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atlantic-riona · 2 years

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Hope Springs

Secondary world fantasy for the 2022 @inklings-challenge, a bit delayed due to real life issues yesterday interfering with posting. It’s standalone from any of my other WIPs, and was fighting me the entire time to become a novel, so it feels somewhat incomplete to me. It’s pretty much unedited. Regardless, it’s finished! Which is very exciting!

🙦

Team: Tolkien

Genre: Secondary World Fantasy

Symbols: Wind, Tree

Word Count: 4,732

🙦

“You oughtn’t go down Windswept Lane anymore,” the Cat said.

Hope stopped sweeping. It was her turn to sweep the front steps, a chore that the others disliked, but she didn’t mind. Sweeping gave her time to think and dream—and time to talk to the Cat. “Why not?”

“It’s not safe anymore.”

The road in question was one Hope often took as a shortcut to school—it cut through the city park, and the winding road fenced in by flowers and fields had been the setting for many a daydream or sketch of hers. But the Cat gave warnings rarely, and never without reason. “All right,” she said. She’d have to start going through the city proper, which came with its own risks. “Anything else I should be worried about?” She was only half-serious, so it came as a surprise when he answered readily.

“They’ve captured the Jay.”

“What, really?”

The Cat nodded somberly.

She leaned on the broom, absently scratching at the wood of the handle with the only nail she hadn’t bitten to the quick yet. “They can’t really have,” she tried dubiously. But the Cat’s utter stillness told her it was true. Besides, the Cat had never lied to her before. “…What do you think they’ll do to him?”

The Cat paused, as if gauging its next words. “He’s caused them no end of trouble. They won’t want to let him off so easily.”

Hope was only thirteen, but she caught his meaning. “You mean they want him to suffer?”

The Cat’s tail flicked back and forth. “Yes.”

“Oh.” She stared down at the few scattered scarlet leaves dusting the red-brick steps. “That’s not very nice.” Even to her own ears it sounded feeble.

Something warm and soft brushed across the back of her hand. But when she looked up, the Cat’s tail was where it always was.

She smiled at the Cat anyway. It offered her comfort about as often as it offered her warnings, so it must have been worried for her.

“Don’t go down Windswept Lane,” said the Cat again, just before a clatter of footsteps inside indicated the imminent arrival of one of her housemates. The Cat was usually very good at predicting things like that—they had never had a conversation truly interrupted yet.

“I won’t,” said Hope, just as Amelia, cheeks flushed and golden hair hastily tied up into two messy pigtails, burst through the door, words already flying through the air. “I promise.”

“Hope, you’ll never guess—are you talking to the statues again? Oh, do stop, you know we all find it strange.” Hope met the Cat’s amused gaze with a little smile of her own. She had no idea how it looked to the others, but she rather suspected its stillness and silvery fur, when seen in a certain light, seemed like a statue, perched on the railing between the numerous other statues of animals. As far as she knew—the Cat was the only one that pretended to be a statue sometimes—though maybe she just couldn’t see them, like the others couldn’t with the Cat.

“We’re finished talking now,” she said to Amelia, automatically reaching out to tuck down the collar of the other girl’s shirt. Amelia so often had her clothes in disarray that by now it was second nature for Hope and the others to fix them.

“Oh, thanks!” Amelia said earnestly. “Listen—you’ll never guess! They caught the Jay!” Her face fell as Hope went on sweeping. “You already knew! How do you always know everything before me?”

Hope slid a sideways glance at the Cat, but it was staring straight ahead, whiskers twitching only slightly. “I supposed I’m just a very good listener.”

“Phooey!” said Amelia crossly. “You’re on dish duty again, did you know that?” And she flounced back inside with a huff.

A single golden leaf slipped from the birch tree overlooking the small sandy path leading up to the brick staircase. It skittered up the steps and along the wooden porch railing lined with statues, landing on the tip of the Cat’s nose. The Cat sneezed, then went still, tail furtively flicking back and forth, pretending nothing had happened.

She grinned, but went on sweeping. It didn’t do to laugh at cats. They held grudges.

🙦

Birch Home had been Hope’s home for most of her life. A little over twelve years ago, back during the centennial celebration of Queen Jeneva’s reign, thousands of people had flocked to the city of Lilennes, the queen’s birthplace, to celebrate—only to be caught by a terrible sickness that magecraft nor magic nor enchantment could heal. Many died.

It wasn’t until later that the survivors realized children under the age of five were unaffected by the illness. So the city suddenly had an overwhelming umber of infants and children who no longer had parents, and nowhere to send them. That was where the Homes were born.

All things considered, Hope didn’t mind living at Birch Home. It was a good Home, not at all like the Homes she had heard about in whispers from other Home children or had thrown at her by the occasionally nasty bully. Though at this point, those Homes were fast disappearing, after a prolonged campaign by Myeong-suk, graduate of Water Lily Home and East Bridge College of Magecraft. Hope had only gathered bits and pieces from newspapers, but Myeong-suk had conducted a thorough investigation into her former Home, spilled everything she’d found to the public, and amidst the ensuing outrage, managed to get Water Lily Home closed down and its children sent to better Homes.

Myeong-suk had gone on to run for city council and was now the youngest member in it. She was the perfect example of what Home children could aspire to—if they had the right abilities. Hope, having no capability for magic or magecraft, nor any heritage that gave her the power to enchant, knew that she would never be like Myeong-suk. Her path lay down a different, less exciting road.

That was fine with her. At Birch Home, she had the Cat. And she got along fairly well with the other children, though she wasn’t particularly close with any of them. Still, she didn’t mind. Solitude had been her constant companion for years. At this point, it was almost like a friend.

A few days after the Cat’s warning, it was Hope’s turn to walk the little ones to school. Today there were only three, Livia having stayed home with an upset stomach. That left Zina, an energetic girl of five years, Sung, almost seven and puffed-up about it, and Matvey, a quiet and wide-eyed four year old. They all went to sorting school still, though she and the others were fairly sure that Zina would end up transferring soon—her scribblings in crayon had a habit of nipping one’s fingers if one went too close, though they hadn’t come out of the page yet.

