Natalie to emerge, he pulled himself up and dragged himself into the kitchen. He didn't know where she kept her food, and he still thought it would be rude to look around. So he just sat down at her little tiny table, a square-ish wooden piece with two matching chairs at either end, dark blue cushions atop them. As he sat there, he looked out the kitchen window, watching the people outside walk by on the street. There was a clock built into her stove, and the minutes ticked by.
After more than half an hour of sitting there people watching, Elijah got back up and moved back into the living room. He found himself in front of the bookshelf, and curious, he scanned the volumes displayed there. Not to his surprise, he didn't recognize a single one. He selected one at random and retreated to the couch, flipping it open.
“‘Once,’” he read aloud, in hushed tones, “‘there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy.”’
Elijah promptly read the next sentence, and the next. He made it to the very end of the second chapter before he was interrupted.
“What are you reading?”
Natalie’s voice, quiet from sleep, broke his concentration, and he looked up at her. She had changed clothes, he noticed, into loose, light purple pants that fell in puddles around her feet, and a darker purple sleeveless top tucked into the pants. Cursing himself again, Elijah stopped staring at her and answered her question.
“The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe,” he said. “I am finding it quite interesting. There appears to be portal magic on this wardrobe, but it is different from the kind I am accustomed to. Do you have this magic in your world, then?”
“No,” Natalie told him, “that’s all made up. But I suppose it’s a little bit true. Portals between worlds, I mean. I guess you’ve never read Narnia. They must not have it in your world.”
“I have never read any of the books on your shelf.”
“You're missing out. There’s some really good books up there. Well, finish that one. If you like it, there’s more to the series that you could read, and I have about a hundred more suggestions for you while you’re here,” she told him brightly. “Coffee?”
“Please,” Elijah said.
She headed into the kitchen, and Elijah followed, seating himself at the table again and continuing the book. It was all very fascinating stuff. This world sounded like no other he had ever heard of, but then Natalie had said it was all imagined.
Natalie set a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, along with a muffin, and he thanked her, partaking quickly. She grinned at him, then pulled a thin rectangular box from her pocket and sat down across from him. The box lit up when she tapped it, and soon, she was moving words up the screen with her finger, reading them quickly.
“What is that?” Elijah asked.
Natalie startled, and Elijah quickly offered an apology that she waved off. “This is my phone. You can do all sorts of things on it, like talk to someone across the country or read a book, which is what I'm doing just now.”
“You can talk to someone across the country?” Elijah asked. “Does it have portal magic?”
“No,” Natalie said, and she laughed. It was a loud, uncontrolled sound that perfectly fit what he’d seen of her personality but wouldn't have matched her at first glance. Her laugh, like the rest of her, was captivating. He was being drawn in, he could feel it. That was not good. He had to get home, not sit here talking absently with a beautiful girl.
“It’s technology. I couldn't explain it to you. I don't really understand all the science-y stuff. But if you think that’s cool…”
Natalie trailed off, grinning wildly. She motioned for him to follow her back to the living room where she picked up a different rectangular box. This one had many buttons on it, and when she pressed it, the black box on the table lit up, and images began to play across it. She explained that this was a “teevee,” and when he finished reading the book, they could watch it here. When he asked, she confirmed that it was like a play, only you could watch it anywhere, anytime, as long as you had one of these “teevees” or her phone. Or, as he learned, her “lap top.” That was very similar to her “teevee” except that it was smaller and folded, with letter buttons on the side without images. If you pressed the letters, she showed him, they would appear on the image side, which she told him was a screen.
The rest of the day passed, and Elijah hardly noticed. She rebandaged his arm, noticing that blood had started to seep through the thick material. He finished his book, and she played the “movee” on the “teevee” ― why did all of these words end like that? ― and he enjoyed it immensely. The lion was his favorite part. He complained about most of the children being too young to fight, and Natalie laughed at him.
She made him a midday meal when he was mostly through his book, and another at suppertime after they watched the “movee.” She showed him her stove and oven, as well as a tall container called a fridge that kept things cold.
After that meal, they sat back in her living room with books ― him with the next book in the series he’d started ― and read for hours. There were books in his own world, of course, and he had read many, but none were as intriguing as these here. This world was fascinating in its entirety. They did not have magic, but they made up for it with their technology, and, as Natalie explained to him, things were always getting better. There was always a better phone or oven or car, and sometimes, she said it got tiring, always feeling like she had to keep up with the best things. But it was awfully convenient, she told him, having the world at her fingertips.
The next morning, Natalie showed Elijah in slow, careful detail exactly how to make coffee in her machine. He was fairly certain he would forget half of what she’d shown him, but in time, he was confident he would be able to manage. Assuming he was here that long, of course. He did really need to start his journey.
She rebandaged his arm again, too. Elijah was starting to get used to the feeling of her gentle hands working swiftly to wrap bandages around him, her touch light and not at all unwelcome.
“Are you ready to go?” she asked, lacing up a pair of black boots over a pair of black trousers, with a loose, light green top ― this time, it was long sleeved ― to complete her outfit. It was unfair, really, Elijah thought, how good she looked in anything.
“Go?”
“Shopping!” she said brightly. “We have to start getting your things!”
And so they headed back out of her place, her arm looped through his. Elijah almost hated how much he loved having her arm through his. But he didn't hate that quite enough to move, so he just walked down the sidewalks with her, arm-in-arm, listening to her chatter and watching with faint amusement.
She tugged him into a store, and he restrained his gaping at the expanse of items everywhere. Some things he recognized, and others he didn't, but if he asked a question about something, Natalie answered promptly, with a smile, and with a perfectly worded answer.
They found him a water container first. Natalie had suggested something made of a thin, weak material that he instantly refused. Laughing at him, her next choice was a metal bottle that he liked much more.
Clothes were next, and Natalie and a worker at the store guessed his size, picked out a couple of shirts, loose pants that Natalie called “sweatpants,” and stiffer pants she called “jeans,” like the ones she wore today.
“Why does this shirt have only half sleeves?” Elijah asked, emerging from the dressing room, glancing at his exposed arms. “This offers little protection against wind and cold temperatures.”
Natalie laughed, tossing another item of clothing at him. “Have a hoodie. Then you can keep warm in it, but you can take it off if you get hot. Layers!”
Elijah frowned. “I wear layers in my world, but they offer more protection than this. And this shirt is made of such flimsy material! Are all of your clothes like this?”
“‘Fraid so,” Natalie told him, laughing.
She told him that there was nowhere to purchase armor, so he would have to settle for what he already had. That was alright. He wasn't hoping to need it, but he did miss his sword, and there was no way to replace it. Securing a knife that suited him was hard enough, but they found one, and he sheathed it at his hip.
“Where do you keep weapons?” he asked.
Natalie raised an eyebrow. “I don't really have weapons. No sword, no knife. I don't carry a gun. My dad has one, though. He keeps it on him most of the time. Most people don't have weapons here.”
“No weapons at all?” Elijah asked, baffled. “How do you stay safe?”
“Well, I’ve got pepper spray on my keychain, and I keep that in my purse.”
“Pepper is a weapon here?”
“That's what I sprayed your assassin with. If you get it in the eyes, it’s extremely painful, you know,” Natalie told him. “Even inhaling a little bit of it is uncomfortable for a really long time.”
“That is most useful,” Elijah said. “Have you used it before the assassin?”
“Just once when some guy tried to follow me home. It was so creepy. But that’s why I have it in the first place,” she told him. “Fend off creepy guys.”
Elijah frowned. “He followed you home?”
Natalie shrugged. “It happens. Unfortunately. Creeps. Not with you around, though. Guys don't tend to pick on girls when they’re with guys. Which is a whole other problem, but, well, you know.”
Elijah did not, in fact, know, but he dropped the matter, disturbed by the nonchalance in her tone as she told him all of this. In his home, men and women alike were treated with respect. Only the worst sort of creature would ever prey on a woman like that. He would have liked to see someone try that with his mother. She had not earned the nickname “Blood Queen” by showing mercy to those who stood against her.
They found him a bedroll, or, as Natalie called it, a sleeping bag. He thought this an apt description, too. It was rather bag-like, and it was for sleeping. Natalie struggled with finding flint, but eventually she gave up and bought him a lighter. Elijah liked that more, anyway.
Food was easy for Natalie to get, she told him, but since she didn't know when he was leaving yet, she would wait until closer to his departure to get those things, and so they headed back to her home.
Back in her home, Natalie made them both a noontime meal. Elijah packed his things into a bag made of canvas that she had given him, and he set the bag and his bedroll in the living room by the couch. Natalie put music on through her “teevee,” and they ate their meal on the couch, both buried in books. Elijah was still reading the series he had started, and Natalie read on her phone, and they read in silence for a couple of hours.
“I have finished!” Elijah exclaimed triumphantly, setting down the book. “That,” he told her, “was marvelous. Is there a ‘movee’ for this one, as well?”
