This is it! The last story for the NaShoStoMo Challenge! That makes it 30 stories in 30 days (with about three hours to spare...).
The Fairy Ring
It is not fair. Not only am I an orphan (living with aunt, uncle and a cousin who are like a brother to me), but I also live on a farm, have had a good and loving upbringing, but also inherited a sword from my father. A heartless and oppressive dictator rules our country which is part of a large and great empire. He has many non-human minions at his command. He even has a couple of dragons in his command. But he never sends any of them this far into the rural countryside. There has been no excitement in this part of the country for two hundred years (when a robber was apprehended not far from here). There is a legend about a hero that will one day save the town from a dragon (or a draconian ruler, depending on how inebriated the teller of the tale is), but even that doesn’t help me at all. Because, you see, I am a girl.
And not just any girl. A girl that will never be wed. Apparently my father made a pact with the Fairy Queen that I will serve in the Fairy Queen’s Court from the age of sixteen. And once you go to the Fairy Court, you never return. Apparently my dear father had a way of gambling away everything he owned and then some more. Apparently he had won the sword off some down on his luck soldier that wandered the lands. It was the last thing he won before his heart gave out. If I never wed, I will soon be an old maid and not even fit for dragon fodder if one of the beasts should happen to come along. I will have an unexciting life and probably just as unexciting a death. And the worst part of it all is that I am turning sixteen in only two hours. My bags are packed and I am ready to leave for a life of servitude. I haven’t slept a wink and I am already sitting on the edge of my bed with my bundle next to me.
The Fairy Ring had started to grow three days ago. It usually only takes a few hours, but I squashed it a couple of times in the hopes that they would get the message and leave me alone. But then the stupid ring just starts growing in another place. The current ring is in the middle of my bedroom floor. I had thought that it could only grow outside, but apparently the wooden floor of the house is good enough for fairy magic to do its thing. The ring is glowing slightly and I can already hear the beautiful fairy music.
Then the Queen is standing in front of me, in the centre of the ring. One moment she wasn’t there and the next she was. She is more beautiful than anyone I have ever seen (not that I’ve seen too many people, mind you). Her skin is without a blemish, her dress of sapphire and her wings like those of a dragonfly. She smiles at me and then speaks.
“You are Erelanda?” she asks and I wonder if she thinks that I’m not good enough for the fairy court. I can’t find my voice, so I only nod my head.
“Good, I was hoping you weren’t going to turn out to be some flimsy girl too scared to get her hands dirty.”
And now she’s rubbing it in my face that my hands are all calloused.
“Do you still have the sword your father left you?”
“Yes, er, Your Majesty.”
“You will need it for your training, so bring it along. Fairy swords aren’t suitable for beginners.”
“Swords?”
She crossed her arms, exasperated. “Haven’t they told you anything?”
“About what, Your Majesty?”
“Your mother? The reason why you have been called to Faerie?”
“Uhm... my mother is dead and I’m going to Faerie because of a bet my father made?”
“O dear. Well, now, that is not quite what happened.” She smiles and then sits down on a chair that suddenly appears.
“Your mother was one of the Faerie Dragon Guards – like you will be. It is in your blood to keep Faerie safe from dragons. Erelanda, you are part Fairy. You will get your wings on your sixteenth birthday and then you will no longer be able to live in the human world.”
I grin from ear to ear. Maybe it’s not so bad to be a girl... I pick up my bundle and the wrapped sword. And then I step into the Fairy Ring.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Story 29 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The Tree Reader
The Tree Reader
The Tree Readers started their work on the day the last of the leaves fell from the trees in the garden. The new apprentices was still dressed in normal civilian clothes, wide-eyed and excited to get to the trees. The older ones already knew that this gift they had received would not only take over the rest of your life, but also place a stigma upon you. Soon the apprentices would be feared for what they would be able to do. And for the knowledge they would have.
Elijah brought up the back of the line of apprentices. He was nearing his middle thirties and had been a Tree Reader since the age of twelve. Hailed as one of the best Readers in the last centuries, he had filled more than one book every year the Reading Season started. He wore a red cloak made from light material as sign of his high rank; having given up the dull brown of the apprentices at only fifteen. Over his right shoulder was his satchel containing a notebook, pen and ink for his field notes. He walked up to the tree he had been given on his fifteenth birthday and waited for an apprentice to be appointed to him. As soon as Willow reached him, she placed a small fold-up table next to the tree and knelt next to it, just as Elijah was doing. Then she took out her own notebook and pen and waited for her lesson to begin. Elijah felt his shoulders stiffen. The first lesson was always a shock to the apprentices.
“Willow,” Elijah started and forced a smile, “are you ready for this lesson?”
“I am.”
“You know that you cannot go back to the life you had before today if you pass the test today?”
“I do.”
He nodded. She seemed wise for her years and he hoped she would pass the test. They had so few new Readers these days. But she also seemed too soft for the harsh world she would enter today. But wasn’t he also only a boy when he read his first tree? He cleared his throat.
“We will start with a simple exercise. You will think of the first day of summer last year. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, Sir, I remember we had a big storm that day and that cousin Elsa was born that day.”
“Good. Now, think of that big storm when you place your hand on the tree.” Elijah closed his eyes for a moment and laid his hand on the tree. The bark was rough beneath his palm and he could still feel the wetness of the dew. Then he smelt and felt the rain beating down. He saw the lightning and heard the thunder. He opened his eyes and watched Willow.
She also closed her eyes briefly, like she saw her master do, and laid her hand on the tree. Her eyes flew open and she pulled her hand away.
“It – it was as if I was in the storm!” She gazed and the tree with wonder. “Is it always like this?”
Elijah nodded. “You will feel as if you are there, as if you are living through it. But you must make notes – as much as you can. You will have one subject to work on every day. You must only focus on that subject.”
“And the tree will remember it?”
“Not always remember it. Sometimes the tree will have learned the information from the earth.”
“How far can you go back?”
“As far as you want to. Whatever you want to know, you will relive to tell about as the earth itself remembers it happening.”
Willow put her hand to the tree again before Elijah could stop her. She drew her hand back with a cry and started trembling.
“What did you think about?” He scolded.
“The war grandfather spoke about. There was... fear... blood... I heard the cries of the dying.”
Elijah took her hand in his. “Do you still wish to be a Tree Reader? To write of everything that has ever happened – the good and the bad?”
She was quiet for a long while. “This is a special talent not everyone has, right?” she said and kept her eyes on the mossy tree.
Elijah nodded. He remembered well the first time he found that he could touch a tree and relive certain things. When he realised that not everyone can do it and when he was chosen as apprentice. The first time that he lived through a revolt that had happened two centuries ago. He had felt ill for days afterwards.
“There is no going back after today – you will not be allowed near the trees without your training.” He took a deep breath, wondering if she wasn’t too young to choose the course of her life.
She stretched out her hand tentatively again. This time, she smiled. “I will do it. I will be a Tree Reader.”
Elijah felt his eyes burning, but whether that was from pride or sadness, he did not know.
The Tree Readers started their work on the day the last of the leaves fell from the trees in the garden. The new apprentices was still dressed in normal civilian clothes, wide-eyed and excited to get to the trees. The older ones already knew that this gift they had received would not only take over the rest of your life, but also place a stigma upon you. Soon the apprentices would be feared for what they would be able to do. And for the knowledge they would have.
Elijah brought up the back of the line of apprentices. He was nearing his middle thirties and had been a Tree Reader since the age of twelve. Hailed as one of the best Readers in the last centuries, he had filled more than one book every year the Reading Season started. He wore a red cloak made from light material as sign of his high rank; having given up the dull brown of the apprentices at only fifteen. Over his right shoulder was his satchel containing a notebook, pen and ink for his field notes. He walked up to the tree he had been given on his fifteenth birthday and waited for an apprentice to be appointed to him. As soon as Willow reached him, she placed a small fold-up table next to the tree and knelt next to it, just as Elijah was doing. Then she took out her own notebook and pen and waited for her lesson to begin. Elijah felt his shoulders stiffen. The first lesson was always a shock to the apprentices.
“Willow,” Elijah started and forced a smile, “are you ready for this lesson?”
“I am.”
“You know that you cannot go back to the life you had before today if you pass the test today?”
“I do.”
He nodded. She seemed wise for her years and he hoped she would pass the test. They had so few new Readers these days. But she also seemed too soft for the harsh world she would enter today. But wasn’t he also only a boy when he read his first tree? He cleared his throat.
“We will start with a simple exercise. You will think of the first day of summer last year. Do you remember it?”
“Yes, Sir, I remember we had a big storm that day and that cousin Elsa was born that day.”
“Good. Now, think of that big storm when you place your hand on the tree.” Elijah closed his eyes for a moment and laid his hand on the tree. The bark was rough beneath his palm and he could still feel the wetness of the dew. Then he smelt and felt the rain beating down. He saw the lightning and heard the thunder. He opened his eyes and watched Willow.
She also closed her eyes briefly, like she saw her master do, and laid her hand on the tree. Her eyes flew open and she pulled her hand away.
“It – it was as if I was in the storm!” She gazed and the tree with wonder. “Is it always like this?”
Elijah nodded. “You will feel as if you are there, as if you are living through it. But you must make notes – as much as you can. You will have one subject to work on every day. You must only focus on that subject.”
“And the tree will remember it?”
“Not always remember it. Sometimes the tree will have learned the information from the earth.”
“How far can you go back?”
“As far as you want to. Whatever you want to know, you will relive to tell about as the earth itself remembers it happening.”
Willow put her hand to the tree again before Elijah could stop her. She drew her hand back with a cry and started trembling.
“What did you think about?” He scolded.