The sorting school was a mile further into the city, and they usually went down Park Street, it being the most direct way to High Street, where the school was located. Hope held Matvey’s hand, because he was the youngest, and kept having to chide Sung, who didn’t want to hold Zina’s hand, on account of her having sticky hands from the jam at breakfast, and Zina, who didn’t want to hold Sung’s hand because she wanted to race the falling leaves ahead, and jump in the piles of raked up leaves that dotted the street edges.

By the time they had walked half a mile down Park Street, Hope’s patience was beginning to thin. They were passing Windswept Lane, out from which the scent of freshly fallen leaves and autumn flowers drifted, and she was sorely tempted to take a break and wander down the lane for a moment’s peace. But the Cat’s warning lingered still; besides, the entrance to the lane had a new wooden gate, from which a freshly painted “KEEP OUT” sign officiously hung. So she reluctantly set the idea aside.

Her entreaties to the children’s better natures had no effect, and she was weighing the risks of being late to her own school in order to give the two children a serious scolding.

“Sticky, sticky!” cried Sung, twisting his face up piteously. “Hope, she’s putting jam on my hands!” This last said as if it were the most hideous crime imaginable.

The unrepentant accused stuck her tongue out at Sung. “Jammy! Your hands are jammy!” she taunted, skipping along in her new red jacket with shiny wooden buttons. Beside her, Matvey put a thumb in his mouth, forehead crinkling.

“That’s enough!” Hope said firmly, coming to a stop. “You’re scaring Matvey, just look at him. And you two know better than to behave like this, Miss Margarit has spoken to you before about—”

A clump of something dark and fluid flew past, cutting off the rest of her scolding. Up ahead, a group of children a little older than her stood all clustered together around a girl wearing a bright blue woolen hat and a mitten to match. One hand was bare, in order to better grip the pencil hovering over her sketchbook.

Oh no. The uniform crests poking out from behind jackets and scarves were familiar—many of the girls were from Miss Helena’s Academy of Magic, and many of the boys from Oak Grove School of Magic. Only a few of the older ones were from East Bridge College of Magecraft. This wasn’t good. Her gaze darted from one side of the street to another, but they were trapped in a momentary lull between morning rushes; nobody else was around to see anything. Just behind them, she knew, was Windswept Lane—but she wasn’t supposed to go down there anymore.

Another clump of mud whizzed by, faster than her eyes could follow, and Zina began to cry, droplets of mud now staining her brand-new jacket.

“Stop it!” Hope said fiercely. “Leave them alone! They haven’t done anything to you.”

Sung stuck his tongue out at the girl, and kicked a stray pebble in her direction, glaring. It clattered down the street, falling pathetically short of her.

The other children laughed, and the girl in the bright blue hat looked up, grinning. “We’re just playing,” she said, pencil moving deftly across the page.

This time, Hope saw the shadow of the mud clump rise up from the sketchbook, traced in charcoal gray. The pencil pressed down harder, and the mud darkened until the gray was so dark it was practically brown. The girl’s hand moved quickly, making three rapid, curving movements, and the clump was flung forward, landing with a splat on Hope’s favorite scarf, just as she threw herself in front of Sung and Zina.

“It’s a game we play all the time,” the girl said innocently, blue-eyes wide. “You mean you don’t know how to play?”

Hope balled her fists, though there was nothing she could do, not being a student of magic or magecraft, nor heir to enchantment. “You made your point,” she said, trying not to clench her teeth. “Congratulations, you’ve successfully managed to overpower a seven year old, a five year old, and a four year old. Bravo. I’m sure the masters at your schools will be falling over themselves to offer you certification and apprenticeships.”

The girl’s expression darkened, and Hope knew at once she’d made a mistake, insulting her like that. A slight motion of a blue glove, and more of the children were pulling out sketchbooks. Some were opening blue-bound books and flipping hastily through the pages.

Hope hoisted Matvey up, grabbed Sung’s hand—he was still gripping Zina’s—and took off, back the way they’d came, more mud and what felt like small rocks pelting their backs. Behind them, some of the girls were already singing in eerie chorus:

“Flowers curse you,

flowers verse you—

Anemone, an enemy;

we are singing your elegy.

A pansy for your thoughts,

A penny for your thyme.

Upside down yarrow,

your road grows ever narrow;

tansy, tansy, calling for war:

golden witch hazel for our lore.

A pansy for your thoughts,

A penny for your thyme.

Rhodendron, rhodendron—

your road is ending.

Forget-me-not, forget your thoughts,

Forget you fought, you are thus caught!”

Her legs felt weak, and it felt like the air around her was catching at her with tiny invisible hands. It was the singing, it must be—the girls must be using their magic to slow her down. The wind was picking up, and the scent of autumn flowers was swept away by an overwhelming mixture of scents—flowers and wood and smoke and something electric that stung her nose.

Up ahead, just after Windswept Lane, the dust of the road and scattered red and gold leaves were gathering into an ominous swirl. The swirl took shape into the vague impression of a giant being, nearly as tall as the nearby street lamp. Two fiery red leaves darted up toward the massive head, fixing in place like eyes.

She risked a glance back and nearly got a faceful of mud for her troubles. Sung was clutching her head, eyes wide, but expression determined. Behind them, the girl and her gang were advancing. Could she and the little ones sneak through…? A rock snapped over Zina’s hair, and the little girl shrieked, more from fear than pain.

No, they would have to chance the giant—

It took a lumbering step forward, leaf-eyes now glowing like coals, the edges curling as tiny sparks leaked into the air. Sung tugged at her hand, pointing toward Windswept Lane, right at the freshly painted “KEEP OUT” sign hanging over the gate. “That way!”