“There is,” Natalie said, smiling, and she pressed a few buttons, pulling it up. “You want to watch it?”
“If that is amenable to you, I would like that.”
Natalie laughed. “It’s fine with me. I love this movie.” Then she frowned. “I have to go to work tomorrow. Will you be okay here on your own? I can't exactly bring you with me.”
“I will certainly be alright alone,” Elijah said with mocking indignation. “I am a prince of my own realm; I can manage some hours on my own.”
“You're a prince?” Natalie asked, leaning forward, eyes shining.
Elijah shifted uncomfortably. “Well, yes. My mother is queen.”
“So you'll be the king one day?”
“Gods above, I pray that day does not come for years and years yet. I can certainly wait to claim my birthright,” he said. “I do not wish to rule, though I will, of course.”
Natalie hummed in response. “Tell me about your home,” she said after a long pause.
“What do you wish to know?”
“You've mentioned your mom a couple of times. What’s she like? What about your father? Do you have siblings?”
Elijah winced. His family was a hard subject to talk about. He never shared details with anyone, though, of course, most people in his kingdom knew enough to know not to ask. Still, he found himself speaking easily to her. “My father left us some time ago. He and my mother disagreed on some of her ideas concerning the fate of our nation, and they could not reconcile. I have not seen him in over a decade.”
“I'm sorry,” Natalie said softly.
Elijah shrugged. “I can hardly blame him. I share his views, and arguing over them is what led to my banishment. I have also left my mother, I suppose.” That thought bothered him. He was his mother’s only remaining family. He ought to have stuck by her. He should have sided with her. And after all, she was his queen. It was not his place to fight with her, and he was not a young boy anymore, baiting people and arguing just to have an argument.
Natalie didn't say anything, not a judgment or brushing off his words. She just watched him, waiting for him to continue.
“I have no siblings, and my only other relative I knew was my uncle. However, he, too, passed a few years ago. He was killed in battle. My country has been warring for many years, since my mother was young.” Elijah fell quiet. What could he even tell her?
“I’d like to hear about it, if you don't mind telling me.” Natalie’s voice was quiet, less energetic than normal.
So Elijah told her.
“Many years ago, a band of rebels broke into the castle in my homeland. They came quietly, and they went unnoticed as they made their way through. They entered the king and queen’s chambers. The king woke and attacked the intruders to protect his wife and infant child, but he was cut down. So his wife took up his sword to defend her child. She cut down one of the rebels. The other got past her and attacked her child. She managed to kill him, but she was too late to save her child, and he was killed.
He glanced up at Natalie. Her mouth was open, and her eyes were wide, staring at him with a horrified expression and sorrow in her eyes.
“I shall stop, if you like. I know this tale is not a pleasant one―”
“No. Tell me, please,” Natalie said. “I really do want to hear it.”
With a sigh, Elijah continued. “My mother was a princess, the third child in her family, and she was only nine when this happened. That night, her mother woke her, cradling the dead baby, both of them covered in blood. The queen ordered my mother to find her younger brother and run to safety. Then the queen left to find her elder two children and warn them, too.
“My mother found her brother, and they fled the castle easily. Young children are often overlooked, and by this time, the castle was in chaos, so it was easy for them to get out. Some sections of the castle were on fire, and blood ran through the corridors. But they made it out. They hid just outside the gates, waiting for their parents and siblings to join them.
“When morning came, their family still had not come out of the castle. They went into the city, blending in with the rest of the occupants. News of the night’s massacre made its way into the city, and they learned of their father’s death. They also learned that the queen had found her elder children after leaving my mother, but she was killed shortly afterwards, defending them to the last. Then her son, the crown prince, was struck down, and then her daughter. No one knew what had happened to my mother and her brother in all of the chaos, but it hardly mattered. They were the third and fourth children, and even if my mother was now the crown princess, she was nine. She was not a threat. The rebels had control of the castle, but as it turned out, they were not really rebels. They were actually in league with a neighboring kingdom, and their king took control of my kingdom.
“My mother and her brother made their way to the very outskirts of the kingdom, and for seven years, they lived in exile. When my mother was sixteen, she returned to the castle with a following of people who wanted the old bloodline back on the throne. More joined along the way, and she took back the castle. The corridors ran red with blood again. She killed the usurper king and his family, took control of the kingdom, and was crowned queen of Areotia.
“Two years later, she married my father, the general of her army. Two more years later, she had me. Five years following that, a kingdom who had allied with the king who killed my mother’s family declared war on Areotia. My mother and father conquered them swiftly.
“My people call her the Blood Queen. She is not known for her mercy.
“However, my mother believed that she could not guarantee peace for her family and her people while these other nations lived around her. My father disapproved, but she went to war again.
“When I was ten, only two other kingdoms remained on our continent. My father left us, and my mother triumphed over one. The other is Keoterra. We have been at war with them for many years. It is in this war that my mother’s brother perished, and it is in this war that I learned to fight, that I became a soldier. Now I lead my mother’s army like my father did.
“The assassin sent after me is from Keoterra. If I were to die, it would be a sharp blow to my nation, both because I am general and because I am crown prince.
“I disapprove of my mother’s warmongering, and we argued over that on the day she banished me. That is how I have come to be here, with you.”
“That,” Natalie began to say, “is―”
But Elijah never got to find out exactly what she thought it was because something banged loud against her door, and then it burst open with a crash.
Elijah jumped to his feet, grabbed the knife out of his bag, and unsheathed it, pushing Natalie behind him. She ducked around him, skittering into the kitchen and ducking below the counter, out of sight.
“Anworth!” The assassin moved into the room, his gait slowed to a lazy stride. He held a knife, too, flipping it between his fingers. That was a useless skill, really, as it wasn't an effective weapon by any means, but it served as an intimidation tactic with less accomplished swordsmen. It demonstrated that the user knew exactly what they were doing and how to control their knife, a power that could be turned on an opponent.
“I see you needed this woman to save you and now you cower in her home.” He turned his beady eyes on Elijah. “Face me and die.”
Ignoring the taunts, Elijah lunged forward, straight into the man. He meant to push him into the wall, but the assassin was quick, and he stepped aside just enough that both were off balance. Elijah’s second attempt took them both down in a twist of limbs. Elijah landed a solid blow to the man’s ribs, but he only retaliated with a jab to Elijah’s jaw that knocked him back.
Wincing, Elijah slashed out with his knife, and the assassin caught his blade with his own. One never used knives like a sword, so instead of trading rounds, Elijah just twisted away, slashing at the man’s ankles. The assassin kicked Elijah off, then leapt to his feet.
Hurriedly, Elijah copied that, not wanting the disadvantage of being on the ground. And then the assassin was on him again, tackling him back onto the table. Elijah felt the wood digging into his back, solid and unyielding and painful. He twisted again, elbowing the man right in the face, and the spurt of blood from his nose gave Elijah the grim satisfaction of knowing he had broken it.
His next strike with his knife landed, deep across the man’s chest, eliciting another spray of blood that he knew would stain the rug and table.
“I would prefer you not get blood on her things,” Elijah told the man with as much seriousness as he could muster. He had no idea where Natalie was hiding, but she was safe for now. All that mattered was getting this man out, and then he could take Natalie somewhere else where they wouldn't be followed.
He should have known better.
Natalie rounded the corner, light on her toes, carrying a metal pan and the same cylindrical object she had used on the assassin the first time. Pepper spray, she had called it. She crept close, quiet, and Elijah threw a taunting remark at the assassin to distract him, but he had noticed Elijah’s eyes wander, if only briefly, past him.
He whirled around. “Not this time, woman!” The assassin reached out and grabbed Natalie’s wrist, twisting it. She cried out in pain, dropping the spray and loosening her grip on the pan.
And while the assassin was distracted, Elijah slammed the butt of his knife into the assassin’s head, and the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
“Come!” Elijah called out. He grabbed his bag of supplies, leaving the bedroll, and he grabbed Natalie’s hand, tugging her toward the door. Dazedly, she let her be pulled along, but when they reached the door, she stopped.
“Wait!”
She turned around and pulled free, racing back into her home. Elijah watched her run back to the unconscious assassin and retrieve her pepper spray. She tucked it into a pocket, then slipped into the kitchen and came back carrying a backpack and wielding a ― thankfully ― covered knife.
“Are you capable of using that?”
“Oh, come on already,” Natalie said, rolling her eyes and reaching for his hand.
She led him down the streets, down a staircase into an underground tunnel. Then she swiped a small card across a machine that beeped and flashed a bright green color. There were hundreds of people crowded, even so late at night, into the tunnel that curved overhead. Loud music played further down, and chatter filled the space.
“Where are we?” Elijah stared around. He hadn't seen this many people since arriving, and he’d been too busy fleeing the assassin to notice. They were all dressed extremely differently, and he could hardly find any similarity between a person and the one beside them. Rats, larger ones than he’d ever seen before, scurried along the ground along tracks set lower than the walkway, and he grimaced. It was all rather disgusting.