“The war grandfather spoke about. There was... fear... blood... I heard the cries of the dying.”
Elijah took her hand in his. “Do you still wish to be a Tree Reader? To write of everything that has ever happened – the good and the bad?”
She was quiet for a long while. “This is a special talent not everyone has, right?” she said and kept her eyes on the mossy tree.
Elijah nodded. He remembered well the first time he found that he could touch a tree and relive certain things. When he realised that not everyone can do it and when he was chosen as apprentice. The first time that he lived through a revolt that had happened two centuries ago. He had felt ill for days afterwards.
“There is no going back after today – you will not be allowed near the trees without your training.” He took a deep breath, wondering if she wasn’t too young to choose the course of her life.
She stretched out her hand tentatively again. This time, she smiled. “I will do it. I will be a Tree Reader.”
Elijah felt his eyes burning, but whether that was from pride or sadness, he did not know.
Story 28 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The No Good Killer
This piece I also started a while ago - spurred by a flash piece about Jonathan Barley - and at last finished it this month.
Story 28 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The No Good Killer
What was once the only street in town was still quiet this early in the morning. Most people lived in the joining blocks of dilapidated buildings of wood and iron sheets. Those as could afford better housing built their mansions on the outskirts of the booming town, their high fences keeping the fast-growing city out of plush gardens filled with shade.
Jonathan Barley closed his faded front door behind him, stuck his hands deep in his pockets and started down the street to where the old shop was. Although old in a rush town like this where thousands of people clamouring for a square of soil was a matter of days and months, not years or decades. This shop was the first to lay its foundations in the main street. By now countless others had opened in the side streets and hawkers made their rounds every day.
He made sure he kept close to the buildings, walking only a circle past one of the many taverns where, after a Friday night, the drinking had gotten more out of hand than other nights and red-stained sawdust were trampled out of the door and into the packed-dirt street. In the dim interior a few lost souls could still be seen hanging limp on chairs or crouched over tables, smoke issuing from their lips as they spoke to whoever would listen or the air if no one was near.
The few people already up and about cared little for the man picking his way down the street. Mostly on their way to the shop as well, they kept their distance and scolded their children when they stepped too close.
Jonathan looked down as one particular brave boy ran up and pointed. “He killed a man,” the boy bragged to another which still had the look of civilized city about him.
The mother scolded and he ran back to her side, cackling to the friend who stared at him with wild eyes.
“The Sheriff may have let you off, Barley, but the Devil will have you yet,” she said and made her way to the other side of the two wagon-wide street where she could walk in safety.
Jonathan ignored her and the children, casting his eyes to the ground and counting the paces still needed to get to the shop. When that didn’t work, he started to go over everything he would need to buy to last through the week.
The shop wasn’t much to look at from outside. The sign painted over the door still bore the same spelling mistake after two years even though the paint had started chipping and peeling over a year ago. Inside everything you could need out here was stacked to the roof. Food, fabric, implements, the odd bottle of miracle cure, fire arms and even a crystal chandelier that some guy hard on his luck had pawned for a pistol and some rounds. One of the first to break, he was found three days later where he had shot himself in the pit he called his mine. The funeral was quickly over and forgotten, the pit divided between other men before the day was out.
A little bell over the door rang as Jonathan pushed it open. The friendly face of the shopkeeper fell instantly as he saw who was in his shop.
“Come to scare the customers away again, Jon,” he snarled.
Jonathan looked around the shop. Two or three faces looked at him from between shelves before hastily gathering up what they would need and making their way to the till.
“Still take my money even if I scare them away, don’t you.”
He walked to the small bookcase. Every week more titles were crammed into it as people sold everything they owned for shovels or pans or another spit of land where they could dig for gold.
He ran his fingers along the faded spines, picking a few of the larger tomes to carry home with him. Lamp oil, flour, salt, sugar and coffee followed.
“Paying with blood money?”
He looked up, keeping his face placid as Carl, one of the rich man’s sons leaned closer with his red face.
“Three men died in that pit of yours yesterday, Carl – wouldn’t you say those coins in your hand could better go to feed their families? The men did die to get the ore for you.”
Jonathan placed a couple of notes on the counter, followed by a small gold nugget – his ‘private payment’ for being able to buy there.
“Enough of my blood money for you, Eton?” Jonathan asked the shopkeeper. He looked at the other customers and his moustache wagged as he mumbled something, placing the nugget in his pocket and putting the notes in the till.
“See you in church tomorrow,” Carl called after him.
“What, the doors open again for sinners like me?” he asked over his shoulder, giving the man a lopsided grin.
The church stood on the other side of the street, north, where the centre of the town was before gold was discovered here and the plundering hoards descended to pillage all that could be had from the soil and water. Its white walls now seemed grim and grey, the spire no longer the tallest structure, the bronze cross atop it turned a sickly green with time.
The doors were locked, a heavy chain binding them shut. The street in front of it seemed untouched, unlike the marred and rutted fronts of the rest of the street, as if the people feared the building and could bind God within with their heavy chains.
Jonathan stared at it for a moment. He hadn’t been inside for a year now, had barely looked towards it for the same amount of time. When he was declared a free man by the judge he had gone there only to be bewildered by the small congregation the church still held. No place for a sinner between them, he had realized and decided never to go back.
Only the very old buildings in the centre of the town was built from stone. The old inn had been rebuilt after a blaze, leaving a shell he had renovated and made his home. A kingly home for the richest man in town. How the mighty fall.
He still got flashbacks every time he passed the hotel on his way back to his house, and he forced himself to pass it and take the sights of his mind in, fuzzy though they may become. It would be his penance, he had told himself after the judge decided he wasn't guilty. And he told no one of the flash backs and the fear that overcame him each time he saw when he passed there. The others seemed to have forgotten the place Arnold had died. A new rug lay on the boards and a piano was placed over it. Gaudy music was played on it long before the sun started to sink. But many other men had also died in there, where riches could be dragged from the ground beneath their feet men would not find it difficult to find something to fight over.
The side of the street he was walking on cleared as he passed the hotel, as if his pistol would suddenly appear in his hand and he would randomly fire on all that passed him. He had buried that pistol as soon as the sheriff returned it to him and wished it could rot away like wood and not keep pestering him. He closed his eyes as the scenes flashed into his mind.
“I ain’t giving you anything."
“It was mine to start off with – you owe me the money!”
“You have a whole mansion to yourself? What’s 10 000 to a rich man like you?"
Jonathan felt his heart beating faster and sweat beading on his brow.
“You got your mercy from me went I lent you the money, don’t come groveling now, Arnold.”
“Groveling?”
The pistol was in his hand and pointed at Jonathan when he rested his glass on the table. He pulled his own colt from its holster and pointed it at Arnold. His fired. Arnold's only clicked before he sank to the floor with blood pooling on his vest.
He had killed a man. A friend. Someone he had known before the gold fever caught them at sea and swept them inland to where muddied men scrounged for every penny they could. Someone who had stood with him since he boarded his first ship at 12 because his family was too poor to feed all their children. They had seen the whole world together for twelve years.
He took the other nugget he had in his pocket and threw it on the ground in front of the hotel. He didn’t know why he did it, but every week he left one of the nuggets where the deed had happened. Paying for his sins, he grinned to himself. And there was always a willing hand to clear the gold away.
The Mansion was once the biggest house in the town. The moguls had come and taken over as they saw fit, building bigger and higher until his house looked more like a cottage than a mansion. Now its paint was peeling even more than the church's and the bottom floor's windows were boarded up when he realized they weren't going to stop throwing stones until all the windows were knocked out. He carried the heavy bags into the empty house and locked the door from the inside. On the bottom floor a few lamps were left burning for his return and his eyes soon adjusted to the half-dark of the house. The second floor, where he spent most of his time, had more light and air and he could see well beyond the main street from the window. On a clear day he could even see the line of trees where the mining activity ended and nature took over again.
A knock came at the door followed by a soft voice. He unlocked and opened it, letting in a bedraggled man. His trousers may have been another colour than brown, but after so much mud and grime it had turned into a nondescript brown colour much the same as the soil from the mine. It was torn in a couple of places, and a stained shirt and coat made out the rest of his ensemble. He was older than most on the mines, his beard a grey with streaks of white in it. Deep set eyes glared back at the street before he entered the dark house, wringing a limp hat in his hands.
“I thought I wouldn’t have to come today," he said with a wry smile.
“Come sit,” Jonathan answered and turned up the lamps in the room.
The old man sank down on a plush chair and leaned back slowly until the cushions enveloped him.
“You’re a good man, Jonathan Barley,” he said, his voice taking on the proud air it must have had before he too fell out with the gold fever.
“Not many who’d see it your way. Coffee?"
“Yes, thanks. With a spot of something stronger,” he winked and followed him to the kitchen.
Jonathan laughed. “If it weren’t for you my stash would rot with the rest of the house."
“You mock, Jon, but there’s a time to pick up what’s left and go while the getting’s good.”
“Like you left?”
“Don’t change the subject. I'm 68, you're over forty years younger. Still a lot of life ahead of you, you know."
“I know.”
“Walked past the hotel again did you?”
“Aye.”
The man watched him stare at the boiling water.
“They'll forget you yet, Jon, they just need another good murder or something to get their minds off it."
“Ten other people were murdered last month. One of them by Carl's son and you don't see him being ostracized from the rest, do you? He sits in that church every Sunday acting as pure as snow after another night's drinking and who knows what else."
“It gets written in their book, Jon. All of them. A sad day when the church itself won't give sanctuary."
“It’s not the church, it’s the people.” His mouth turned to a grim line. He poured the coffee, adding a shot of brandy to the old man’s cup. While waiting for the coffee to cool, he decanted most of the flour, sugar and coffee into jars, packing them into the man’s worn back pack.