But she had promised the Cat—

If she didn’t, argued another part of her sensibly, the little ones would get hurt. That settled it. “Come on!” She, Sung, and Zina charged at the wooden gate, Hope scrambling over with Matvey clutched close, and Sung pulling Zina after him underneath.

They didn’t stop when they reached the other side, but kept running down the neat cobblestone lane. Only when Hope could no longer hear the swift rustling of leaves in heavy winds, and hadn’t felt or seen any rocks or mud in minutes, did she stop and turn around.

Zina immediately crouched down, puffing hard, her cheeks red and green eyes welling with tears. Sung stood protectively next to her, still holding Hope’s hand, while Matvey still hadn’t taken his face out of her neck.

Behind them, the girl and her friends stood on the other side of the gate, none of them closer than a foot away from the sign. From this distance, she couldn’t make out their expressions, but their sketchbooks and songbooks hung loosely from their hands, no longer open. The giant wind and leaf creature was nowhere to be seen. None of them were making any move to come closer. They just stared, utterly still.

“They’re not coming in,” Sung said hopefully.

“They’re not going away either,” Hope said.

She turned around and surveyed the road before them. It ran straight between two walls, which were new, before taking a sharp right turn. Maybe they could find another road connecting to the park if they walked long enough. She wasn’t too familiar with the park; only the part she used as a shortcut, but if she stuck to where she knew, they should be out of the park in as little time as possible. They were already late for school anyway. There was no point in throwing themselves into danger by going back the way they came.

There was a sketchpad in her bag, but it was useless. She couldn’t draw a map or way out—well, she could draw it, but it wouldn’t come to life. They only had her wits, but would that be enough?

“Come on,” she said, trying to sound confident. “I know a shortcut.”

🙦

The initial walls were familiar to Hope. In order for there to be a proper doorway into the enchanted land, there had to be some physical representation marking the difference between the ordinary world and the not-so-ordinary one. The walls, soft gray stone layered with moss and twined round with ivy that became greener the further one walked, gradually tapered out into scattered piles here and there, and only by staying to the barely-there paths could one hope to find the way through.

Sticking to the outskirts, where the border between “city park” and “enchanted land” blurred and thinned, was how Hope usually made her way through. As long as she kept her eyes on the ground in front of her, and carefully didn’t think about how the cobblestones sunk beneath her feet like dirt, how the birds singing in the (young, well-tended) trees (that were not as wide as a house and weighed down with branches that undulated in the wind as if underwater) eerily mimicked human voices, or how at the corners of her vision shadow and light flickered, she was fine.

But the park had changed.

Dumbly, she stood staring at the open, grassy field before her. Zina, Matvey, and Sung were looking around wide-eyed, but they’d never been in the park before. They wouldn’t realize how much it had changed.

Before, there had been multiple paths, branching off from the main one and running in all directions. Now, there was only the one path, leading straight ahead. It was lined with sturdy wooden fences, the kind Hope had seen in pictures of farms and fields. The ground gently sloped down and then up again, the rare tree dotting the countryside. Above them, puffy white clouds hung still in the bright blue sky.

In vain, Hope looked around for the little path she usually took. She could feel the children waiting for her to take the first steps forward, but she couldn’t make herself do it.

Perhaps they should simply turn around. Admit defeat, yes, but at least on the city streets there would be little chance of getting lost in a land and never reemerging.

Then again, the gang of children they had just escaped from didn’t play by any rules. At least here, safety was ensured by following the rules.

She swallowed. The Cat’s warning still hung at the back of her mind, narrow and sharp like the Cat’s gaze would be if it were here.

“Hold onto my hands,” she said, inwardly pleased when her voice did not tremble. “No, wait—Matvey, hold onto my right hand. Sung and Zina hold hands; Sung, put your free hand in my pocket. There, just like that. Now.” She waited until their attention was fixed on her. “You must behave yourselves. Don’t be rude. Don’t eat or drink anything. Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.”

“Like the stories,” Sung said soberly.

“Yes, that’s right. Like the stories.”

“I don’t know if I like the stories,” Zina sniffled. Sung offered her a clean cloth from somewhere. Graciously, Zina used her sleeve instead. Hope crossed her fingers that Zina wouldn’t do that if they stumbled across one of Them.

Even still, she hesitated to take the first step forward. Sung made the decision for her, tugging her forward, his hand gripping the inside fabric of her jacket’s pocket. The dirt beneath her shoes crunched just as it was supposed to. An ordinary breeze stirred the tips of the golden grass, which rippled briefly and fell still as the breeze died away. A monarch, brilliant orange against the clear blue of the sky, fluttered by, alighting on a spray of lavender but darting away as they approached.

“Pretty!” Zina said, entranced. Matvey stopped to stare at where the butterfly had been, mouth slightly open.

“Pretty,” he echoed softly, looking at the lavender and green-gold fields.

As they walked further down the path, Hope felt uneasiness curling in her gut. The solitary trees ahead of them never seemed to get closer. The heat of the sun on the back of her neck never wavered from clouds or breezes, always just slightly too-warm and verging on uncomfortable.

After what felt like half an hour, Zina tore her hand from Sung’s and flung herself down on the grass bordering the wooden fence. “I’m thirsty,” she complained. “Hope, can I have some water?”

Hope reached into her messenger bag for the bottle of water she usually carried. Thank goodness she’d filled it up this morning—it wasn’t like they could get any more through magic, magecraft, or enchantment. “Only a little,” she said. “We don’t know how long we’ll be walking.” Or if we’ll ever get out, she thought but didn’t say.

The children took turns with the water, and then Hope allowed herself a mouthful. The bottle felt horribly lighter when she tucked it back into her bag, next to her books and sketchpad. Determinedly, she shoved that thought from her mind and surveyed the unchanging countryside around them.