“We’re taking the subway,” Natalie replied in a harsh tone, eyes watching a screen with numbers and letters that he couldn't interpret. “And hopefully, the assassin doesn't follow us this time because I really don't want to get blood on my knife. It’s a good knife.”
Despite himself, Elijah laughed.
And to his surprise, Natalie did, too.
The subway was unlike anything Elijah had ever seen before. It was a giant, long tube machine that screeched and shrieked as it stopped on the tracks in front of them. Doors opened, and people poured out from it. Natalie linked arms with him, and Elijah was especially grateful, sure he would have gotten lost in the chaos of the crowd. She pulled him inside the subway and led him to a metal pole that stretched from the floor to the ceiling.
“Hang on,” she advised him, and Elijah grabbed ahold.
“Anworth!”
Both Elijah and Natalie whirled around, staring at the doors. The assassin was back, the side of his head matted with drying blood. He raced toward them, and Natalie whispered under her breath, pressing close to Elijah, “Come on, come on, come on.” They were stuck in the middle of the crowded subway, and though Elijah could have forced his way through, there was really nowhere to go. But just then, a soft bell dinged in the subway, and the doors slid shut just before the assassin reached them.
Natalie let out a visible sigh of relief, and Elijah glanced at her. Her face was pale, and she looked terrified. But her eyes were steely, and he knew she would not appreciate his concern. Nor did he have time to express it because the subway jerked and began to move. Elijah nearly went flying. He gripped the pole tighter.
Grinning at him, some of the tension dissolving from her stiff shoulders, Natalie teased, “I told you to hang on.”
“I will listen better next time,” Elijah told her, grinning back.
The subway rattled along the tunnel. Nothing was visible through the windows for several minutes until the machine began to slow. They slowed to a complete stop at a spot that looked almost exactly like the place where they had boarded the subway. With a creak and a hiss, the doors slid open, and people pushed past each other, elbowing their way on or off.
“Not yet,” Natalie said, reaching for Elijah’s arm. “This isn't our stop.”
He nodded and grabbed the pole again. The subway rattled off again, and by the time they reached the next stop, he had gotten the hang of how tightly to hold on and how to balance. That wasn't their stop, either, so Elijah let go with one hand, testing himself as they continued down the tunnel.
A big, burly man near them jostled into Natalie, knocking her off balance. Elijah caught her, steadying her with a hand at her waist. He glared at the man, who just rolled his eyes at them. Scoffing, Elijah glanced down at Natalie. She smiled at him, shaking her head.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” she replied, smiling a secretive smile. “Nothing at all.”
When they exited the subway, Natalie took his hand and pulled him close, and they headed up the stairs, down the sidewalks, and arrived in front of a tall building. Reaching into her pocket, Natalie found her keys, and she unlocked the door quickly, tugging Elijah inside.
“I don't think your assassin should be able to find us here,” she said. “But how did he even find us at my apartment? It’s not like he could see when we escaped him the first time.”
“I do not know, and that troubles me,” Elijah admitted. “We should not stay here long. I will depart on my journey in the morning. Hopefully, the assassin follows me and leaves your city. If he does not…” Elijah paused. He didn't want to leave Natalie here alone, defenseless. No, that wasn't true. She wasn't defenseless by any means. He had seen that she could hold her own. He just didn't want to leave her. But she had to stay here, in her city, in her home.
“Well, you ought not return to your place for a while. Not until you know it is safe to do so. Stay with a friend.”
“But what if he does follow you?” Natalie asked. “You’ve got to sleep while you travel. What if he finds you then?”
“I will be just fine. Remember, I am a soldier.”
“Yes, and he’s an assassin. Your job is fighting. His is killing.”
Elijah smiled. “Do not worry about me.” Before she could say anything else, he asked, “Where is it that you have brought us?”
“Oh, this is the library,” Natalie said, waving her hand. “I work here. I didn't know where else to go.”
With that knowledge, Elijah turned and scanned the first floor as she headed for the stairs to the second. There was a library in his castle, a beautiful, grand room of archways and tall windows and chandeliers and shelves of books stretching up so high that one needed a ladder to reach. This library was nowhere near so beautiful. The lights were off, but he suspected it would have been dim anyway. Carpet of a brown color covered the entire floor, and the shelves were arranged in rows with neat stacks of books arranged on them. Several sets of chairs, made of dingy blue fabric, and tables, made of dull brown wood, sat in groups throughout the wide room. The second floor was much the same, except the chairs were a dark orange fabric instead. Natalie flipped on the lights, and they flickered for a second, buzzing with electricity, before coming on, a harsh white color. Though Elijah could easily picture Natalie working in a library, what with her own bookshelves at home and her infectious joy at sharing those stories, this was hardly the place he would have imagined her in.
She dropped her purse onto a tall desk that matched the tables, and she sank into the chair behind it, a thin black thing that spun when she landed in it. Thoroughly vested of possessions and exertions, Natalie let out a loud sigh.
“We’re going to die.”
Elijah whipped around to stare at her, frozen in the process of setting his own bag down on her desk. “What? No, we are not going to die, Natalie!”
“Yeah, we are,” she told him. “He’s going to kill you when you leave me because you’ll be all alone, but he’s going to kill me before he follows you because I’m an easy target and he can use that to mess with your head before he kills you. It’d be easy, you know. I see it in movies all the time.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “‘Before I came after you, I followed your friend.’ ‘No! It’s not true!’ ‘Do you want to hear of how she begged for mercy in her last moments? Not for herself. No, she begged for me to spare you. I told her how I would come after you, and your life would end at my hands, just as hers would. And she begged and begged, but she is still lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood, lifeless, just as you will in moments. Take comfort in that, in knowing that you could do nothing to stop me and in knowing that you will join her momentarily.’”
Elijah stared at Natalie.
She stared back, her head hanging over the back of her chair so that she was halfway upside down as she spun slowly in circles.
“You have a terrible mind,” he said at last.
“Thank you. I try.”
“We are not going to die.”
“That’s how these stories go. I’ll die, at least. The tragic heroine, felled by a cruel fate.” Natalie pressed the back of her hand to her forehead in a theatrical flourish. “You’ll play the part of the dutiful prince, trying desperately to return to his homeland and his people and his family.”
“That much, you have correct, at least,” Elijah said, crossing his arms and watching her spin and speak with amusement.
“The hand of destiny moves you,” she told him. “Whether you shall reach the end of your journey or not, I cannot say. Perhaps fate shall catch up with you, as well, and you shall meet the same fate as I. Perhaps you shall make it home to all you ever wanted, only to be haunted by the knowledge that you have abandoned a friend in her world, never knowing what became of the assassin who followed her, never knowing if she lives or lies dead and cold.”
“You are cruel.”
Natalie cackled. “Well, it’s partially true, isn't it? I mean, I’d hope we won't die, but I’ll never know if you make it home. I have no way of knowing. And you have no way to know if he came after me.”
Elijah was quiet. It was true, and he didn't like that. He already hadn't wanted to leave her, and now he was even more loath to leave, knowing what could happen. “I could return after I collect the portal gems, just to be sure you are alright.”
“You cannot walk across the entire country a second time just to check on me. You have to go home.” Natalie paused. “Don't you?”
“I do. I must,” Elijah said. “I am needed. I have duties there.” He watched her, studying her expression, but it was completely inscrutable.
“I'm needed here, too. I have responsibilities. A job. Fr― Well, no, I don't have friends. Or much in the way of family. Or much in the way of a life, really,” Natalie added. She kicked the desk, spinning her chair faster, still hanging her head back. Her skin was turning red. “I don't have to stay here.”
Elijah’s head snapped up, and he stared at her, hardly daring to hope. “What?”
“I mean, I have plenty of vacation days stored up. Don't go anywhere, don't do much. It’s a waste to take them when I don't need them, you know,” she told him. “And no one would miss me. I don't know my neighbors, and they likely wouldn't be thrilled about knowing an assassin was in our building, anyways. My family is dead. Mostly. I don't speak to the rest. And I don't even have a cat that needs feeding. There’s no reason for me to not go with you. Just to make sure we’re both safe, see? And besides,” she continued, oblivious to the fact that Elijah’s mouth was hanging open and he was watching her with some emotion, clearly written across his face, akin to joy and excitement and disbelief all at once. “Besides, I do have a car, you know. I don't use it much because, you know, New York City, but I have one. We could take it, and I could drive us around.”
“I thought you had to work,” Elijah said slowly, battling down the surge of hope and excitement.
Natalie waved a hand. “I can take a few days off. It’s only a couple of days of driving. Like I said, plenty of vacation days. Plus, this way, we both know we’re safe. I'm sure your assassin would tail us. I'm not stupid enough to think we’ve lost him, but I’d know when you made it through, and if you can time it right, you can take him with you back to your world.”