“Should hold you over another week,” he said, trying to change the subject. Not that it helped.
“You know,” the man sighed. “If I don’t last the week, you know, I want to ask you a favour.”
“You ask me every week, Herbert.”
“Yeah, but every week my impending doom is closer at hand.” He winked, taking another draught of the laced coffee. “I know my soul will leave this earthly body, but I don’t want to be laid to rest in the city.”
“In the woods, I know. Long time before that grave will have to be dug.”
“Don’t bother with a coffin, things are too expensive as it is. Just lay me in the ground and let me be. A simple cross to mark the grave of the old gold panner.”
“And a bottle of whisky at your feet, hey?”
“That ain’t very holy. No, I want to leave all this behind once I’m in the ground. No liquor or gold or keepsakes. Maybe a flower or two. Hell, maybe even the reverend will get a few others to come to my funeral.”
He laughed as he did every Saturday when he came to collect a week’s food. He too had had a rough life, though he never killed a man. But he was cynical of most disliked most of the town. He had a soft spot for the needy, though and usually had doled out most of his food by the time Wednesday rolled around, leaving him to go and knock on Jonathan’s door again, seeing as the ladies from the soup kitchen didn’t like his stance on not going to church on Sunday.
“You could have stayed a pastor, Herbert,” Jonathan said after a while.
“Still am. Go out to the shacks every Sunday come rain or shine.”
“Aye. But in a church, I mean.”
“An’ with nice clothes and soup kitchens and a green bronze cross on a tall spire.”
“And a bell.”
“I wasn’t made for one place or one building.” He was silent for a moment. “The people, they gathered three hundred last week.”
“It’s coming on, that’s good.”
“Children too, you know. Maybe we even have the drinking houses out of the poor part before the tavern in high street closes down. Bunch of barbarians,” he took another sip. “Did you see how the place looked this morning? And they call us civilized – well, not us, but the people as lives here. Bloody disgrace if you ask me.”
He downed the last of his coffee. “Now that will warm a man up,” he said, rising and rubbing his hands together before swinging the sack onto his back and slipping out of the side door.
The stranger came late that afternoon on the weekly post wagon – not the best time to get into a new town by any rate. He looked travel worn though his suit was obviously well-tailored and his shoes, though dusty, still held together like newly bought ones. He carried a suitcase in one hand and a cane in the other. His face was young and the cares of the world seemed not to have left a mark on his skin yet, though his eyes flashed with wisdom beyond his years.
Jonathan watched him from the second story window and waited to see if he had anywhere to go.
The man took out a pocket watch and looked at it for a moment before snapping it shut and looking around him.
People were starting to stare and he tried to get to the side walk where he could get out of people’s way as the wagon rumbled off. He looked at the watch again and tried to stop a few people that passed him. From the other side of the street, from an alley, he could see the figures of Carl’s three sons move towards the new man. Jonathan knew better than to wait and ran down the stairs to the street without a second thought.
It was quite dark out already and most people were making their way home or to the tavern, none wanting to stop to speak to a stranger.
The trio of Carl’s sons lumbered slowly across the street.
Jonathan was at the man’s side before the trio reached them. He looked up, startled, stepping back when he saw Jonathan stepping between him and the trio advancing to him.
He saw that only one of them had a weapon on him.
“Step away from him, Jon, we’re the welcoming committee in this town,” Carl junior said.
“What? And let you kill another man? You must think me really daft.”
“How about this? He hands over that suitcase of his, and I let you both go. Or I send you to the Devil and get the suitcase anyway.”
Jonathan kept his eyes on Carl jr and heard the thud of the suitcase on the ground.
“Just, take it, please,” he heard the man pleading behind him. Carls’ second son took care of removing the suitcase. Carl jr was still reaching for his gun when Jonathan grabbed his arms, getting the gun away from him. He cocked it, pointing it in his face.
“Leave.”
He could feel his hand shaking and kept the memories of past deeds from clouding his mind now. “Leave.”
“You won’t shoot me, you know you’ll be-“
Jonathan fired at the ground.
“Leave,” he said again. Around him the street had cleared.
Carl jr edged backwards. Jonathan fired another shot into the ground and they ran.
“Idiot,” he said under his breath and cleared the barrel from bullets before throwing the useless weapon on the ground.
He turned to the man. “Sorry about your suitcase, if there is anything you need?”
But the man was grinning. “No, thank you. My research my take a bit longer now, but, no. Nothing that can’t be replaced on my way back.”
“Research?”
“I’m a geologist, collecting rock samples around the area.”
“So that heavy suitcase?”
The man grinned. “You know of a place I can find a bed for the night?”
Jonathan showed him the inn.
“I’ll get you a drink – to thank you.”
“No thanks, I don’t drink.”
“A meal then.”
“I also don’t go into the inn.”
“Don’t like it?”
“It doesn’t like me.”
“A church man, I take it.”
He laughed. “Guess some of that’s true-“
Carl came from his store. “Don’t mind him. He’s a no good killer this one. Better stay away from him.” He pulled at the man’s arm to get him away. “I’m Carl Jenkins I’m the-“
“Father of the younger Carl that just robbed and almost killed me?” his face was passive.
“I..uh, that was just youthful shenanigans, you know, mister, eh…”
“Pierce.” He looked at the man’s hand but did not shake it. People had gathered around to see the stranger.
Carl paused. “Pierce? From the mining company?”
“Indeed. I see you have made quite a life for you here in the high street. Shame about all the shanties.”
“Truly a shame.”
Pierce turned to Jonathan. “Well, Mr. Barley, my father had rave reviews about you. He sent me here to make sure that the paper you wrote on the decline of gold was factual.” He pumped his hand up and down.
“I do believe you were right.” He looked back at the inn. “I have also heard of your good deeds concerning the less fortunate of the panners.”
“Indeed.” He could barely breathe with so many people watching them.
“Ah, yes, the great are usually never known as such in their own homes. Will you mind if I stay with you for tonight at least? I had hoped to remain anonymous, but after this show of barbarianism from the gentlefolk I’d rather spend my night at the house of the No Good Killer.”
Story 28 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The No Good Killer
What was once the only street in town was still quiet this early in the morning. Most people lived in the joining blocks of dilapidated buildings of wood and iron sheets. Those as could afford better housing built their mansions on the outskirts of the booming town, their high fences keeping the fast-growing city out of plush gardens filled with shade.
Jonathan Barley closed his faded front door behind him, stuck his hands deep in his pockets and started down the street to where the old shop was. Although old in a rush town like this where thousands of people clamouring for a square of soil was a matter of days and months, not years or decades. This shop was the first to lay its foundations in the main street. By now countless others had opened in the side streets and hawkers made their rounds every day.
He made sure he kept close to the buildings, walking only a circle past one of the many taverns where, after a Friday night, the drinking had gotten more out of hand than other nights and red-stained sawdust were trampled out of the door and into the packed-dirt street. In the dim interior a few lost souls could still be seen hanging limp on chairs or crouched over tables, smoke issuing from their lips as they spoke to whoever would listen or the air if no one was near.
The few people already up and about cared little for the man picking his way down the street. Mostly on their way to the shop as well, they kept their distance and scolded their children when they stepped too close.
Jonathan looked down as one particular brave boy ran up and pointed. “He killed a man,” the boy bragged to another which still had the look of civilized city about him.
The mother scolded and he ran back to her side, cackling to the friend who stared at him with wild eyes.
“The Sheriff may have let you off, Barley, but the Devil will have you yet,” she said and made her way to the other side of the two wagon-wide street where she could walk in safety.
Jonathan ignored her and the children, casting his eyes to the ground and counting the paces still needed to get to the shop. When that didn’t work, he started to go over everything he would need to buy to last through the week.
The shop wasn’t much to look at from outside. The sign painted over the door still bore the same spelling mistake after two years even though the paint had started chipping and peeling over a year ago. Inside everything you could need out here was stacked to the roof. Food, fabric, implements, the odd bottle of miracle cure, fire arms and even a crystal chandelier that some guy hard on his luck had pawned for a pistol and some rounds. One of the first to break, he was found three days later where he had shot himself in the pit he called his mine. The funeral was quickly over and forgotten, the pit divided between other men before the day was out.
A little bell over the door rang as Jonathan pushed it open. The friendly face of the shopkeeper fell instantly as he saw who was in his shop.
“Come to scare the customers away again, Jon,” he snarled.
Jonathan looked around the shop. Two or three faces looked at him from between shelves before hastily gathering up what they would need and making their way to the till.
“Still take my money even if I scare them away, don’t you.”
He walked to the small bookcase. Every week more titles were crammed into it as people sold everything they owned for shovels or pans or another spit of land where they could dig for gold.
He ran his fingers along the faded spines, picking a few of the larger tomes to carry home with him. Lamp oil, flour, salt, sugar and coffee followed.
“Paying with blood money?”
He looked up, keeping his face placid as Carl, one of the rich man’s sons leaned closer with his red face.
“Three men died in that pit of yours yesterday, Carl – wouldn’t you say those coins in your hand could better go to feed their families? The men did die to get the ore for you.”
Jonathan placed a couple of notes on the counter, followed by a small gold nugget – his ‘private payment’ for being able to buy there.
“Enough of my blood money for you, Eton?” Jonathan asked the shopkeeper. He looked at the other customers and his moustache wagged as he mumbled something, placing the nugget in his pocket and putting the notes in the till.
“See you in church tomorrow,” Carl called after him.
“What, the doors open again for sinners like me?” he asked over his shoulder, giving the man a lopsided grin.