Maybe that was the problem. Hope had never taken the main path before, but perhaps the park—forest or fields—behaved this way when going down the main path; trapping the wanderer in an unchanging maze. Maybe they needed to do the unexpected.

“Okay,” she said aloud, squinting up at the sky. The weight of the children’s gazes settled on her shoulders like a heavy coat. “We’re going to cut across the fields here.”

They climbed over the fence and trudged through the fields, flowers somehow springing up in flashes between the tall grass. When Hope permitted herself a glance over her shoulder, about ten minutes later, her heart lifted. The fence was small in the distance behind them, and the clouds in the sky had drifted to partially cover the sun. She grinned and turned forward again.

Shortly after, they reached another fence—the other side of the field, Hope supposed. It was the twin of the side they had come from, except for one important difference. The path stretched right and left. On the other side of the path, the grass continued for a few steps but came to an abrupt stop against a tall wall, forbidding dark gray and clean of any ivy or moss. The wall stretched as far as the eye could see, left and right.

They clambered over.

The path stretched right and left. The wall loomed.

Hope swallowed. Which way?

Left seemed the logical choice, but logic held little sway in this land. Right seemed counter-intuitive, but the opposite of the logical choice was in itself a kind of logic. Her breathing came faster—all she had was knowledge from stories and what she remembered from school, but she had no special training for how this place actually worked. What was she supposed to do? What if she chose wrong, and they were trapped or hurt or died—

“It’s actually neither,” said an unfamiliar voice to their left, and they all jumped.

There was a man on the other side of the fence, leaning on the rail with his arms crossed. He had slightly too-long dark hair that looked like it hadn’t been combed lately; combined with the faded denim trousers and patched shirt with rolled-up sleeves, he looked very much like the workers from the countryside that came into the city every so often, to find new opportunities or see the sights.

Looks, however, could be deceiving.

Especially when the person in question had appeared out of nowhere.

Hope steadied her breathing and took a moment to think. “I didn’t hear you very well,” she said cautiously, mentally crossing her fingers that none of the children would comment on the man’s sudden appearance. Some took offense to that kind of notice. “Could you repeat that, please?”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that with me,” he said pleasantly. “I’m as human as you.”

She eyed him warily.

He didn’t seem offended.

“Okay,” she said slowly. She was pretty sure he was telling the truth—that was a pretty blunt statement to make for Them. “So...do you know the way out…?”

The man pointed over her head.

Only the wall was behind her. She looked at him, confused.

“Over the wall,” he said patiently. “You gotta climb.”

Zina and Matvey made identical noises of complaint, and Sung peered suspiciously at him. “What’s over the wall?” he said loudly. “A trap?”

Hope winced, but the man only grinned. “Nah. It’ll end up being some wall in the city somewhere. Probably.”

“Probably?” Hope echoed.

He shrugged. “Never been out that way before.”

“I’m going to try it!” Sung declared, tearing himself away and across the grass, scampering up and over the wall before Hope could so much make a sound of protest.

She started forward anyway, heart in her throat, when his head popped back up over the wall. “Hope, you have to see this, it’s so strange,” he said, eyes wide.

“Sung! Get down from there!” she shouted.

“But it’s the city!”

“You said it was strange!”

“It is, but it’s the city!”

Hope glanced helplessly back at the man, who only shrugged, rueful. “Sorry. Didn’t remember how impulsive kids that young can be.”

She frowned at him, but he really did seem apologetic.

Whether or not he was telling the truth, Sung was already there, so they were going to have to follow. “Thanks,” she said to the man, not sure if she meant it, and pulled the other two children after her towards the wall.

First she handed Matvey up to Sung, with the strict warning that he was not to let go until she had come up the wall—Sung only laughed, which made her crosser—and then she put Zina on her back, climbing up the wall with aching arms and legs.

When she made it to the top, she hauled herself and Zina over until she was perched on the top of the wall, next to Sung and Matvey. Sung was still laughing, and Hope opened her mouth to tell him to knock it off, until she looked down, and laughed herself.

They were sitting on top of a brick wall, not even two feet off the ground. Hope twisted around to look behind, but the fields and stranger were gone—only an ordinary strip of grass sat behind them, in front of a stately building that she recognized as her favorite library.

“We made it!” Sung cheered, hopping down off the wall with Matvey, Hope following suit with Zina. “We made it, we made it!” He danced around Zina, waving his arms enthusiastically.

Zina, by contrast, had a thunderous look on her face. She plopped down in the grass, folding her arms. “I did too much today,” she said. “I’m not going to school. Hope. I did so much walking. I don’t even want to go to the playground. We’re going home and I am going to sleep forever.”

Matvey hadn’t even bothered complaining. He simply lay down in the grass and closed his eyes.

Hope rubbed her own eyes, wishing she could do the same. Above them, the afternoon sky was blue, but clouds were starting to gather, promising later rain. “We’ll go home,” she said. “We need to tell someone what happened, anyway.”

🙦

The next day, Hope sat outside on the steps. The Cat had leapt from its usual perch and was pouncing on the red leaves.

She propped her chin up on her hands and sighed.

The Cat looked up.

“I wonder why things changed,” she said to him. It wasn’t really what she was thinking about, but she had to say something. “It used to be a forest.” The Cat was silent, waiting. “I wish I could—” Her throat closed up suddenly. If she could do magic or magecraft or anything, she could have stopped the girl and her gang. She could have come up with a way out of the park. She could have been more sure about the stranger. She could have been better.

The Cat sprung up to sit beside her. “You are the way you are,” it said, tail twitching. “You are the only you that you can be. That’s the best way to be.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Oh,” she said, “I do love you, Cat.”

#inklings challenge #inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #imagery: wind #imagery: tree #the story is complete for now but may end up getting more?? so idk #it feels incomplete to me but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯#my writing #hope springs

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bookshelf-in-progress · 2 years

Text

Light of the World: Part One

A portal fantasy for @inklings-challenge.