“He can kill me there, then,” Elijah joked.
Rolling her eyes, Natalie said, “You can fight him better there, with all your weapons. And I'm sure there’d be people around to help you, right?”
“I assume so,” Elijah said. “Are you set on this plan, then?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you certain?”
“I’m positive, Elijah.” Natalie stopped her spinning, facing him. For half a moment, he expected her to regard him with solemnity and seriousness, but she just kicked her feet up on the desk, eyeing him with a grin. “Don't you want me to tag along?”
“I would prefer you to stay safe,” Elijah told her, but he grinned back.
“Can't do that here, with an assassin on the loose,” Natalie said. “Don't you want to be driven rather than having to walk?”
“That I do want. It is settled, then. You will accompany me to collect the gems and see me returned to my homeland, and we will ensure that you remain safe from the assassin. Are these terms acceptable, my lady?” Elijah leaned on her desk.
“They are acceptable,” Natalie replied, eyes sparkling with mischief and glee, head tilted up to him. “When do we leave?”
#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#theme: shelter#story: unfinished#my writinggg#areotia duology#tptg&ta#yes i do think the narnia references are funny considering i'm team chesterton#this is portal fantasy too i know but technically he's intruding on our world so i'm counting it okay#oneshot#original
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The Mysterious Mansion
I promise that this is my last story I’m posting. It’s only the third one and the first one that I started…
@inklings-challenge
In the middle of the old city, there lies a mysterious plot of land that few dare to try to tread. Nary a more ominous place have you or I have ever seen, dear reader.
The plot is surrounded by high red brick walls, topped with gleaming rod iron spikes covered with gold leaf or something similar, that are as sharp as butcher's knife, and look to be as shiny as if polished every night. There are stories of people trying to climb the wall only to be stopped by being cut by the spikes.
Otherwise there is only one entrance. A gate that appears to be an impassable pile of rubble, which is deceptive. The gate gives the best glimpse of what is within the walled plot. Thick forest surrounding a long, surprisingly clear gravel driveway, leading to a grim looking three story tall, red brick mansion with a large dry stone fountain in front. With boarded up windows on the lower level, white columns on either side of the front entrance, holding up an overhang.
You would think such a place like that would be ripe with people wanting to explore it, film their explorations of it, and pretend to be ghost hunters in such a place. You wouldn’t be wrong to think so; if it weren’t for the pesky little fact that no one who has been known to enter the property has ever returned.
It’s become a well known fact that those who dare try their hand at exploring the place, have a nasty habit of disappearing. As do any search parties.
No one knows what happens to those who enter. There are many speculations as to what happens, from the mundane to the supernatural.
Those who do not believe in the supernatural tend to lean to the idea that people get lost in the forest and can’t find their way back out. Others claim that a mass murderer lives in the mansion and kills anyone who enters the grounds à la H. H. Holmes and his murder hotel.
Those who lean more towards the supernatural- like to claim aliens, vampires, werewolves or other such creatures are the culprits of stealing, killing, and keeping those who enter. Others yet claim a portal to another world lies within.
All of the different theories have combined into a plethora of urban legends about the plot of land and the mansion within. But the most outrageous conspiracy might be the theory that no one actually goes missing. That once people go in and see that there’s nothing special about the overgrown, run down plot; they leave and claim that they either never went or make themselves scarce to keep the mystique of the place.
I don’t believe that last one; due to my own experiences. Let me set the scene for you. My partner and I were given the task to go into the mansion and learn as much as possible about the place. Mostly so the place could be torn down and in filled with stores and houses.
We questioned our superior if he knew what he was asking us. If he understood the implications of sending us somewhere where it wasn’t known what happened to people who entered.
He did, but said it needed to be done anyway. The place was becoming an eyesore, and the land could be used for those other purposes. There had to be some way to learn about what the truth of the place was.
So my partner, and I said goodbye to our families and met up at the front gate.
We both stood there and just stared at the mess of the gate. We were going to have to try and figure out a way through. Did we dare try climbing over the tangled mess?
I’m not sure which of us noticed it at first; the poem on the bronze plaque. On the pillar beside the gate.
You’ll have to forgive me; I don’t quite remember how it went anymore, but it was something like this.
To enter by my gate, and to change the fate of those who wait. Come close and state; Silver gate, Silver gate, open wide to let us enter and choose our fate, for those who wait, but don’t be late to find the right state because if you don’t the make that state before it’s too late, the gate will close and you remain.
An ominous warning without much guidance to explain what that meant. Or what we were intended to do.
My partner, and I shrugged it off at the time and decided to see what would happen if we recited the poem.
We were both shocked to watch the mess of the metal sort of glow silvery as it formed a proper gate. Ornate and seemingly locked; at least, until my partner walked forward, and put her hand on the gate; which one open slowly at her touch.
She looked at me in shock before we both entered together.
Nothing seem too otherworldly along the gravel driveway. It just seemed like an overgrown plot of land. The brush and trees were thick, though we could see the mansion covered in ivy at the end of the driveway.
The walk to the front door felt longer than it likely was. Both of us were silent on the way. I was wondering if we would have to recite another poem to get into the mansion. And if we did, if this one would give us more information.
Once we got to the door, it open for us, like it had been expecting us. Which was hardly comforting.
The inside was surprising. The inside of the mansion, in that space was a bright white room with tall, white marble pillars. Columns might be more accurate description. There were at least four of them along the outside wall with the door we enter through. Between each pillar on the same wall were peachy, coral coloured velveteen curtains, which match the veining in the marble columns. There being no clear sign of where the light might be coming from to make the room so bright.
#the mysterious mansion#team chesterton#theme: visit the imprisoned#genre: intrusive fantasy#genre: adventure#story: unfinished#this has not been deeply edited
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Such a Blaze You Seldom See
Written for the Inklings Challenge 2022 ( @inklings-challenge ). Inspired by Robert Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee.”
January 6, 1897
Dear Lena,
Men say that strange things can happen in the Klondike. I never quite believed them till now. Now, I tremble to recall what happened to Sam and me a month ago when we crossed from Fort Yukon to Dawson in late December, a rough trip to be sure. I halfway suspect that what I saw was the strangest thing ever to happen in that frozen expanse. Whatever the case, it was a miracle.
You know better than anyone that Sam was always keen to leave Idaho. He would have liked to go anywhere else, but from boyhood his favorite notion was that he’d go back east for a fancy college education and become an engineer or an architect. Even more than that, though—more than anything, he wanted to marry you and start a family. He would have done right by you, Lena, if only he could have.
But God was unkind. Sam never went east, never got to college, and he broke your engagement, though it broke his own heart to do it.
Da was a wandering soul, you know, and he went out the door when I was ten after years of struggling to stay put. I started getting nervous fits after Da left, though I mostly grew out of it within a couple years. They hurt like blazes and I had to treat with laudanum, but I never fell dependent on it the way so many people do. I had Sam, who was carefuler and more precise than any doctor. He watched over my laudanum use and cared for me when I was hurting.
I started healing, and that was when you and Sam finally got engaged. But then Ma fell sick with consumption.
Sam told me what you said when he broke the engagement: “I’ll wait, but not forever.” Those words were like some morsel of food to a starving man. He put your engagement ring on a chain after you returned it and carried it around his wrist as a bracelet: “So I can wear my hopes on my sleeve,” he would say.
Ma died last summer. I’m not sure if you know that. You were long gone by then.
Sam called it a miracle when the letter came. Dear sons, it said, If you are reading this letter, you are still in Pellton where I left you. Now I have the chance to make amends for my absence. By some stroke of luck, I was in Seattle when the news of Klondike gold came down. I have staked a claim worth six dollars a pan and begun construction of a cabin on site. Come to Dawson City and join me. Five hundred dollars advance enclosed for the trip. At the bottom of the page was my Da’s unfamiliar signature.
Of course, getting to Dawson would be difficult, but Sam and me conferred and decided to go for it. Soon as possible, we said, else Da or the gold or both might have run out by the time we got there.
*
Six days before Christmas, we were making our way over the God-forsaken trail from Fort Yukon to Dawson. It was freezing—"Proper cold,” Sam said, which I later found out meant thirty below. Our eyelashes froze and stuck together. The hair in our noses froze and it stung when we inhaled. Even through our parkas, the wind stabbed past our skin down to the brittle bone.
“Hell on earth,” I complained. It wasn’t an exaggeration either. “Didn’t some fellow once write that Hell was someplace frozen?”
“That was Dante, I think,” Sam hollered back, “’S not in the Bible.” I couldn’t see his face through the hood and the cap he had on over it, but I could picture the way his lip quirked up at the edge when he said it.
“Want to stay in back another turn? I can keep going,” he offered. It was near my turn to walk out in front of the sled and break the path for the dogs while Sam took his turn walking behind.