The church stood on the other side of the street, north, where the centre of the town was before gold was discovered here and the plundering hoards descended to pillage all that could be had from the soil and water. Its white walls now seemed grim and grey, the spire no longer the tallest structure, the bronze cross atop it turned a sickly green with time.
The doors were locked, a heavy chain binding them shut. The street in front of it seemed untouched, unlike the marred and rutted fronts of the rest of the street, as if the people feared the building and could bind God within with their heavy chains.
Jonathan stared at it for a moment. He hadn’t been inside for a year now, had barely looked towards it for the same amount of time. When he was declared a free man by the judge he had gone there only to be bewildered by the small congregation the church still held. No place for a sinner between them, he had realized and decided never to go back.
Only the very old buildings in the centre of the town was built from stone. The old inn had been rebuilt after a blaze, leaving a shell he had renovated and made his home. A kingly home for the richest man in town. How the mighty fall.
He still got flashbacks every time he passed the hotel on his way back to his house, and he forced himself to pass it and take the sights of his mind in, fuzzy though they may become. It would be his penance, he had told himself after the judge decided he wasn't guilty. And he told no one of the flash backs and the fear that overcame him each time he saw when he passed there. The others seemed to have forgotten the place Arnold had died. A new rug lay on the boards and a piano was placed over it. Gaudy music was played on it long before the sun started to sink. But many other men had also died in there, where riches could be dragged from the ground beneath their feet men would not find it difficult to find something to fight over.
The side of the street he was walking on cleared as he passed the hotel, as if his pistol would suddenly appear in his hand and he would randomly fire on all that passed him. He had buried that pistol as soon as the sheriff returned it to him and wished it could rot away like wood and not keep pestering him. He closed his eyes as the scenes flashed into his mind.
“I ain’t giving you anything."
“It was mine to start off with – you owe me the money!”
“You have a whole mansion to yourself? What’s 10 000 to a rich man like you?"
Jonathan felt his heart beating faster and sweat beading on his brow.
“You got your mercy from me went I lent you the money, don’t come groveling now, Arnold.”
“Groveling?”
The pistol was in his hand and pointed at Jonathan when he rested his glass on the table. He pulled his own colt from its holster and pointed it at Arnold. His fired. Arnold's only clicked before he sank to the floor with blood pooling on his vest.
He had killed a man. A friend. Someone he had known before the gold fever caught them at sea and swept them inland to where muddied men scrounged for every penny they could. Someone who had stood with him since he boarded his first ship at 12 because his family was too poor to feed all their children. They had seen the whole world together for twelve years.
He took the other nugget he had in his pocket and threw it on the ground in front of the hotel. He didn’t know why he did it, but every week he left one of the nuggets where the deed had happened. Paying for his sins, he grinned to himself. And there was always a willing hand to clear the gold away.
The Mansion was once the biggest house in the town. The moguls had come and taken over as they saw fit, building bigger and higher until his house looked more like a cottage than a mansion. Now its paint was peeling even more than the church's and the bottom floor's windows were boarded up when he realized they weren't going to stop throwing stones until all the windows were knocked out. He carried the heavy bags into the empty house and locked the door from the inside. On the bottom floor a few lamps were left burning for his return and his eyes soon adjusted to the half-dark of the house. The second floor, where he spent most of his time, had more light and air and he could see well beyond the main street from the window. On a clear day he could even see the line of trees where the mining activity ended and nature took over again.
A knock came at the door followed by a soft voice. He unlocked and opened it, letting in a bedraggled man. His trousers may have been another colour than brown, but after so much mud and grime it had turned into a nondescript brown colour much the same as the soil from the mine. It was torn in a couple of places, and a stained shirt and coat made out the rest of his ensemble. He was older than most on the mines, his beard a grey with streaks of white in it. Deep set eyes glared back at the street before he entered the dark house, wringing a limp hat in his hands.
“I thought I wouldn’t have to come today," he said with a wry smile.
“Come sit,” Jonathan answered and turned up the lamps in the room.
The old man sank down on a plush chair and leaned back slowly until the cushions enveloped him.
“You’re a good man, Jonathan Barley,” he said, his voice taking on the proud air it must have had before he too fell out with the gold fever.
“Not many who’d see it your way. Coffee?"
“Yes, thanks. With a spot of something stronger,” he winked and followed him to the kitchen.
Jonathan laughed. “If it weren’t for you my stash would rot with the rest of the house."
“You mock, Jon, but there’s a time to pick up what’s left and go while the getting’s good.”
“Like you left?”
“Don’t change the subject. I'm 68, you're over forty years younger. Still a lot of life ahead of you, you know."
“I know.”
“Walked past the hotel again did you?”
“Aye.”
The man watched him stare at the boiling water.
“They'll forget you yet, Jon, they just need another good murder or something to get their minds off it."
“Ten other people were murdered last month. One of them by Carl's son and you don't see him being ostracized from the rest, do you? He sits in that church every Sunday acting as pure as snow after another night's drinking and who knows what else."
“It gets written in their book, Jon. All of them. A sad day when the church itself won't give sanctuary."
“It’s not the church, it’s the people.” His mouth turned to a grim line. He poured the coffee, adding a shot of brandy to the old man’s cup. While waiting for the coffee to cool, he decanted most of the flour, sugar and coffee into jars, packing them into the man’s worn back pack.
“Should hold you over another week,” he said, trying to change the subject. Not that it helped.
“You know,” the man sighed. “If I don’t last the week, you know, I want to ask you a favour.”
“You ask me every week, Herbert.”
“Yeah, but every week my impending doom is closer at hand.” He winked, taking another draught of the laced coffee. “I know my soul will leave this earthly body, but I don’t want to be laid to rest in the city.”
“In the woods, I know. Long time before that grave will have to be dug.”
“Don’t bother with a coffin, things are too expensive as it is. Just lay me in the ground and let me be. A simple cross to mark the grave of the old gold panner.”
“And a bottle of whisky at your feet, hey?”
“That ain’t very holy. No, I want to leave all this behind once I’m in the ground. No liquor or gold or keepsakes. Maybe a flower or two. Hell, maybe even the reverend will get a few others to come to my funeral.”
He laughed as he did every Saturday when he came to collect a week’s food. He too had had a rough life, though he never killed a man. But he was cynical of most disliked most of the town. He had a soft spot for the needy, though and usually had doled out most of his food by the time Wednesday rolled around, leaving him to go and knock on Jonathan’s door again, seeing as the ladies from the soup kitchen didn’t like his stance on not going to church on Sunday.
“You could have stayed a pastor, Herbert,” Jonathan said after a while.
“Still am. Go out to the shacks every Sunday come rain or shine.”
“Aye. But in a church, I mean.”
“An’ with nice clothes and soup kitchens and a green bronze cross on a tall spire.”
“And a bell.”
“I wasn’t made for one place or one building.” He was silent for a moment. “The people, they gathered three hundred last week.”
“It’s coming on, that’s good.”
“Children too, you know. Maybe we even have the drinking houses out of the poor part before the tavern in high street closes down. Bunch of barbarians,” he took another sip. “Did you see how the place looked this morning? And they call us civilized – well, not us, but the people as lives here. Bloody disgrace if you ask me.”
He downed the last of his coffee. “Now that will warm a man up,” he said, rising and rubbing his hands together before swinging the sack onto his back and slipping out of the side door.
The stranger came late that afternoon on the weekly post wagon – not the best time to get into a new town by any rate. He looked travel worn though his suit was obviously well-tailored and his shoes, though dusty, still held together like newly bought ones. He carried a suitcase in one hand and a cane in the other. His face was young and the cares of the world seemed not to have left a mark on his skin yet, though his eyes flashed with wisdom beyond his years.
Jonathan watched him from the second story window and waited to see if he had anywhere to go.
The man took out a pocket watch and looked at it for a moment before snapping it shut and looking around him.
People were starting to stare and he tried to get to the side walk where he could get out of people’s way as the wagon rumbled off. He looked at the watch again and tried to stop a few people that passed him. From the other side of the street, from an alley, he could see the figures of Carl’s three sons move towards the new man. Jonathan knew better than to wait and ran down the stairs to the street without a second thought.
It was quite dark out already and most people were making their way home or to the tavern, none wanting to stop to speak to a stranger.
The trio of Carl’s sons lumbered slowly across the street.
Jonathan was at the man’s side before the trio reached them. He looked up, startled, stepping back when he saw Jonathan stepping between him and the trio advancing to him.
He saw that only one of them had a weapon on him.
“Step away from him, Jon, we’re the welcoming committee in this town,” Carl junior said.
“What? And let you kill another man? You must think me really daft.”
“How about this? He hands over that suitcase of his, and I let you both go. Or I send you to the Devil and get the suitcase anyway.”
Jonathan kept his eyes on Carl jr and heard the thud of the suitcase on the ground.
“Just, take it, please,” he heard the man pleading behind him. Carls’ second son took care of removing the suitcase. Carl jr was still reaching for his gun when Jonathan grabbed his arms, getting the gun away from him. He cocked it, pointing it in his face.
“Leave.”
He could feel his hand shaking and kept the memories of past deeds from clouding his mind now. “Leave.”
“You won’t shoot me, you know you’ll be-“
Jonathan fired at the ground.
“Leave,” he said again. Around him the street had cleared.
Carl jr edged backwards. Jonathan fired another shot into the ground and they ran.
“Idiot,” he said under his breath and cleared the barrel from bullets before throwing the useless weapon on the ground.
He turned to the man. “Sorry about your suitcase, if there is anything you need?”
But the man was grinning. “No, thank you. My research my take a bit longer now, but, no. Nothing that can’t be replaced on my way back.”
“Research?”
“I’m a geologist, collecting rock samples around the area.”
“So that heavy suitcase?”
The man grinned. “You know of a place I can find a bed for the night?”