This universe didn’t conduct sound, which made it an ideal place to study. Athan was one of at least twelve students who’d brought books to this pocket dimension’s grassy commons to take advantage of the silence. This particular reality was a close cultivar of the ordinary universe, so the the trees, grass, light, gravity, all were the same as the normal campus; no major differences existed to distract students into figuring out new rules of reality. Just a quiet, comfortable retreat.

Athan gave a friendly nod to an exobiology student carrying a textbook the size of a coffee table, and when she settled down beneath a tree a stone’s thrown from his own, he returned to the notes in his omnibook. He jotted down a few more thoughts about the Seven Tenets of Interdimensional Trade, then leaned his head back against the clay-like trunk of the tree and tried to recall the list from memory.

He remembered the first five without trouble, but the sixth...the sixth...

In his lap, his omnibook glowed, the golden light emanating from its pages.

Athan slammed the book shut, but the glow only got brighter. Athan swore, glad that this universe stopped the sound from traveling. He’d been meaning to adjust the message parameters for weeks, but though this new model’s brown leather binding was elegant, its internal workings were byzantine, and he had yet to figure out how to adjust any of them.

Finally, the glow faded, and Athan turned back to his notes. He’d check the message pages later--he couldn’t let anything interrupt this study time. If he got anything less than ninety percent on this exam, he’d face a reckoning with his parents. They’d agreed to let him study at Aldore, but that concession came with expectations.

The book glowed again. Athan slammed it shut again. The glow faded, and he settled back into his studies.

Glow.

Slam.

Back to the notes.

Glow.

Slam.

After the fifth round of messages, it became a matter of pride to continue ignoring them. After the eight round, the exobiology student put down her book and glared at him.

Athan gave a sigh that would have been noisy in any other universe and flipped to the message section just after the settings page.

Edith’s spidery handwriting filled most of a page.

Athan

Athan, are you there?

Open the book, Athan

I know you’re there

Come on, Athan

Stop it

Athanasius Gabriel Zimmerplotz, quit ignoring me!

Athan Athan Athan Athan Athan Athan Athan

Athan smiled. At least Edith was an entertaining interruption. But he did wish she’d chosen a more convenient time.

Can this wait until later? He wrote back. I’m studying for an exam.

Edith scribbled back. That means you’re in the Silent World, right?

Was he that predictable? Yes.

I’ll meet you outside the door. Half an hour. This is important.

What’s important??? Athan’s mind whirled with a million possible disasters. His family had been hurt. Edith’s father had been hurt. Edith had been hurt.

Edith’s response, thank goodness, was none of those things. I found a new portal.

Why didn’t you say that in the first place?

The multiverse tangled around all of reality, like an infinite forest sending branches, roots and vines out toward its neighbors. Over the centuries, Aldore University had explored it, studied it, mapped it, and tamed pieces of it into manageable gardens. The pocket universe Athan now sat in had been cultivated by a long-ago researcher working with a branch of a well-known reality. Dozens of professors had left similar projects behind, little pockets of other realities that connected to Aldore without disturbing the wider universe they sprouted from. Most students knew of ten or twelve that were marked by obvious doors, but Edith had made it a project to find all of them.

What had she found this time? A well-cultivated universe, marked by a brightly-colored door? A half-finished experiment with strange plants and wild weather patterns? A tucked-away pocket dimension where a gardener could store extra lawn tools?

Have you gone inside yet? Athan asked.

Not without you.

Athan smiled. Good old loyal Edith. Making sure he didn’t miss out on the fun, just like when they were kids.

His exam could wait.

Athan trailed Edith through the forested dell just outside the campus wall. This time of year, the leaves on all the trees were bright yellow, and showered down upon them as they followed the little creek that flowed through a narrow. Though Edith was a full head shorter than him, Athan struggled to keep up. She was wearing her adventuring outfit today—sturdy leather boots, her father’s old brown coat that fell to her knees—and she apparently intended to make good use of it. She hadn’t answered any of Athan’s questions yet—just dragged him along saying, “You have to see this.”

“Where is this portal?” Athan panted, as she led him up yet another rise.

Edith clambered over a fallen tree. “Just ahead.”

Athan hefted himself over the same tree. “Are you sure we haven’t passed it? No one builds portals out this far.”

Edith glanced back, her eyes glittering. “That’s just it,” she said with a smile. “I think it might be a natural portal.”

“What? It can’t be.”

“Sure it can. They happen all the time. The multiverse tangling and twisting out there—a few runners are going to break through from other realities. That’s how we discovered the multiverse in the first place.”

“I mean they can’t happen here. Not anymore. Aldore’s tamed the multiverse.”

“There’s nothing tame about the multiverse, Athan.”

She said that like it pleased her. Edith was obsessed with the multiversal adventurers of old—the bold explorers who discovered new realities. That world didn’t exist anymore—the multiverse was known, mapped, civilized—but rather than finding that comforting, Edith fought against that and insisted that there were more realities out there just waiting for her to discover them.

“It’s probably a supply stash for the gardeners,” Athan said, trying to find a more logical explanation. “A place to keep leaf blowers and shovels and things so they don’t have to run all the way back to the maintenance sheds.”

Edith shook her head. “It’s not. Dad says there aren’t any of those on this side of campus.”

“He hasn’t worked here that long. He could be wrong.”

“There’s no stabilizer—not even a pole. Nothing to mark where it is.”

“Maybe it got washed away.”

“Or maybe,” Edith said, “it’s a natural portal. That’s what we have to find out.”

Athan’s steps slowed. “We really shouldn’t be doing this.”

Edith stopped and looked back at him, her hand on her hip. “Athan, we are students at Aldore University. We are here to explore other universes.”

“That’s why our professors are here. We’re here to read textbooks and write papers.”

Edith tilted her head. “Does it worry you, to have reached peak boredom at such a young age?”

Athan ignored the comment. “If it is a natural portal, we should report it. Let the proper authorities deal with it. Seal it up or stabilize it or whatever.”