With sled dogs, someone has to go out front of the team on snowshoes and clear the way, else the dogs would waste all their energy fighting through snow that might come up past their noses. It’s hard work, being out front, but it would be harder still heading to Dawson without a good dog team.
Sam’s brows would be furrowed together in worry when he made me that offer. I could just see it, and it bothered me. Even all these years on, Sam was always fussing after my health.
“Naw, I’ll manage,” I said. I didn’t want Sam wearing himself out on my account.
Of course, a few miles later, he insisted and back behind the sled I went. I never could talk Sam out of anything once his mind was made up.
*
That night, we were packed beneath the snow in the shadow of the sled, which served as a windbreak. It was near fifty below, but the stars were dancing overhead in a show the likes of which you just don’t see in Pellton and I felt, if not comfortable, then at least contented. Sam turned over then, from being on his back looking up at the sky to sideways and looking at me.
“Cade,” said he, “we’ll pass near the Belle Isle Altar on Christmas day. I’d like to make an offering.”
“Mmmm. Whatever you say, Sam.” I was damn exhausted, as you can imagine.
I’m sure you’ve heard about the Altar as a legend or a fairytale, but the folks up north will swear that it’s real. I’d heard talk of the Altar a thousand times over the last few months. Once we got up past St. Michael, everyone had something to say on the subject. A tall, burly man from Oklahoma called it a miracle and a mystery. The captain of the boat that had carried us to Fort Yukon said it was the closest thing to magic that any man had ever seen. Yet plenty of people also said it wasn’t worth adding the extra hours to the long, grueling trek to Dawson.
“I’d like to offer up Lena’s ring,” said Sam.
That got me awake. “What?”
“Her engagement ring, Cade.”
No no no, I thought, You can’t!
What I said was, “It’s your token, Sam. But don’t you want to keep it so you can go back and give it to her again once you’re rich?”
Sam was quiet for a long time. “Lena’s gone, Cade. She waited, and then she left, and I expect she’s found someone else by now. And that’s alright.” Were it not for our wraps, he would have reached out and ruffled my hair.
“Now wait a minute, Sam—”
“And I’m never gonna pass by as holy a place as Belle Isle Altar again in my life, most like. I want to offer God the most precious thing I have as a sacrifice, and what better time than on the holiest night of the year?”
“You shouldn’t be so rash—”
“I ain’t being rash! Been thinking about this since we decided to come this way. If the good Lord does see fit to give me the second chance I always prayed for, then I’ll tell Lena what I did with her ring and I’ll buy her a big diamond instead of a little silver band. But if, as is my suspicion, I never have that chance—well then, that’s alright too. I’m praying for other things now, Cade.”
I bit my lip hard to keep the tears in. “You ever regret all the things you gave up to care for Ma and me?”
Sam didn’t hesitate. “Never. Not once.”
He turned a little in his snow-bed and I could just see the glint off his eyes in the starlit darkness. He was looking at me with more love than I knew how to take in.
“I’ll always wish I could have married Lena and gone east and all—but I never could have left you and Ma while either of you was ailing. Wouldn’t have been fair to Lena either, if I could only give her half my worry.”
And that was that, I guess. We dozed off, slept hard, and woke in the morning with miles and miles of frozen expanse ahead of us.
*
About midday, we were picking our way across the flats when a squall hit us flat outa nowhere. One moment, the horizon was clear, then an instant later an enormous cloud of silver was racing towards us and Sam was yelling “Hurry! The dogs! The sled!”
Well, we got the dogs dug in as fast as we could and dove beneath the sled before the worst was upon us. We bundled up tight in the snow and prepared to wait it out, both trying to work out in our heads how far it might set us back. The light had dwindled to little more than five hours each day and it was costly to lose any of it.
Then, slowly and then all at once, my vision lit up hot. I felt a pain in the base of my head, right in the place where my skull met my spine.
“Sam,” I said. “Sam.”
There must have been something about my voice, because Sam knew at once. “You’re having a fit,” he stated in a pitch-black tone.
Strange, that. I hadn’t had a fit in nearly four years. I’d been healthy, but somehow Sam just knew.
I nodded. When I remembered he couldn’t see me, I cleared my throat and murmured, “I am.”
I could sense Sam’s indecision. His muscles were taught and there was a grim look on what little I could see of his face. The moments lengthened and ticked by until finally, Sam let out a sigh. “Your laudanum’s in the sled, way down towards the bottom. Can you bear it?”
“Yessir,” I said, trying my best to be brave.
I don’t know how much time passed. Pain is timeless, even worse when you’re in the middle of a white-out storm. I only know that eventually, the pain got too much to take. I started screaming.
Sam was up in a flash. He climbed into the sled and got me the laudanum. Then he was beside me again pouring a measure in my mouth, and a short time later the pain began to leave me. (Or was it hours? Never can tell.)
I slept. Sam didn’t. The storm ended eventually, but we stayed put till morning.
*
When we rose the next day, I could tell Sam wasn’t right. Those few minutes in the storm the day before had stolen away his body’s heat and he was still chilled, even after the long rest in his hood beneath the snow. “Don’t you worry,” Sam told me, but his voice was dry and cracked like last year’s autumn leaves. He was moving real slow.
He was staggering and stumbling about before noon, muscles stiff and uncooperative. I decided to halt, but Sam wasn’t having it. “Am I in charge, or is my baby brother? We’ve got thirty miles to make today. We go on.”
“You may be older, but you’re not in charge of me. Right now, I know what’s best and I say halt.”
We halted.
I built a fire, but that blue tinge that he had all over wasn’t going away. I pulled out the extra blankets, but Sam pushed them aside. “Too darn hot,” he said, teeth chattering.
After a while, he fell into delirium. Last thing I remember my brother saying while he still knew me is, “Steady, Cade. Death ain’t such a big thing.” After that, he just clung to the sled and raved. Ma and Da, his plans for college back east, bits and pieces from Scripture, and you. “Lena, Lena,” again and again. It was all jumbled and after a while it just ran together in a long stream of nonsense.
“’S it snowing?” Sam asked.
“Not right now,” I answered.
He never moved again.
It took me a bit to realize that my brother was dead. When I touched his skin, it was blue tinged and cold as ice.
It was only then that I realized I didn’t have any way of burying my brother. The ground was frozen solid, even by the river where the snow pack wasn’t as bad. There was no way I could possibly dig a hole to fit him. I knew what he’d tell me if he could: “Leave the body and go on; it’ll only weigh you down.”
But Sam was gone, and I wasn’t going to leave my brother’s body to freeze in the snow and be food for some animal. He was a good Christian, read his Bible at night and went to church most every week. He deserved a Christian burial.
The sled had a little room free, but not near enough to fit Sam’s whole body. I thought about just trying to tie him down on top of everything, but I knew that adding him to the heap would upset the stability of the sled and tire out the dogs. Even a good team can only haul so much. For a desperate moment, I thought maybe I could somehow carry him on my back—but when I tried to lift him, I found my brother’s body a great, unwieldy block of ice. It took nearly my whole strength to pick him up at the torso and carry him all of six yards. I set him back down with a grunt and for a long moment I considered dosing myself with a little more laudanum. I wanted to be numb.
(I didn’t want to think on the laudanum too hard, else I’d think about Sam going out in that storm to get it. If I let myself think on it, the guilt would destroy me and I couldn’t let it. I’d as good as killed my brother. I owed it to him to survive.)
But wait. One of the crates on the sled was Sam’s clothes. There was no need now to bring them to Dawson anymore. I would never wear them; Sam’s a good head taller than me, and I’m not likely to do much more growing.
I didn’t want to part with Sam’s clothes. Even if I couldn’t wear them, they’d still carry his scent. But I reasoned that it was more important to give my brother a proper burial than to hold onto sentimental objects. I tossed the clothes out into the snow and chopped up the crate for firewood.
The same logic applied to most of Sam’s half of the food and the few precious books he’d decided to bring. By the time I was though, I had space on the sled big enough to stow his body.
Then, just as I was shoving him onto the sled, I caught sight of your ring on its silver chain and I remembered about Sam’s offering.
I was three days out from Belle Isle Altar. I could still sacrifice the ring for him. Even though he was dead, I had to believe that God would still honor his offering.
So, as I finished chopping the crates and packing up and I prepared to move out, my heart swelled with a new strength of determination. It was up to me now to offer Sam’s most precious treasure to the Lord on Christmas day, just like the Wise Men did. I swore I would not fail.
There wasn’t a breath in that land of death as I started away that morning. The winds let up and I made good time. Maybe even enough that I wouldn’t be hard pressed to reach my destination by Christmas. I was hopeful, at least. I had promises to keep.
I tried not to think of what the Eskimo at Fort Yukon had said: “It is good that you have each other. Only a fool ventures into this country on his own with the winter at his heels.”