Jonathan showed him the inn.
“I’ll get you a drink – to thank you.”
“No thanks, I don’t drink.”
“A meal then.”
“I also don’t go into the inn.”
“Don’t like it?”
“It doesn’t like me.”
“A church man, I take it.”
He laughed. “Guess some of that’s true-“
Carl came from his store. “Don’t mind him. He’s a no good killer this one. Better stay away from him.” He pulled at the man’s arm to get him away. “I’m Carl Jenkins I’m the-“
“Father of the younger Carl that just robbed and almost killed me?” his face was passive.
“I..uh, that was just youthful shenanigans, you know, mister, eh…”
“Pierce.” He looked at the man’s hand but did not shake it. People had gathered around to see the stranger.
Carl paused. “Pierce? From the mining company?”
“Indeed. I see you have made quite a life for you here in the high street. Shame about all the shanties.”
“Truly a shame.”
Pierce turned to Jonathan. “Well, Mr. Barley, my father had rave reviews about you. He sent me here to make sure that the paper you wrote on the decline of gold was factual.” He pumped his hand up and down.
“I do believe you were right.” He looked back at the inn. “I have also heard of your good deeds concerning the less fortunate of the panners.”
“Indeed.” He could barely breathe with so many people watching them.
“Ah, yes, the great are usually never known as such in their own homes. Will you mind if I stay with you for tonight at least? I had hoped to remain anonymous, but after this show of barbarianism from the gentlefolk I’d rather spend my night at the house of the No Good Killer.”
Story 27 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The City of Promise
Story 27 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The City of Promise
Halr dragged his feet over the packed dirt road to where the wagons stood ready. Here, in the muddy streets of small towns the people clustered, and the wagons. Men with dark eyes stared blindly at their passengers. Here only the richest of the rich could afford a wagon pulled by proud horses. The rich could afford a horse. For the poor there were also two choices: walk or ride on one of the ox carts. Here and there one of these stood. One by one they filled up with hopeful souls and left two ruts in the road to head north. Always north.
Halr shoved his hand in his pocket and drew out some of the coins there. He drew his head up and went to one of the men atop of a wagon whose oxen still looked healthy.
“Need a ride?” the man asked, although he did not need to. He knew the haunted look of those eyes well.
“Please, sir,” Halr said. “To Marglóthborg.” The man looked at the scanty coins and the thin young man before nodding his head. “Get up.”
Halr climbed into the back of the wagon. No one else had yet climbed aboard - most were still saying their farewells. For Halr his farewells were far behind him now.
“You’d better hide that sword when you get to Marglóthborg, boy,” the man said and twisted the reigns around his fingers. “Not many want to remember the war there, you know.” He cast his eyes to the road. “To many that were on different sides now living there, you know. Better keep it out of the way. Better not be seen.” He paused for a while. “You know the common tongue?” he asked.
“A little,” Halr answered with an accent. “I have been taught as much as my parents knew.” His accent was still unmistakable, but the vocabulary seemed to be there. The man nodded. "Good, good. May not like it, but it is what it is. You'll have a better time with the common tongue in Marglóthborg. They don’t much like the refugees of the Sundering.”
A few other travellers climbed onto the wagon. Halr realised that he was one of the eldest there at nearly seventeen summers. All kept their eyes averted from one another and kept their scanty belongings clutched close to them.
Outside the town the road to the north kept on straight while the ones that would go east to the sea and the salt mines and west to the dry lands curled away. The road was bare and ruts made the journey all the more unpleasant as they swayed from side to side or banged elbows and shoulders as the wagon dipped and danced on the well-used road.
Around them vast plains stretched as far as the eye could see with only a jutting rock or tree here and there. In the small towns shade could be sought more easily and Halr felt delight each time he could stretch his legs. In the towns he also started to see more and more of the travellers from the south. They came with their goods in the summer and then went away to their far homes near the sea in the winter before setting out as one on the road once more.
That night he slept beneath the wagon as he had not the means to buy himself a bed at any of the inns and did not wish to miss the wagon in the morning. And so the ride went on and on, each day the same with little change in scenery until the fifth day when the land started to slope steeply and then fall again. Trees grew more lush here and the hand of man could also be seen. The road got a lot better here as well, giving the travellers some good respite.
“Are we close to the city?” Halr asked the man.
“Aye, we are. A few hours yet and you’ll see the great thing sprawling on the hills.”
Stories told at home lingered in his mind and he could not help but ask the man if they were true.
“Are all the buildings built of glittering stone and gold in Marglóthborg, sir?” he asked and the man’s large belly shook as he laughed.
“No, no, no,” he said. “Not all, though some do go a bit overboard to show their wealth.” He looked back at the youth’s shocked face. “Only the rich can afford the fire-rocks, boy,” he said, though his voice were not harsh. “And the rich do deck their houses in red and gold.”
“And some in blue?"
“The very rich may use the blue, yes,” he said. “It’s the rocks that made the city possible in the first place,” he explained. “They use the poor to dig up the rocks. Many a man has made his fortune with the rocks.”
“I am sure I can be a miner,” Halr mused. “I can delve as good as anyone. I can sell my own rocks and become rich.”
The man shook his head sadly. “You’ll never get your own piece of ground. I would not see any more people go into those pits to die. Rather live in the open air and be well-off than crushed by rocks and poor.”
“But-“
“The rich own what is under the soil, boy, they will take the rocks for themselves to festoon themselves and their houses. You will not get any of the rocks to keep.”
Halr suddenly felt nauseous. “But I have to send money home,” he nearly pleaded.
“And so you shall,” the man spoke softly. “But take a half-lame man’s word for it. Don’t go into the mines to delve for riches that belong only to a few.”
The city loomed like a great animal upon the hills that stretched over the horizon. To the left larger buildings rose into the sky behind a thick wall. The right hand side of the city seemed small and insignificant where it lay dark in the shadow of the mines and the heaps of rock carted from below the soil.
“The Khallahna say the fire rocks are evil,” the man said without taking his eyes from the city. “They never come here. Never.”
“How can a rock be evil?” Halr asked.
“They change a man’s heart, you know. They change him from the inside, corrupts his heart, his mind until nothing but a shell is left. Best you leave those rocks where they are. When the scavengers don’t go near those mines and heaps you know a place is dead.”
They reached the gates of the city and Halr gawped at the magnificence of the gates. They were of thick wood and upon them were decorations in bronze depicting the army of the lands, banners unfurled to show a large red stone glittering in each of them. A fire stone. On the lower part of the gates were riveted countless spikes. Around them the street became busier as people flocked to the gate. Around him he could hear many tongues and dialects, but mostly he heard the common tongue, although even that was spoken with more accents than he could count.
They passed the magnificent doors into a tight corridor which opened to reveal a large square thronged with people. In relation to it the markets and cities of the south looked small. Here there were countless stalls selling goods from lands he had never even heard of. Near the centre of the square with its ten-foot statue of some long-gone king and its accompanying fountain, the wagon stopped. All the young men soon clambered off of it, taking with them the scant belongings that they brought to their new lives in the city.
Halr remained behind while the others scattered to inns or nearby food stalls, and looked at all the high buildings that sat with their bulk of light stone and banners watching over their master's comings and goings.
For a brief moment the wagon master peered back over his shoulder. “Don’t go to the mines,” he warned again before touching the faded cloth cap on his head and rambling off. And so Halr was left alone in the strange city of the north and already he could feel the press of the walls of the city upon him.
A loud voice pulled his feet to another cart that was set up not far from the fountain. A tall man with a wisp of a beard stood on some steps before the cart, holding in his hands a bottle filled with cloudy liquid.
“I have travelled to the far corners of the lands on this fine earth," he said, flourishing his arms to make his scarlet cloak wave about him. “I have been to the southern seas where dragons still live, and to the east where and island of the dead is in sight of the land. I have been to the west where the earth itself is black , I have been to the north where the icy breaths of the wind makes a desert out of ice. I have seen all of these things and I have brought back to you medicine that can cure all ailments!”
People started clustering around the wagon to see what the man had to sell. But Halr had no use of the man’s medicine and now he was too scared to go to the mines. But he had to earn a living. He wrapped his hands tighter around the wrapped form of his sword. He didn’t have much education, but he could fight as well as his father. But his father’s one wish was that his son would never have to take up the sword. But his family also needed the money. He hung his head and knew what the choice was that he had to make. He headed to an inn. After getting cleaned up he would go to the grand houses and hear which of them needed another guard.
Halr dragged his feet over the packed dirt road to where the wagons stood ready. Here, in the muddy streets of small towns the people clustered, and the wagons. Men with dark eyes stared blindly at their passengers. Here only the richest of the rich could afford a wagon pulled by proud horses. The rich could afford a horse. For the poor there were also two choices: walk or ride on one of the ox carts. Here and there one of these stood. One by one they filled up with hopeful souls and left two ruts in the road to head north. Always north.
Halr shoved his hand in his pocket and drew out some of the coins there. He drew his head up and went to one of the men atop of a wagon whose oxen still looked healthy.
“Need a ride?” the man asked, although he did not need to. He knew the haunted look of those eyes well.
“Please, sir,” Halr said. “To Marglóthborg.” The man looked at the scanty coins and the thin young man before nodding his head. “Get up.”
Halr climbed into the back of the wagon. No one else had yet climbed aboard - most were still saying their farewells. For Halr his farewells were far behind him now.
“You’d better hide that sword when you get to Marglóthborg, boy,” the man said and twisted the reigns around his fingers. “Not many want to remember the war there, you know.” He cast his eyes to the road. “To many that were on different sides now living there, you know. Better keep it out of the way. Better not be seen.” He paused for a while. “You know the common tongue?” he asked.