Edith’s pose suddenly resembled one of the statues in the center of campus—one hand upraised as she gazed into the distance. “Did Lemrock Berren ‘alert the proper authorities’ before venturing into the Greenworld? Did Chrysanthemum Dare step aside and let the proper authorities tell her how to map the multiverse? You don’t discover anything by ‘letting the proper authorities’ deal with it, Athan!”

“It is a good way to avoid dying, though.”

“When did you become such a chicken? This is exactly what we dreamed of doing when we were kids.”

But they weren’t kids anymore. They weren’t playing in the safety of his parents’ gardens. This was the real world with real consequences. Athan understood that. He wasn’t sure Edith did.

“Finding lost pockets is one thing,” Athan said. “Wandering around through an uncharted universe is another.”

Edith’s face brightened. “Do you think it could be a whole new universe?”

If it was a natural portal into a fully-independent reality, it likely connected to one of the well-known varieties that connected to campus. He told Edith so.

“Then what are you so worried about?” she asked. “It’ll be perfectly safe. Come on.”

She charged ahead, and as always, Athan followed. Someone had to make sure she didn’t kill herself.

Two minutes later, Edith sprinted through the undergrowth toward a tree with a blue sock tied to it. “There is it!”

Athan rushed to catch up with her. Edith was right—aside from the marker she’d left, there was no sign marking this as a stabilized portal. But there was no sign that there was any portal here. The light was normal. So were the shadows. There was no abnormal coloring to the vegetation. Nothing besides the ordinary features of the ordinary forest.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” Athan asked.

“Of course I am. Do you think I just tie my socks anywhere?”

Maybe Edith had made a mistake. Maybe whatever portal existed here had already sealed. “What made you think...?”

Athan shifted a step to the right, and a breeze caught him square in the face. Not the normal breeze--the wind was at their backs. This wind was warmer and softer. It didn’t smell like the dying leaves and mud and rocks of the woods, but like something fresh, bright, and sweet. The wind of another world.

Athan gasped.

Edith’s eyes shone. “Still think it’s a supply closet?”

Athan didn’t, and instead of frightening him, it thrilled him. That wind had breathed new life into him, awakened the adventurous, fearless spirit of the child who had explored imaginary portals with Edith in his parents’ woods. It blew around him, calling to him. He could answer that call. Just a step inside--

He shook his head and stepped back. “We shouldn’t.”

“How can we not? Can’t you feel it, Athan?”

He could, which was why he had to stop feeling and think.

“Just a step or two inside,” Edith said. “So we know what’s there. It’ll be perfectly safe.”

Natural portals didn’t form to worlds that were toxic to human life. A step or two would harm no one, and would satisfy this longing to go.

“Please, Athan.”

His best friend was asking. How could he refuse?

“Just a quick look,” Athan said.

Edith grinned and handed him a roll of twine.

Athan tied it to a thick branch of a neighboring tree, flashing back to the dozens of times they’d played at being Thaddeus and Chrysanthemum Dare in the woods behind his house. Explorers going into the unknown, using only their wits and their strength. This was nothing like that, but there was still a thrill to it.

He handed the roll to Edith, then held the string in one hand while Edith walked ahead. They shared a glance, walked into the wind, and left the universe behind.

The world was full of light. A pitch-black sky was scattered with multicolored stars. Soft, round-leaved groundcover glowed so the world seemed made of white light. The trees bore leaves giving off similar light, while their trunks and branches bore a multicolored patchwork that glowed with an internal fire, like sun behind stained glass.

Edith stepped toward the nearest tree like someone in a dream. Light from behind the colored fragments of the tree’s trunk flickered across her face--red, gold, blue.

“It’s...” she breathed.

“Beautiful,” Athan finished for her.

They stood in silence, watching the lights dance. The wind whirled around them, bringing a sweet, earthy scent.

“Do you know where we are?” Athan asked under his breath. This world seemed to call for silence. Speech profaned it.

Edith slowly shook her head. “I’ve never heard of any reality like this.”

Edith knew the multiverse. If she’d never heard of this place, it had never been written about. Then again, universes were big places. Perhaps no one had been in this section before. Perhaps they had, and couldn’t bring themselves to speak of it. Athan had only been here a few minutes, and this universe already seemed like their private treasure, a small, beautiful jewel too precious to share.

Athan ran a hand through the groundcover. The leaves--round, soft--tickled his hand. Like the tree, the plant seemed transparent, its color coming from the light shining through its stalks. Was the light source inside, magnified by the exterior like a lens over a lamp? Or was the plant itself a kind of living light?

Athan knelt to examine the leaves. “I wish I’d thought to bring a magnifying lens.”

Edith followed the play of light up the trunk of the tree and into the branch, tracing it with her finger along the length. She stumbled and grabbed onto the branch to steady herself. It shook slightly--the shiver more like a strike to an iron post than a blow to a living branch--and what Athan had taken for glowing white leaves suddenly took flight. They whirled in a glowing cloud, stretching toward the stars, before settling softly back onto their perch.

Athan leapt up, forgetting to keep hold of the twine, and rushed to examine the branch. The leaves--wings--were still, moving only with the breeze. Teardrop-shaped and transparent, with no color save for the faint yellow light that lit it--something between a moth and a dragonfly, except that Athan could see no body attached to it.

“Plant or animal?” Athan murmured.

“Maybe there’s no difference here,” Edith said, standing on tiptoe to see it. “Like in XR-9.”

A tidal wave of questions overwhelmed Athan as he suddenly realized how little they knew. This wasn’t just a new country, a new continent, even a new world. This was a new reality. They knew nothing about how it operated.

But they could find out.

“Our own private universe,” Edith said, “just waiting for us to uncover its secrets.”

She made it seem so plausible. Athan could see it. Her drive, energy and knowledge. His eye for detail and patterns. Between the two of them, they’d be a research team like the multiverse had never seen.