I halted for the night at the edge of one of the Yukon River’s little braided tributaries. It took me two tries to get the fire started all on my own, but I managed it in the end.
When I crept beneath the snow to sleep, I could almost feel Sam sitting there above me on the sled. I must have laid there for ten or fifteen minutes, keener and keener discomfort growing in my gut, until finally I said aloud, “It’s a mighty grief not to have you down below with me, Sam.”
In my mind, I saw his eyes crease and heard him reply, “You can come join me if you like, but it'll be a tight squeeze. You’ll have to toss your own things out in order to fit!”
I chuckled softly in the silence, momentarily comforted. I talked to Sam until my eyelids drooped shut.
*
In the days that followed, I kept up a steady stream of talk for Sam. I crossed several more tributaries telling him what the new cabin in Dawson would be like: “Wood floors, windows facing west, and a little reading corner, just like you said. Da’ll give us anything we ask for, just wait.” As I went across the Flats, I talked about you and him as though you could still get married for real: “Oh, but she’s a beauty, your Lena Lindquist. Long dark hair down to her knees and a pretty little smile that turns big when she laughs. She’ll make a beautiful bride, and your children will be prettier still. Can you imagine, you and her with a strapping boy and a half-pint little girl?” I hauled myself over a series of toothy ridges one at a time, grouching and cussing and hearing Sam chide me for my foul language. “If you’re gonna cuss, leave the Lord out of it!”
I felt half-mad. I found that I didn’t much care if I was.
Sometime in the middle of the next-to-last day before Belle Isle, I started to sing Christmas carols. “Here’s ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ for you again, Sam!” I would cry before launching into another of his favorites. In lonely, fleeting moments when the winds blew hard, I saw Sam’s body grinning at me from the sled. “Always did love that one, Cade,” he seemed to say.
As I sat and supped that night, a kind of fierce, lonesome sorrow came over me, different from the constant ache in my chest that was Sam’s death. It was Christmas Eve and I had naught but my brother’s corpse for company. It was silly, but I guess I never really believed that anyone spent Christmas alone.
“Wish you were here,” I said. The wind whistled, but from the sled, Sam spoke not a word.
“I wish you were really here,” I said again. “Wish you hadn’t gotten me that laudanum. Wish you’d let me suffer. Wish you’d let me die, if it came to that. Wish you’d just listened to me scream and not moved a single inch.”
Sam wasn’t really on the sled. Only his body was.
“Wish you were selfish,” I said. “Wish you’d gone off to Yale or somesuch after Da left and married Lena while I was still sick and never looked back. Wish you could have had the life you wanted instead of freezing and dying in the middle of the Klondike. Wish you’d had a different brother. Wish you hadn’t had any brother!”
I was nearly yelling by this point and the dogs were getting agitated. I made myself settle and softly I muttered, “Wish I had died instead.
“You never would have let me, would you? You spent up all your life making sacrifices for your kin, so naturally you had to go and die on my account. You wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
The snow fell, and my tears fell. They froze crystal on my face. My brother didn’t answer.
*
I came to Belle Isle Altar after lunch on Christmas Day. It was right on the edge of the lake facing the water, closed in by a squat little stone building with a chimney on top. Out from the chimney, maybe half a mile into the air, came a continuous billow of smoke.
“Alright Sam,” I muttered. “Alright.” I climbed to the back of the sled where I’d left your ring with its chain still wrapped around his wrist. I felt for it. It was gone.
Immediately, my thoughts began racing. I remembered making the decision to put the ring back and go through with Sam’s offering. So, I figured, it had to be here somewhere.
I wrapped my arms around Sam’s torso and dragged him off the sled, then climbed back into the place where he had been. I scoured the whole area, raked my hands along every surface, but I couldn’t find it. Panic began to rise in my throat.
One at a time, I pulled every crate and box and item off the sled and piled them there in the snow. The sky scowled down at me as I carefully opened each and found that the ring wasn’t inside. My throat was closing up, somewhere between rage and despair. I didn’t know whether I wanted to scream to heaven or curl up in a ball and weep.
Finally, as I was pulling all the bits of firewood off the sled, I caught sight of something shiny and let out a whoop. I reached down for the engagement ring, but an instant later I realized my mistake. In my hand was only a broken-off piece of tarnished silver chain.
It must have gotten caught on one of the crates when I dragged them off the sled to chop them up, I realized. The ring itself was likely still lying there in the place where Sam had died, long since covered by drifts of snow.
Now I really did weep. I sat down on the edge of the sled and howled my woes out to the dreadful wind and snow. No offering. It was Christmas Day and I was at Belle Isle Altar without anything to burn.
No, wait. That wasn’t true. All my worldly possessions were there with me. We hadn’t brought much from Idaho, and less still had made it onto the sled when we left Fort Yukon, but I still had plenty of options. Surely, somewhere in that great pile I had a fitting treasure for Sam to offer. I turned and stared at the stack of crates and boxes. There was the monogrammed handkerchief that Da had once given Ma as a Christmas gift. There was the old family Bible, and all of my clothing, including my one good Sunday shirt.
There, leaning up against it all, was Sam’s body.
Bodies ought to be buried, but I remembered hearing once how some people prefer to cremate their dead and scatter the ashes.
“Here!” I cried aloud, and I wasn’t sure if I was talking to myself or my brother or to God. “Here is your offering!”
All in a rush, I stashed everything back on the sled except Sam’s stiff, frozen body. Then, with all my strength, I grabbed him tight beneath the arms and dragged him towards the squat little building where the Altar was waiting.
I blinked when I stepped inside. There were no windows, but it was brighter than the snow outside had been.
In the center of the squat, stone room stood a pillar of flame which started at the ground and went all the way up to the ceiling where its smoke escaped through the chimney. It was untended, and no fuel sat beneath it. From the untouched snow outside, I didn’t even think anyone had set foot in the place in at least a week. The Fire never grew or shrank. It danced and flickered, but never wavered. The light it threw off was bright, brilliant gold.
Yet it was a true fire; the smoke smelled like smoke, and the flame was blistering hot as I approached it. I came away with my parka singed.
It was all true. The Standing Fire at Belle Isle Altar was real, and as near to magic as I had ever seen. A miracle.
Would you take my meaning if I said that place covered up all my grief with a feeling altogether heavier and harder to bear? And yet the Fire was beautiful. Even now, I don’t really understand it.
Beside the Standing Fire was a stone slab big enough that I could have laid down and slept on it. It was far enough from the Fire that I could stand at it without turning red, but near enough that I was always aware of just how awfully hot it was. This was the Altar itself, erected, I assumed, by the Eskimos, or else by whatever fur trader first found this place a hundred years ago.
I left my offering a few feet from the Altar and returned to the sled for some wood.
*
I started singing again as I prepared the Altar. I started with a funeral dirge because it seemed only proper, but before long I found myself on Christmas carols again. The jolly tunes should have been at odds with the somber work I was doing, but I didn’t think Sam would have minded. Matter of fact, he’d have enjoyed it.
I arranged the kindling like I was making a bonfire, mostly because I couldn’t think of another way of doing it. Once all was set, I chose a long branch and carefully reached it to the very edge of the Standing Fire. A few seconds and it caught. I lit the kindling, and before long the flames of my Altar-fire were soaring high.
I figured there were probably words you were meant to say when you make an offering to God, but I didn’t know any of them. Then again, I didn’t think anyone had ever offered a corpse before. I was already doing the thing all wrong, so I might as well do it as best I could figure out.
“Lord, here in your presence, at the Standing Fire on Christmas Day we do bring this offering—that’s Sam and me both, Lord. He meant to give you his engagement ring, the one he’d intended for Lena Lindquist, but it got lost. I’m sorry about that; it wasn’t his fault.
“But Sam here was the best brother you ever gave anyone. I treasured him, and his body is the most precious thing I’ve got with me. If an offering is supposed to be something precious—well, I hope this is alright with You.
“But Lord, maybe it’s right that his body gets to be an offering. All his life was a sacrifice, you know. Every bit of it.”
With that, I burrowed a hole in the glowing center of the fire, and I hefted my brother’s body in. Then I turned round and fled out into the cold. I didn’t want to see him burn.
The wind was blowing hard, howling cross the frozen expanse. It was proper cold, but I could still feel the heat from the Standing Fire licking all over me. Sweat rolled down my forehead and the small of my back. I went back to the sled to get something to drink.
I made camp, melted some snow for water, and ate a little food. The stars came out overhead and I don’t know why, but they seemed prettier than ever that night. I tilted my head back in awe.
I don’t know how long I waited before returning to the Altar, but I think it was a good long while. I padded back cautiously, almost frightened—though I don’t really know what I was afraid of. I opened the door.
Sam was sitting cross legged on the Altar in the midst of the flames, cool as you please. When he saw me, he looked up laughing and called, “Close the door, won’t you? Don’t let the heat out.”