“A little,” Halr answered with an accent. “I have been taught as much as my parents knew.” His accent was still unmistakable, but the vocabulary seemed to be there. The man nodded. "Good, good. May not like it, but it is what it is. You'll have a better time with the common tongue in Marglóthborg. They don’t much like the refugees of the Sundering.”
A few other travellers climbed onto the wagon. Halr realised that he was one of the eldest there at nearly seventeen summers. All kept their eyes averted from one another and kept their scanty belongings clutched close to them.
Outside the town the road to the north kept on straight while the ones that would go east to the sea and the salt mines and west to the dry lands curled away. The road was bare and ruts made the journey all the more unpleasant as they swayed from side to side or banged elbows and shoulders as the wagon dipped and danced on the well-used road.
Around them vast plains stretched as far as the eye could see with only a jutting rock or tree here and there. In the small towns shade could be sought more easily and Halr felt delight each time he could stretch his legs. In the towns he also started to see more and more of the travellers from the south. They came with their goods in the summer and then went away to their far homes near the sea in the winter before setting out as one on the road once more.
That night he slept beneath the wagon as he had not the means to buy himself a bed at any of the inns and did not wish to miss the wagon in the morning. And so the ride went on and on, each day the same with little change in scenery until the fifth day when the land started to slope steeply and then fall again. Trees grew more lush here and the hand of man could also be seen. The road got a lot better here as well, giving the travellers some good respite.
“Are we close to the city?” Halr asked the man.
“Aye, we are. A few hours yet and you’ll see the great thing sprawling on the hills.”
Stories told at home lingered in his mind and he could not help but ask the man if they were true.
“Are all the buildings built of glittering stone and gold in Marglóthborg, sir?” he asked and the man’s large belly shook as he laughed.
“No, no, no,” he said. “Not all, though some do go a bit overboard to show their wealth.” He looked back at the youth’s shocked face. “Only the rich can afford the fire-rocks, boy,” he said, though his voice were not harsh. “And the rich do deck their houses in red and gold.”
“And some in blue?"
“The very rich may use the blue, yes,” he said. “It’s the rocks that made the city possible in the first place,” he explained. “They use the poor to dig up the rocks. Many a man has made his fortune with the rocks.”
“I am sure I can be a miner,” Halr mused. “I can delve as good as anyone. I can sell my own rocks and become rich.”
The man shook his head sadly. “You’ll never get your own piece of ground. I would not see any more people go into those pits to die. Rather live in the open air and be well-off than crushed by rocks and poor.”
“But-“
“The rich own what is under the soil, boy, they will take the rocks for themselves to festoon themselves and their houses. You will not get any of the rocks to keep.”
Halr suddenly felt nauseous. “But I have to send money home,” he nearly pleaded.
“And so you shall,” the man spoke softly. “But take a half-lame man’s word for it. Don’t go into the mines to delve for riches that belong only to a few.”
The city loomed like a great animal upon the hills that stretched over the horizon. To the left larger buildings rose into the sky behind a thick wall. The right hand side of the city seemed small and insignificant where it lay dark in the shadow of the mines and the heaps of rock carted from below the soil.
“The Khallahna say the fire rocks are evil,” the man said without taking his eyes from the city. “They never come here. Never.”
“How can a rock be evil?” Halr asked.
“They change a man’s heart, you know. They change him from the inside, corrupts his heart, his mind until nothing but a shell is left. Best you leave those rocks where they are. When the scavengers don’t go near those mines and heaps you know a place is dead.”
They reached the gates of the city and Halr gawped at the magnificence of the gates. They were of thick wood and upon them were decorations in bronze depicting the army of the lands, banners unfurled to show a large red stone glittering in each of them. A fire stone. On the lower part of the gates were riveted countless spikes. Around them the street became busier as people flocked to the gate. Around him he could hear many tongues and dialects, but mostly he heard the common tongue, although even that was spoken with more accents than he could count.
They passed the magnificent doors into a tight corridor which opened to reveal a large square thronged with people. In relation to it the markets and cities of the south looked small. Here there were countless stalls selling goods from lands he had never even heard of. Near the centre of the square with its ten-foot statue of some long-gone king and its accompanying fountain, the wagon stopped. All the young men soon clambered off of it, taking with them the scant belongings that they brought to their new lives in the city.
Halr remained behind while the others scattered to inns or nearby food stalls, and looked at all the high buildings that sat with their bulk of light stone and banners watching over their master's comings and goings.
For a brief moment the wagon master peered back over his shoulder. “Don’t go to the mines,” he warned again before touching the faded cloth cap on his head and rambling off. And so Halr was left alone in the strange city of the north and already he could feel the press of the walls of the city upon him.
A loud voice pulled his feet to another cart that was set up not far from the fountain. A tall man with a wisp of a beard stood on some steps before the cart, holding in his hands a bottle filled with cloudy liquid.
“I have travelled to the far corners of the lands on this fine earth," he said, flourishing his arms to make his scarlet cloak wave about him. “I have been to the southern seas where dragons still live, and to the east where and island of the dead is in sight of the land. I have been to the west where the earth itself is black , I have been to the north where the icy breaths of the wind makes a desert out of ice. I have seen all of these things and I have brought back to you medicine that can cure all ailments!”
People started clustering around the wagon to see what the man had to sell. But Halr had no use of the man’s medicine and now he was too scared to go to the mines. But he had to earn a living. He wrapped his hands tighter around the wrapped form of his sword. He didn’t have much education, but he could fight as well as his father. But his father’s one wish was that his son would never have to take up the sword. But his family also needed the money. He hung his head and knew what the choice was that he had to make. He headed to an inn. After getting cleaned up he would go to the grand houses and hear which of them needed another guard.
Day 30 – April 30 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Part 2 – The Maiden of the Stars
Some more Airthai fiction for the second story...
Day 30 – April 30 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Part 2 – The Maiden of the Stars
The lamps flickered as the door to the common room was pushed open. Outside the air was dry and still with summer. No fire was lit in the hearth. The man that stood in the door was on the short side. Shoulder length hair lay dark about his head though he had piercing blue eyes. In his hand he held a flute ready for playing, but bowed first before he brought the silver flute to his lips with a flourish and played a few notes. The song was well known here – it was called The Maiden of the Stars and told an old legend of the love of the elf SÃldu and the maiden Ameragh who fell in love in the midst of war. A few went back to their games and drink. The tales of dragons and elves and maidens were not for grown people. Only the Fáll and the Keepers cared for old tales. Only the Fáll and the Keepers that lived in the past and the legends formed there.
The moon was fair, the sky was clear, no breath came from the east when Elven knight left the woods of green, and wandered forth to war...
The bard began his sad song and a space was made for him before the hearth where the whole room could see him. But one man turned away and stared at the mug of sweet wine in front of him. He wore the green cloak of the Keepers of Holt Haliern, his head covered by the deep hood. He closed his bright eyes for a moment against the pain and the memories that assailed him. It was as if the centuries had never happened.
In front of him loomed the great red bulk of the dragon Skáhag, rising from the cursed rent in the earth called Naeddre. The words of his master rang across the field, but was suddenly overcome by the sweetest sound he had ever heard. A young woman was singing to the dragon, the sword she carried lowered to the ground, her clothes stained with blood. But she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
And there they met, two lovers crossed, by stars of heaven named, and stood he there, entranced by the song of the maiden of the stars.
The Keeper tore his eyes from the wine and looked at the man in front of the hearth, willing him silently to stop singing. Wishing he was somewhere else. Wishing he did not have to come to Éafod. That he had never left the northern woods seeking adventure. He placed a couple of coins on the table for his food and drink and stood to leave, hoping that he would be able to clear his head of memories outside.
Clumsily introducing himself to the young WÃslic... Their first, shy kiss... Their travels to the Keepers of Éamidtheo, the Keeper House that was now named after her...
But years of mortals short are cut, by illness or by sword, and maiden young was slain in youth and her song grew silent then.
He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. No, he did not want to remember that far. He did not want to remember carrying her into Treddian. He didn’t want to remember the day her light died. He didn’t need to be reminded that he could do nothing to save her. That even the Elves’ healers could not save her that day.
“Sir? Keeper?”
The Keeper started and looked up. The room was silent. All eyes were turned to him. “Sir, you do not like the music? The Keepers are not pleased with the song?”
He swallowed again and tried to find his voice. “It is a beautiful song,” he said at last. “But I must leave.”
“Which Keeper are you now? Are the Keepers too good for us normal folk?” one drunk slurred far too loud.
The Keeper removed the hood to reveal his face. “I am SÃldu, son of Elradt, Keeper of Holt Haliern.” He bowed in the way of the Keepers, his left hand upon his heart and left the room without looking back.
Outside, he lost himself in the darkness of the streets. At a fountain in the nearly empty market square he stopped and looked up at the stars. And prayed for the day he would be reunited with his Ameragh.
Day 30 – April 30 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Part 2 – The Maiden of the Stars
The lamps flickered as the door to the common room was pushed open. Outside the air was dry and still with summer. No fire was lit in the hearth. The man that stood in the door was on the short side. Shoulder length hair lay dark about his head though he had piercing blue eyes. In his hand he held a flute ready for playing, but bowed first before he brought the silver flute to his lips with a flourish and played a few notes. The song was well known here – it was called The Maiden of the Stars and told an old legend of the love of the elf SÃldu and the maiden Ameragh who fell in love in the midst of war. A few went back to their games and drink. The tales of dragons and elves and maidens were not for grown people. Only the Fáll and the Keepers cared for old tales. Only the Fáll and the Keepers that lived in the past and the legends formed there.
The moon was fair, the sky was clear, no breath came from the east when Elven knight left the woods of green, and wandered forth to war...