Athan tried to help the dream along. “If we alert the university, maybe we could get on the research team.”

Edith looked at him in disgust. “You think they’d let two undergrads on the research team? You’re not even taking an exo degree.”

Athan was taken aback. “We did discover it.”

“And when we tell them, they’ll pat us on the head, send us back to class, and make sure we never come within half a mile of the portal. At best, we’re a footnote in history.”

Athan could see this future as clearly as the first one Edith had outlined. It seemed much more plausible, too.

After seeing this world, he couldn’t go back to the normal routine of classes, homework and meals and find satisfaction in it.

“This is our world,” Edith said. “We have first research rights. We can find the answers ourselves. Go down in the history books as the uncoverers of a new reality.”

The kind of explorers that kids dreamed of being during summer vacations in the woods.

“We’ll have to tell them eventually,” Athan said.

“But there’s no reason to tell them now.”

Athan watched the light glimmer in the leaves, the stars, the trees. Felt the wind calling him onward. Could he leave this behind? Could he bear to be cut off from this light?

“We do this carefully,” Athan said. “Scientifically. We take every precaution and document everything.”

Edith grinned. “Great explorers wouldn’t do anything else.”

Purple rain pattered against the library windows while fish swam through the damp atmosphere. Athan bent over a table, entering new calculations into his omnibook. This pocket universe was so new he wasn’t sure anyone else on campus even knew about it. The perfect headquarters for their research. There were perks to Edith’s dad working as a campus gardener.

Athan finished the last page, then pulled the cartridge out of the spine. The omni’s pages went blank. Athan filed the cartridge into a carrying case next to the other four he and Edith had filled with notes about their universe--Lumen, they’d taken to calling it.

The library’s door opened, showing the sunlit blue skies of the campus’ universe. Edith barged through the door with a small cardboard box. “Got them.”

“All of them?”

Edith dumped two dozen info cartridges onto the table. “Most of these haven’t been checked out in years. The librarian almost force-fed them to me.”

Athan adjusted his spectacles and looked over the bounty, feeling as though a pile of jewels had just been poured out before him. Texts on physics. Geography. Botany. Biology. And there--beauty!--a text on astronomy. He swiped it up and slotted it into his omni’s spine. The pages filled with printed words and diagrams that poured out the secrets to deciphering the stars. Thaddeus Dare’s own words looking back at him, reaching across time to help a fellow researcher.

Every reality was different, but every one was built upon orderly rules, and there were constants that carried across all universes. Light was one of them. Athan knew those colored stars could teach him about the essential nature of that light-filled universe, if only he knew how to speak their language.

Athan had always been a diligent student, but learning had been a means to an end. The path to good grades. A good job. A respectable life. But this was nothing like the rote memorization of his classes. This was discovery. Finding answers where none existed before. For the first time, he understood that a university was a place to understand the universe. Specialization was impossible, because all knowledge tied to everything else. To understand this world, he had to learn about everything.

He also had classes to pass, but that could wait until later.

Edith placed one of the biology cartridges in her own omni--a smaller, cheaper edition than his, with a thin black cover, and tied together with a string because the book so often needed supplementing with loose pages. She spread out a vast array of those loose sheets and started taking notes. She had taken a special interest in the leaf/moths on the stained glass trees. Her current theory was a type of symbiosis between two related but distinct organisms.

“Do you think there is a sun in Lumen?” Athan asked.

“We’ve never seen daylight,” Edith said, sketching a moth in the corner of a page.

“Maybe we just happen to come at night. Or maybe the day-night cycle’s extremely long.”

“More like seasons?”

Athan pointed at her with a pen. “Exactly!”

“If there is, I don’t think the trees need it. Which suggests that maybe the universe doesn’t need it.”

“There’s certainly enough light in everything else.”

They had ventured nearly a mile inside, supplementing their safety twine with spools upon spools of thread. They’d found flowers that flickered like candles. Grasses that let out glimmering sparks when brushed. Even a spring of glowing blue water. Half the time, Athan felt like some half-alive creature because he and Edith were the only things in sight that didn’t glow.

Athan studied the astronomy book, taking diligent notes. He couldn’t understand half of them, but he was confident understanding would come.

Edith left after an hour, brimming with theories and new knowledge, in search of a book to fill in gaps she’d discovered. Athan remained inside and forced himself to complete a reading for one of his classes. Interdimensional business--which had seemed like such a simple way to honor his family’s wishes--had lost much of its appeal.

He had to put aside such thoughts. This was a fun temporary project, but it couldn’t be his life. Real life would be waiting for him after they handed off Lumen to other researchers, and he would need to have a real job. Dad had one waiting for him at Vane Industrial; Athan had to learn enough to fill that place. But he could barely bring himself to read two pages.

At last, he gave up, put his omni into his bag, gathered up the cartridges, and stepped through the burgundy door into the waning light of a campus afternoon. He wandered in the direction of his dorm; he needed to sleep. Before he got more than two steps away from the hidden burgundy door, he heard his name.

“Athan? Is that you?”

A broad-shouldered man with Edith’s brown hair and long, thin face stepped out from behind a tree. He wore the gray coveralls of the university’s maintenance staff, but somehow made it look dignified enough for a concert hall.

Athan smiled at Edith’s father. “Hey, Max.”

Max pointed a thumb at the burgundy door. “What did you think of the pocket?”

“One of your best yet.”

“Not too much rain? I’ve been meaning to adjust the climate.”

“I think it’s relaxing,” Athan said. “I don’t know how it affects the plant life, though.”

They chatted for a few minutes about the ins and outs of pocket universe cultivation. Maximilian Vegers had never received a university education, but he’d worked with pocket cultivation companies for decades and probably knew more about the workings of the multiverse than most of the professors handing out degrees. Max was one of the few people Athan knew who could copy whole buildings into pocket universes, rather than building them by hand.