It was all I could do to stop myself lunging into the fire to grab hold of him.
“Sam?” I choked out, “Is that really you?”
“I told you, Cade: Death ain’t such a big thing.” My brother reached out his hand from inside the flame. I touched it.
Living flesh.
We laced our fingers together for a moment, and his hand was just like it always was. I could feel the calluses on his palm, the little raised scar on the back of his thumb he got making a fishhook when he was nine, the strength of his grip.
And then he was gone. The fire on the Altar burned with his ashes, and beyond it the miraculous radiance of the Standing Fire blazed on.
I don’t know what you’ll make of all this, Lena, but every word is true. Like I said: strange things happen in the Klondike. I know. I’ve seen them. I burned my brother Sam’s body on the Altar of the Standing Fire at Belle Isle, but I swear he was alive again in those flames.
#inklingschallenge#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#imagery: fire#story: complete#inklings challenge 2k22#Leah stories#I'm very proud of this piece#let me know what you think ;)#pontifications and creations#inklings challenge
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Wind and Wonder
Finished! I completed my story for the @inklings-challenge about five minutes ago. I really wasn't sure I was going to make it this year, but just like last year I managed to squeak in just before the deadline.
I was going to do a lot of explanation about the story, and why and how I chose the imagery I did, and the style, but I think instead I shall let the story stand for itself, and perhaps do a later post with more background detail.
So, without further ado ...
Wind and Wonder
The breeze didn’t come off the ocean, or down from the mountains, or ... well, no one could quite guess where it came from. It brushed past people’s ankles, tickled their noses, kissed their cheeks and hands. It whisked through downtown, and for a few moments the everyday bustle and bother stopped, people stood a little straighter, their eyes shone a little more brightly, and they breathed a little more freely.
Elderly people felt its caress and recaptured a glimpse of their lost youth. Young people felt it and lost their anxiety for a few, precious breaths. Babies laughed and clapped their hands as it playfully tugged their blankets in their strollers, and even ruthless businessmen, long hardened to anything that didn’t promise them more power and wealth, wished that they had spent their days pursuing the things that really mattered, after it brushed by them.
The breeze didn’t stay downtown. It wasn’t there for the businessmen, the babies, the youth, or the elderly, however delightful it was to wake them all up. It had a destination—or rather, two.
Amy and Jake Gardiner were about as ordinary a couple as anyone could hope to meet. They’d married when Amy was twenty-three and Jake twenty-five, started a family a few years after that, and had three children each two years apart. Jake was diligent at work, but rarely rose above what was asked of him. Amy served on the PTA and volunteered at church and ran the kids to all their various activities. Now their youngest—the only boy—had started college, and Amy and Jake were gradually becoming aware that maybe, just maybe, they were missing something crucial in life. But what?
Jake was proud of his years at his job, even if he hadn’t changed the world the way he thought he would when he first graduated college. He was proud of his kids, too, and had made them a priority from the start. He’d been to all of their dance recitals, baseball games, track meets, art shows, and piano recitals over the years, having vowed when they were young never to be one of those fathers who spent so much time working to give his family a good life that he was never there to enjoy it with them. He loved Amy too, of course, and was looking forward to spending more time with her once he was retired. Doing what together, he wasn’t exactly sure, but they’d figure it out when they got there.
It was only natural to feel a little flat with all of the kids out of the house, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything, not really. He certainly wasn’t going through any kind of a midlife crisis. He had no urge to go buy a sports car or climb Mt. Everest, for one thing. For another, he didn’t feel any particular loss over his youth. He just felt ... stale. That was all. No big deal.
Amy had no regrets over having given up her career at the start to be able to stay home with their kids. Sure, life had gotten a bit monotonous at times, only spending time with other moms and not having much of any life outside the kids, but it had been worth it. She’d thought about getting a part-time job once they were all in school, but then there were so many after-school activities and help with homework and keeping the house running—always so much laundry!—that it had never seemed like the right time. She was glad to have spent so much time with her family over the last twenty-five years. She had a great relationship with all her children, and she loved Jake and knew she was loved and valued by him.
So why was she so restless these days? Of course she’d known it was going to be hard to adjust from being a full-time mom to ... this, but she thought she had enough other things in life—volunteering at church, all those hobbies she’d never had time before to pursue—to keep from feeling quite so on edge. Only, the hobbies didn’t seem that interesting anymore, and she kept feeling that perhaps she ought to step back from some of her volunteer work to make room for others to serve, and overall, she simply couldn’t figure out what she wanted to be doing, much less what she should be doing.
They were out for a walk together on the trail that ran through the woods bordering their property. The kids had spent hours of their childhood playing in those woods, and Amy and Jake walked back there every Saturday morning the weather was good and they didn’t have a game or practice or birthday party to attend.
This morning the air was chill and damp, a sure sign that autumn was on its last legs and winter was almost here. Amy shivered. She hated this time of year, when the glory of color on the trees had passed but no snow had yet fallen, and everything was dreary and bleak. She thought about suggesting they return to the house for another cup of coffee, but she worried about Jake not getting enough exercise, sitting in his office all week, and she knew he needed these weekend strolls, so she kept her sigh to herself and determined to endure.
For his part, Jake would much rather have been inside with his coffee and the paper, but if he didn’t gently nudge Amy into walking now she would never get any exercise and then complain that her back and neck ached and she couldn’t figure out why. He knew what she was like!
Thus they were both outside when the breeze, fresh from its excursion downtown, found them at last.
It swirled around their feet first, sending up a shower of dead leaves from the cold, hard ground, and causing Amy to gasp in sudden delight as the leaves flashed with the color they had had three weeks ago, before rain and wind carried them from their trees.
Then it grew into a mighty gust, as though pleased with its efforts so far and wanting to stretch out even more, whooshing Amy’s hair back from her face and pulling Jake’s knitted hat right off his head and sending it soaring down the path just ahead of Jake’s grasping hand. The look of astonishment on Jake’s face as it flew past his fingers was so comical that Amy surprised both of them by bursting into a merry peal of laughter.
Jake might have been inclined to take offense, but instead he looked at his wife, with her hair all loose around her face, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling, her mouth and cheeks curved into a whole-hearted smile. When was the last time he had seen her like that?
He couldn’t remember, but he couldn’t find it in him to be anything but pleased that he could make her laugh, even if it was at his expense.
The breeze, perhaps satisfied with its work, seemingly relented and swooshed back toward them, dropping the hat back at Jake’s feet and kissing the tip of Amy’s nose before it whisked back to the mysterious place from which it had first come.
“Well,” said Jake, bending down to collect his hat and holding it awkwardly in his hands without replacing it on his head, “That was a bit of an adventure.”
“A small one, but an adventure all the same,” Amy acknowledged. She gazed off across the trees, seeing in her mind’s eye again that splendid sudden flash of gold, crimson, vivid red, and orange as the leaves swirled around her knees—and then dear Jake, lunging for his hat only to have it whisk past his fingertips, and the utter shock on his face over the minor mishap. How funny that something so small could bring such a deep surge of delight.
Without speaking any further to each other, they began their walk once more, only this time, instead of each secretly wishing they could be back home, cozy and comfortable, only out here for the sake of the other, they each found themselves looking for things they could point out to and share with the other—Amy, to try to give Jake that same moment of exquisite delight she had felt over the color-splashed leaves, and Jake, to try to bring that same delight back to Amy’s face.
Amy was the first to spot something—a flash of color up in the trees, followed by a familiar hammering sound.
“Look!” she said, hand grasping at Jake’s sleeve. “Look at that woodpecker, up there in the oak.”
It took Jake a few moments to follow the sound, but once he spotted it, they stood side-by-side, heads tilted upward, watching in silence until the woodpecker had gathered its fill from the top of the old tree and flown off in another burst of red, black, and white.
“Funny things,” Jake said. “All that hammering. As though, as though ...” he racked his brains to think of a comparison. “As though they were the dwarves of the bird world, only they mine in trees instead of underground.”
Amy laughed again, as he had hoped, and they walked on.
They meandered further than usual that day, more focused on looking and sharing than on their tired feet or cold ears. As they walked, they found they had begun talking about more than their usual chats.
Generally, during these walks, Amy would ask Jake about his week at work, and he would give her a vaguely pleasant report. Then he would ask her about her week, and she would respond in kind—mostly talking about the kids, when they had still been at home, these days focusing more on her volunteer work. Conversations over the dinner table or before bed tended to be similar.
Today, though, after the woodpecker, Jake found himself remembering how much he’d enjoyed bird watching with his grandpa when he was a young boy, and to his own surprise, he started telling Amy about those times, and how much they’d meant to him.
“It made me feel special, you know, like there was this secret only Grandpa and I shared that none of my cousins had. I’m sure he had other special things with them, but bird watching was just for us. Funny, I haven’t thought about that in years.”