The bard began his sad song and a space was made for him before the hearth where the whole room could see him. But one man turned away and stared at the mug of sweet wine in front of him. He wore the green cloak of the Keepers of Holt Haliern, his head covered by the deep hood. He closed his bright eyes for a moment against the pain and the memories that assailed him. It was as if the centuries had never happened.
In front of him loomed the great red bulk of the dragon Skáhag, rising from the cursed rent in the earth called Naeddre. The words of his master rang across the field, but was suddenly overcome by the sweetest sound he had ever heard. A young woman was singing to the dragon, the sword she carried lowered to the ground, her clothes stained with blood. But she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
And there they met, two lovers crossed, by stars of heaven named, and stood he there, entranced by the song of the maiden of the stars.
The Keeper tore his eyes from the wine and looked at the man in front of the hearth, willing him silently to stop singing. Wishing he was somewhere else. Wishing he did not have to come to Éafod. That he had never left the northern woods seeking adventure. He placed a couple of coins on the table for his food and drink and stood to leave, hoping that he would be able to clear his head of memories outside.
Clumsily introducing himself to the young WÃslic... Their first, shy kiss... Their travels to the Keepers of Éamidtheo, the Keeper House that was now named after her...
But years of mortals short are cut, by illness or by sword, and maiden young was slain in youth and her song grew silent then.
He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. No, he did not want to remember that far. He did not want to remember carrying her into Treddian. He didn’t want to remember the day her light died. He didn’t need to be reminded that he could do nothing to save her. That even the Elves’ healers could not save her that day.
“Sir? Keeper?”
The Keeper started and looked up. The room was silent. All eyes were turned to him. “Sir, you do not like the music? The Keepers are not pleased with the song?”
He swallowed again and tried to find his voice. “It is a beautiful song,” he said at last. “But I must leave.”
“Which Keeper are you now? Are the Keepers too good for us normal folk?” one drunk slurred far too loud.
The Keeper removed the hood to reveal his face. “I am SÃldu, son of Elradt, Keeper of Holt Haliern.” He bowed in the way of the Keepers, his left hand upon his heart and left the room without looking back.
Outside, he lost himself in the darkness of the streets. At a fountain in the nearly empty market square he stopped and looked up at the stars. And prayed for the day he would be reunited with his Ameragh.
Day 30 – April 30 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Part 1 – Inheritance
Well, this is it! The last leg of NaShoStoMo on the last day of April. I will post the remaining stories throughout the day (while I'm finishing up the last few) and, holding thumbs, I will reach the big 30 by tonight.
Day 30 – April 30 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Part 1 – Inheritance
“But I visited every month!” Veronica screamed, first at the lawyer and then at Eleazar. “What did you ever do? Sit in this stuffy library? Looked at him while he chewed on that awful pipe of his?”
“I’m sorry.” Eleazar felt his cheeks grow hot. Around him his family was congregated to hear what stood in Uncle Belkan’s will. And it was not what they had expected. “I didn’t know that he had changed his will.” He tapped absentmindedly on the floor with the walking stick in his right hand.
“The bloody cat got more than me! And I visited every month!” Veronica stormed out and slammed the door, followed closely by her parents – his aunt and uncle. He and the lawyer were left alone in the room and, he was surprised to hear, the lawyer chuckled as he got his papers together. With a smiling ‘congratulations’ the lawyer left him alone with his inheritance.
Eleazar sank down into the old leather chair. Behind him was the only window in the room. Or, at least, the only visible one. For to say that his uncle, Belkan, was a prolific book collector, was an understatement. Bookshelves lined the walls of the room, floor to ceiling. The door could barely close. And more books stood in haphazard piles on the floor, coffee table and other chairs that were once sat in. Anna, his aunt, as plain as her name, didn’t want more than one or two on the coffee table in the lounge, so Belkan moved all his books into one room. And here he practically lived. He even had a bar fridge hidden beneath his enormous mahogany desk.
His pipe stood on the table still, its end chewed but only used for image as his uncle never smoked. He also didn’t dare take fire near the room lest a stray spark ignited the whole lot. Eleazar could follow the world’s literature through the ages – starting on the right hand side of the door and meandering through shelves and piles to the present day.
Eleazar stood up. His young hand clenched around the carven head of his walking stick. His felt his cell vibrate in the top pocket of his jacket, but ignored it. This time of mourning should at least be his own. Not interrupted by family members wanting to know when he was going to clean out the old room and sell the books. He walked to the starting point of the collection. Various copies of ancient scrolls and vellum texts stood side by side in notebooks – copied by Belkan’s own hand in his youth.
Soon printed material replaced the texts copied by hand. Editions of sacred texts, literary texts, botany texts, studies in biology and physics...
He ran his fingertips lovingly over the soft leather of the covers. One of the newer books, printed in the nineteenth century, he took from the shelf. It was a thick tome, but small enough to fit into his hand. The old leather felt like silk and the remaining pieces of the title shimmered. Steadying himself against the bookcase, he opened the book slowly, cringing at the creak of the spine. He paged through the deckle-edged pages until he came to one folded in half. He opened it, wanting to smooth the bent page. Folded inside the page, was a hundred dollar note. Eleazar felt his heart skip a beat. Did Balkan know of this? Had he forgotten the money?
He walked to the door and slowly turned the door knob, making sure that the door was locked. The will had stated that the library’s contents was his. Everything in the library. To be used as he saw fit. To pay for an operation to fix his legs. But it didn’t explicitly state that he should sell the books...
He placed the book back on the shelf and took down the one next to it. It was a fluke, surely. But this book had folds in three places. Another three hundred dollars. He looked at the books on the floor. Sure enough, he could faintly make out folds in the pages of the books. One here, two there. He smiled to himself. The movers were set to take the books to his house tomorrow...
Day 30 – April 30 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Part 1 – Inheritance
“But I visited every month!” Veronica screamed, first at the lawyer and then at Eleazar. “What did you ever do? Sit in this stuffy library? Looked at him while he chewed on that awful pipe of his?”
“I’m sorry.” Eleazar felt his cheeks grow hot. Around him his family was congregated to hear what stood in Uncle Belkan’s will. And it was not what they had expected. “I didn’t know that he had changed his will.” He tapped absentmindedly on the floor with the walking stick in his right hand.
“The bloody cat got more than me! And I visited every month!” Veronica stormed out and slammed the door, followed closely by her parents – his aunt and uncle. He and the lawyer were left alone in the room and, he was surprised to hear, the lawyer chuckled as he got his papers together. With a smiling ‘congratulations’ the lawyer left him alone with his inheritance.
Eleazar sank down into the old leather chair. Behind him was the only window in the room. Or, at least, the only visible one. For to say that his uncle, Belkan, was a prolific book collector, was an understatement. Bookshelves lined the walls of the room, floor to ceiling. The door could barely close. And more books stood in haphazard piles on the floor, coffee table and other chairs that were once sat in. Anna, his aunt, as plain as her name, didn’t want more than one or two on the coffee table in the lounge, so Belkan moved all his books into one room. And here he practically lived. He even had a bar fridge hidden beneath his enormous mahogany desk.
His pipe stood on the table still, its end chewed but only used for image as his uncle never smoked. He also didn’t dare take fire near the room lest a stray spark ignited the whole lot. Eleazar could follow the world’s literature through the ages – starting on the right hand side of the door and meandering through shelves and piles to the present day.
Eleazar stood up. His young hand clenched around the carven head of his walking stick. His felt his cell vibrate in the top pocket of his jacket, but ignored it. This time of mourning should at least be his own. Not interrupted by family members wanting to know when he was going to clean out the old room and sell the books. He walked to the starting point of the collection. Various copies of ancient scrolls and vellum texts stood side by side in notebooks – copied by Belkan’s own hand in his youth.
Soon printed material replaced the texts copied by hand. Editions of sacred texts, literary texts, botany texts, studies in biology and physics...
He ran his fingertips lovingly over the soft leather of the covers. One of the newer books, printed in the nineteenth century, he took from the shelf. It was a thick tome, but small enough to fit into his hand. The old leather felt like silk and the remaining pieces of the title shimmered. Steadying himself against the bookcase, he opened the book slowly, cringing at the creak of the spine. He paged through the deckle-edged pages until he came to one folded in half. He opened it, wanting to smooth the bent page. Folded inside the page, was a hundred dollar note. Eleazar felt his heart skip a beat. Did Balkan know of this? Had he forgotten the money?
He walked to the door and slowly turned the door knob, making sure that the door was locked. The will had stated that the library’s contents was his. Everything in the library. To be used as he saw fit. To pay for an operation to fix his legs. But it didn’t explicitly state that he should sell the books...
He placed the book back on the shelf and took down the one next to it. It was a fluke, surely. But this book had folds in three places. Another three hundred dollars. He looked at the books on the floor. Sure enough, he could faintly make out folds in the pages of the books. One here, two there. He smiled to himself. The movers were set to take the books to his house tomorrow...
Friday, April 29, 2011
Day 29 – April 29 – Part 1 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The Last Storm
Day 29 – April 29 – Part 1 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The Last Storm
The storm I dreaded came at the end of April at four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve feared the Highveld thunderstorms this year. Not the usual storms, the proper storms with lightning and hail and enough water to flood the streets and stall cars. One part of me hoped for that storm every afternoon of the rain season. Another part wished the storms were over forever and that global warming would see to that. The smallest part wished that winter would come and that it would snow at last. But who was I kidding? It almost never snows here. A few flakes now and then, sure, but not enough to get my uncle to come back. And it’s been nearly thirty years. But at least a good and proper storm would give me a chance to explain to my uncle what had happened to my father.