“Making more work for myself.” Max finished off the conversation the way he always did. “But it’s worth it.”

Only a few days ago, Athan had imagined his future with the multiverse looking much like Max’s did. A lifetime of respectable work--though with his father’s multi-million-dollar company instead of a landscaping firm--with a hobby cultivating safe, dependable pocket universes from licensed seeds. But Lumen had showed him something different--discovery, not cultivation. The thrill of the unknown. Of exploring something bigger than yourself to find its secrets. And those little pockets no longer seemed so thrilling.

“Good to make use of your knowledge,” Athan said, making half-hearted small talk.

“When it comes to worlds, it’s not enough to know it. You have to care for it.”

That glowing jewel box of a world filled Athan’s imagination again. He cared for it, alright. Max could stay here cultivating his worlds. Athan had one to explore.

“Did you hear that?” Edith asked, looking up from her examination of a flower that flickered like a candle flame.

Athan lowered his telescope. He hadn’t been able to find the star he wanted. “I heard the wind.”

“We always hear the wind. This was different.”

Athan listened, but heard nothing except the breeze through the undergrowth. “Maybe you stepped on...?”

“No, this sounded like a--”

From the distance, Athan heard, “Ey?”

“--voice.”

Athan dropped the telescope. They’d been discovered. Someone else had found the portal. They’d be reported for unauthorized exploration, reprimanded, kicked out of university--

A girl appeared from behind a stand of the stained-glass trees. She was taller than Edith, impossibly thin, with milky-white skin and hair and eyes that flashed blue in the light from the trees. She wore a gown of patchwork jewel tones that flickered as though sunlight played upon it.

Athan looked at Edith. Edith looked at Athan. Neither one could have guessed their jaw could fall so far.

“An inhabited universe?” Though she spoke beneath her breath, Edith nearly squealed the words.

Athan’s hands were cold. “An inhabited universe.”

He and Edith had been so alone in Lumen, their little valley so peaceful, that the possibility of natives hadn’t occurred to him. Sapient races were rare in the multiverse, especially in the ones that connected to Aldore. Humanoid ones were even rarer. He hadn’t thought to prepare for a first contact situation.

“Oh!” the girl cried, running down the hill. When she came closer, she suddenly stopped, and her face fell.

Edith held up her hands and said softly. “Don’t worry! We’re nice!”

The girl started at the sound of Edith’s voice, but rather than running away, she stepped closer, peering at them as closely as they’d peered at any of the glowing plants. Soon she was ten feet away. Five. Close enough to touch.

Her light washed over Edith’s face as she peered into her eyes. Edith looked back with equal curiosity. The girl touched the collar of Edith’s coat. Edith touched a crimson patch along the girl’s wrist.

“The trees,” Edith whispered to Athan, confirming a suspicion that had been buried beneath his screaming terror about the situation.

Her words caught the girl’s attention, and something shifted behind her eyes. She looked young--maybe fifteen by their standards--but she possessed a shrewd intelligence. She mimed holding a pen and writing on a piece of paper. When Edith and Athan didn’t respond, she spoke a sweet string of bell-toned words.

“She wants to write,” Edith said.

Athan pulled out his omnibook, feeling as though he were in a strange dream. “What good will it do? We couldn’t read her language.”

“Your omni translates, doesn’t it?”

He handed the girl a pen--her skin was cold--and held open the book. The automatic illumination turned on, bathing the pages in golden light. “It won’t know her language.”

The girl scribbled a set of jagged symbols on the left-hand page. To Athan’s astonishment, an English translation appeared on the mirroring page.

You come from the world beyond the world.

Edith and Athan gaped at each other.

“It knows her language,” Edith says.

Athan replied, “That means this universe is known.” Extensively known.

Edith pulled a pen from one of the pockets of her coat and stood next to the girl. She wrote beneath the English words. How do you know?

My grandfather tells stories. Men with light in their books and no light in their eyes. She grinned at Edith. You are the first I have seen.

Even reading upside down, the meaning didn’t escape Athan. Not just this universe, but this valley was known. How had they missed every mention of it?

My name is Edith, Edith wrote. My friend is Athan. What is your name?

The girl wrote, I am Laeli. Have you met my grandfather?

Edith shook her head and wrote, You are the first person we’ve seen here.

The girl seemed disappointed. He has not yet returned from his journey. I wondered if he was seeking you.

Edith looked at her with sympathy before writing, We don’t know of anyone.

Then I will wait longer. I am glad you have come. It is good not to be alone.

The conversation continued for an hour, Athan following what he could upside down before laying the book on the ground and joining the written conversation himself. Laeli was fifteen light-cycles old, which Athan guessed corresponded to a year. She lived nearby with her grandfather had rarely traveled away from home. She was alone, caring for the house while her grandfather traveled in search of information.

He wants to find the stars, Laeli wrote.

Edith spread an arm toward the sky with its array of colored stars.

There are fewer now, Laeli wrote in reply. There used to be so many. They die with the winter, but so few have come back. He fears the trees are dying.

After several more questions, they learned that Laeli believed--perhaps truly, perhaps not--that the stars above them were the fruits of far-distant trees much like the ones that surrounded them.

Can he reach them? Edith asked.

He can find out where they have gone. There are others who will know. I don’t know, so I wait.

There were others in this world. People who had answers--who knew more than this sheltered girl did.

You can come with me, she said at last. I show you my home.

Athan was stunned she was so free with this information. This pale, beautiful child, all alone in this dark valley, was innocence itself. Far too trusting of these strangers from another world.

Or perhaps they were far too trusting, because the glance Athan shared with Edith showed a shared longing to follow her into the unknown depths of this world.

We can’t stay, Edith wrote with reluctance.

But you will return?

Edith shared another glance with Athan. They understood each other without words.

We will return.

#inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #imagery: light #imagery: wind #story: unfinished #light in the dark academia

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e-louise-bates · 2 years

Text

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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