Instead of responding with an immediate reference to their own kids (“Maybe one day you’ll be able to take your own grandchild bird-watching!”), Amy simply let this sink in, somewhat taken aback that there was still, after all these years, something about her husband she didn’t know.
“I wasn’t the oldest grandkid, or the youngest, or the smart one or the athletic one or anything like that. I just ... was. Most of the time I felt totally overshadowed by my cousins, but when Grandpa and I went out together to watch birds, it didn’t matter so much.” Jake stopped, looking startled at his own words, and laughed uncertainly. “Well now, who would have thought I’d remember that after all these years! Maybe I ought to get a pair of binoculars and take it up again. It seems like the right sort of thing for a guy getting to be an old man.”
Amy frowned. Something in that didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. Surely it was good that Jake wanted to take up a new hobby, especially one that reminded him of his grandfather? Why should she think that it in was the wrong spirit?
Oh—of course.
“Don’t do it because you think it’s an appropriate hobby for an old man,” she said. “Do it because you think it would be fun, or because you’re interested in it.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said with a nod, conceding the point. “In truth, much as I loved my grandpa, I’m not sure I’m all that eager to become him. I like birds, but mostly ...” He stopped, because this wasn’t something he was accustomed to saying out loud. Something compelled him onward, though. “Mostly,” he said, swallowing, “I enjoyed watching you watch them this morning.”
Amy blushed, something she hadn’t done for years. “Although it wouldn’t be a bad idea for us to start developing some hobbies,” she said hurriedly. “We don’t want to spend our winter sitting around moping.”
Jake scratched at his beard. “I dunno, I honestly never saw much point in hobbies. Why dabble at something just to keep from being bored? Aren’t there better ways to stave off boredom? Something profitable?”
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re going to become one of those social media influencers, always trying to persuade people to ‘hustle’ and monetize their hobbies,” Amy said, rolling her eyes at the notion.
“No, I don’t mean that,” Jake said. “Good grief. No, I mean ... I’m not sure what I mean. Just, you don’t want me to start doing something just because I feel like I’m getting old. Well, maybe I don’t want you to do something just because you’re afraid you’ll be bored without it. If we do something this winter, it should—it should be something we love. Something that makes our lives better.”
They were on the verge of town now, approaching the small coffee shop that stood at the perfect spot to serve those getting off work, finishing shopping, or coming off the walking trail. Jake and Amy didn’t usually come this far, but since they were here, their feet automatically turned toward the shop, Amy still thinking over Jake’s words. What was it that she loved, besides her family, really? Was there anything she could do that would make life better?
She wasn’t sure. Was that really all she was anymore, “wife” and “mom” for so long that she didn’t have any other way of living? Jake had his work, but even so, he wasn’t much better off in terms of being someone outside his usual roles. Could they even break free after all these years? And if they did, what would it look like?
Jake opened the door to the coffee shop, and the smell of fresh-baked bread rushed out to them, causing them both to inhale with delight.
“Some fresh bread to go with our coffee, I think,” Jake said as they slipped inside and began to thaw.
Amy usually preferred some sort of fancy pastry on the rare occasions she came out for coffee, but this time, she was in full agreement with her husband: something about this occasion called for the simple goodness of bread.
“Our chef is teaching a class on making bread, if you’re interested,” said the teenage girl behind the counter when they placed their order. “It starts next week. In the evenings, so anyone can come even if they have to work during the day.”
Amy shook her head. “Not for me.” After so many years of cooking for her family, she knew her limitations. Bread-making was a mystery to her, and so long as she could get good bread at the bakery or this coffee shop, it could stay that way.
Jake stroked his beard. “Hmm.”
Amy glanced up at him as she took the plates with the still-steaming slices of buttered bread and followed him, carrying their coffees, to a small table in the corner. “What’s ‘hmm?’” she asked.
“What? Oh no, just thinking,” he said.
She knew that response. That meant that he needed to wrestle through something on his own before he could share it with her or anyone. She let it go, knowing he would tell her about it in his own good time, and instead set herself to enjoying the simple treat before her.
The bread was perfect: crisp on the outside, soft and light on the inside. Amy closed her eyes to better enjoy that first bite, followed by a swallow of coffee.
“If I weren’t so tired of always being in the kitchen, I’d think twice about that class,” she said when her mouth was empty again. “What a gift, to be able to make something so nourishing to the soul as well as the body.”
“I agree,” Jake said. “That’s why, if you don’t mind, I’m going to take that class.”
Amy nearly choked on her coffee. “You?”
Jake burned scrambled eggs and thought heating up a can of soup constituted making a decent meal. He was now going to try his hand at bread-making?
He grinned at her. “It’s ok, you don’t have to spare my feelings. I’m a rotten cook and I’ve never tried baking. But, well, I dunno. I see you in the kitchen, day in and day out, year after year, making meals that taste delicious and are good for us, bringing the family together around the table to talk and share about our day, and it’s like you said about bread, there’s something special about it, even more than other foods, and well, I guess I’d just like to try to learn something about it myself.”
Amy found herself with nothing to say.
“Only thing is, that means you’ve got to find something you can do one night a week, too,” he continued, leaning back in his chair. “It doesn’t have to be the same night, but I’m not going out and doing things and leaving you stuck at home. You’ve spent too long letting all the rest of us do our own thing while you kept the house going, and now it’s your turn to spread your wings a bit too.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk like this before,” Amy said frankly. “What’s gotten into you?”
He shrugged, drank some more coffee. “I liked seeing you light up, earlier,” he said at last. “Want to see more of it.”
She tried to gather her thoughts. A class or activity that got her out of the house and gave her chance to do something for herself, but not necessarily a hobby that was just there to keep her from being bored, or because she felt like she was getting old. Well, that let out a lot of options.
The bell over the door jingled as another customer entered, and the air was stirred up from them opening and closing the door, causing the papers and flyers pinned to the bulletin board to flap. This was where the community tended to stick information about upcoming events. One flyer in particular caught Amy’s eye as it settled back into position.
“Huh,” she said.
It was Jake’s turn to settle back and wait. Amy got up from her chair, looked more closely at the flyer, snapped a photo of it with her phone, and sat back down.
“Ok, done,” she said.
“What, already?”
Amy angled her phone across the table so Jake could see the photo.
“Pottery class?”
She kept seeing those brilliant colors flashing up from the ground, twisting their way around her legs before floating into the sky. Pottery wasn’t brilliant, necessarily, but in a way, it was similar. Beauty coming from the earth—or clay, as the case may be.
“You make the bread, I’ll make a bowl to put it in,” she said.
Jake drained the last of his coffee and finished his final bite of bread. “Deal,” he said, collecting Amy’s dishes as well as his own.
As they began the walk back home, he paused and looked back at the bright blue door of the coffee shop.
“Kind of funny,” he said, “The way we both found something we want to do right off the bat like that, just as we started thinking about it. Almost like they were waiting for us.”
“Who knows?” Amy said. “Maybe they were.”
***
After Jake’s first class, he came home cradling a small jar of sourdough starter and full of enthusiasm about wild yeast. His first few experiments were less than successful, but by the time Christmas came around, he was able to surprise the family with a delicious loaf of sourdough bread as the centerpiece of dinner.
More valuable even than the tangible result was the new gentleness with which he spoke and moved, the thoughtfulness in his eyes, the way he noticed and appreciated ordinary beauties, his small acts of kindness toward others. Nobody had ever been able to accuse Jake of thoughtlessness or unkindness, but it was as though his good qualities, always there, were more evident now.
Amy had yet to create a bowl she considered worthy of holding a loaf of her husband’s bread, but she was surprised to find herself enjoying the very slowness of the process. She was building friendships with many of the other members of her pottery class, regardless of age, parental status, or gender. She had begun learning more about the history of pottery, and regaled her startled children over Christmas break with information about kintsugi, the Japanese practice of repairing broken pottery with gold to make it even more beautiful and precious than it was when it was whole. Like Jake, she too was quicker to see beauty in ordinary things than she had been before, and to delight in life and the people around her more than she ever had.
When their bewildered children asked their parents what had brought about the change in their lives, at first neither Jake nor Amy were quite sure how to answer. The process of change had happened so gradually for them that by now it was difficult to pinpoint where and how it all started. At last Jake remembered the day they had decided to sign up for their respective classes, and told his children that was the start of it.
“Yes, but what made you sign up for them?” their oldest asked. “What made you think of it in the first place?”
Jake looked at Amy, and Amy looked at Jake.
“It all began with a wild breeze on a dreary day,” Amy said.
***
Far, far off, the wind from no-one knew where twisted itself into a dance of pure, glorious joy before whisking along its way in pursuit of yet more souls in need of stirring up into new life.
***
“The world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder” –G.K. Chesterton
#inklingschallenge#inklingschallenge2022#team chesterton#genre: intrusive fantasy#imagery: wind#also sort of imagery: bread#story: complete
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