The day the storm came, I was in the mall on my day off. I sat in a coffee shop with a bottomless mug of the house brand getting cold and staring out of the glass ceiling at the thick clouds. Now and then I’d look at my watch and see the hands creeping towards four o’clock. At five minutes to four I was sure this was the day I’d been waiting for. I slipped a twenty under my mug, catching the waiter’s eye and made my way outside. The parking lot was quite busy and many people made their way into the mall in the hopes of missing the storm we all knew were coming. Lightning already flickered behind the koppie a kilometre or so away. Thunder droned and rolled a warning of the storm coming. Everyone was fleeing inside. Only I was foolish enough to stride out to the parking lot, my umbrella hooked over one arm.
At four o’clock, right on time, the skies opened and I was soaked before I could open my umbrella. But I kept my ground, breathing in the icy, wet air as I waited for the hail to come. The rain came down harder than before and the wind slanted it against me so that I had to turn my back to it to catch my breath. No one else was to be seen in the lot. Even the car guards had fled inside to miss the storm. Then the first sound of ice hitting the tar and parked cars sounded and I waited for the sting of ice on my skin.
I closed my eyes briefly as the hail came down thicker for a few moments before being replaced by warmer raindrops. He stood before me, bedraggled, wet and still wearing the same clothes my father gave him last year when he visited. We walked back inside the mall and sat down at a table. He wrapped calloused hands around the coffee mug and shivered. Only after the first sip did he speak.
“Your father… is he…?”
I nodded. “Car accident. Over the holidays.” I swallowed. “It was before the rain season, I didn’t know how to contact you.”
He nodded, sadly but sagely and I saw the tears brimming in his eyes. He took another few gulps of coffee.
“I am sorry,” he said and briefly touched my hand. “I really am.” He looked at the sky through the glass. He always knew when the hail would return. “I have to go.” He took a last gulp of coffee.
“Maybe it will snow again this year.”
A brief smile lit his face and he nodded once. “Maybe.” And with that he stood up, placed his battered leather hat on his head and strode out into the rain as the second wave of hail beat down. And I knew he was gone again and I would have to wait for the next storm.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Day 28 – April 28 – Part 3 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – The House Jan Built
The House Jan Built
On the corner of the street is a half-finished house. The bedroom, kitchen and bathroom has been built and whitewashed (for the most part), but the front of the house is only crude brick walls, marred by blobs of crumbling cement. The windows are empty, the frames blushing from accumulated rust. The frame where the front door should be is cracked and discoloured from the lack of varnish. A floor of cracked cement stretches to the hall door that has become the front door. The house number – eight six one – is painted in red on the flimsy door. In one corner of the unfinished living room a twenty litre tin of paint stands. It is also red with rust, but the paint inside have never seen a paint brush. That is how far the house was built on the day Jan’s wife died. That is how far the house is still.
The garden has not fared better. Knee-high grass and sticky weeds have taken over the small garden at the front of the house. The thick bushes that once served as a neat hedge, is overgrown or half smothered by weeds and decorated by litter from the street. It too hasn’t been trimmed in years. The one, small bed where a few vegetables were planted had long been forgotten and had disappeared between the weeds and grass. But then, Jan’s wife had been the one with green fingers.
Jan sits on a folding chair in the middle of the empty living room and stares at the clouds drifting closer from the west. A few teenagers walk past and try to see into the half-finished house. They quickly move on when they see the old man with his unshaven face and dark eyes sitting there watching the sky. A lady selling vegetables walks by without stopping at the house. A middle-aged man walks by humming a tune and throws an apple core into the garden without looking at the house or its occupant.
The old man turns his stare to the place where the core had fallen. He noted the bent blades of grass, the rain drops starting to fall and the call of a Hadeda in the distance. He lifts a plastic glass with wine in one hand and toasts his wife. “Five years today,” he murmurs and empties the glass with a few gulps. He gets up with a sigh, shuffles into the finished part of the house, lies down on the bed that has become too big for him, and listens to the rain until he falls asleep.
Day 28 – April 28 – Part 2 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – Mercy Unlooked For
This piece, “Mercy Unlooked For”, takes place after the piece written for Day 5 of NaShoStoMo – “A Drink of Water”.
Mercy Unlooked For
Aran pressed his hands to the wound on the man’s chest. He cried and begged for the man to live. As the life in front of him ebbed away, he started apologising. He was only vaguely aware of the two men running towards him. He felt the blood seeping through his fingers. Felt the muddy water seeping through his pants where he knelt next to the man. Felt tears burning his eyes. Felt the blood churning in his ears and blocking out every other sound.
“Leshem! Leshem!” Gabriel shouted as he ran to where his friend had fallen. The dark clad man bending over him was crying and pressing his hands to the death-wound. The knife was lying next to the man. All the water of the water skin had emptied onto the ground to form a scar of deeper red in the dust. As if the very earth where Leshem lay dying was also weeping for his loss.
Gabriel pushed the dark clad WÃkla away so that he fell and took his friend’s head in his hands. But the eyes were dead and the body empty. He had died to give a stranger a drink of water. A WÃkla water. Giving the enemy water without thinking about his own life. He kissed Leshem’s brow and felt the streaks of tears over his cheeks. Migael was next to him in a moment. He laid Leshem’s head down again and looked at the WÃkla.
But the boy – for he must have been about sixteen years old – only knelt next to them. He held his bloodied hands in front of him and stared with large eyes at the dead man. A deep frown rent his sunburned forehead and his cracked lips were bloodied.
“I am so sorry,” the WÃkla said. “I didn’t think – I thought – I...”
“Do you carry any other weapons?” Migael asked and pulled the WÃkla to his feet.
He shook his head. “Messengers carry only a knife.” Still he couldn’t take his eyes from the dead man in front of him. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and the heat overcame him at last.
“He could have been my son,” Gabriel said. “He’s so young.”
“Maybe he’s still young enough to change.” Migael took his water skin from his belt and held it to the boy’s lips. He revived somewhat at the cool touch of the water. “Here, drink some of this.”
The frown on his brow deepened, but he took a few gulps before his eyes strayed to the corpse. “But I just killed him? How can you give me water? You should kill me as well. You have the right.”
“The right to kill a boy delirious with heat and exhaustion? Drink some of the water,” Gabriel urged.
“Where is the rest of the S’wikla?” Migael asked.
Aran took the skin and let some of the water flow into his mouth. He stopped drinking only to answer the man. “I don’t know. I was sent with a message back to Cragorhein, but I got lost. I’ve been travelling for three days and haven’t laid eyes on anyone.”
“We can give you shelter,” Gabriel said. “Perhaps you were sent this way for a reason.”
“No, Gabriel,” Migael said. “We cannot take a WÃkla back to the Ealda.”
“We can,” Gabriel said, helping the boy up again. “If he gives his word that he will never leave the Ealda’s home. Maybe he was sent to us for a reason. If we leave him here, we condemn him to death. And we will be nothing but murderers.”
“Then he must make his own choice. Come with us and leave the WÃkla behind or take your chances in the desert. What is your choice?”
A prisoner, Aran realised. Would he rather die at the hands of these people in their home or would he rather wander this desert land until he dies alone with only vultures knowing where he lies buried by the winds? Even if he did reach Cragorhein, his message would be late and they would have his head. It all depended on the death he preferred. At least if he went with the Ealda he wouldn’t have to face his family for execution. He would not have that shame befall him. He’d rather have strangers taking his life.
“I will go with you.”
Gabriel placed Aran’s knife in his belt and they wrapped Leshem’s body in his light cloak as well as they could after taking a carved stone token from around his neck. They carried him, with Aran following, a little way away to a rock where they laid him down in a shallow grave they dug in the sand. “We cannot carry him all the way back,” Migael explained. “If one of the AÃhla falls, we bury them outside the Ealda lands.” Both men spoke a few words and then sang a song for Leshem’s soul.
They each took another few gulps of water and then started walking towards an old stone arch. “This was once a grand palace,” Migael said. “Before the Sundering of the Lands,” he added. “This was once part of the lands where the Ealda lived.”
“You don’t have to give the boy a whole history lesson,” Gabriel grumbled. “Everyone knows of the Sundering and the marauding that came thereafter.”
“But where did the Ealda go after the Sundering?” Aran asked.
“We were given a safe land to live in,” Gabriel smiled at him. “Come, we are almost there.”
They walked to a rock face of a myriad of different reds and yellows. Migael touched his hand to the rock and part of it moved away like a door. The doorway revealed a part of a narrow staircase and Migael ushered Gabriel and Aran inside. The door slid closed behind them and left them in the dark. From his robe Migael took an orange-red stone and spoke a word alien to Aran. The stone began to glow from inside and spread light enough for the travellers to see where they were going.
They followed the twisting staircase as it wound downwards. Soon they came to a larger chamber lit with lanterns made of green glass. Migael put the orange-red stone away and showed Aran to the side of the chamber. There was a bowl cut into the rock and clear water bubbled to the surface. Migael picked up a beaker, filled it with water and gave it first to Aran to drink. Then he showed him to another bowl where he could wash his hands and face.
Aran felt took the water and washed the grime from his hands and face and wondered whether he would be killed somewhere in these dark chambers or whether they would show him to the Ealda and then have an executioner kill him. He realised that he hadn’t thought coming to the Ealda through very well. But the cool water slaked his thirst and he could feel the pain in his head and body lessen.
They led him down another flight of stairs, this one also lighted with the green lanterns. They came to a door fashioned from the rock and this one also opened at a touch from Migael. It opened into another corridor, broad enough for only one person to walk through. They were outside once more, with sun shining from above and lighting the stone. Friezes were carved into the stone telling of the Sundering of the Lands many centuries ago. But the tales the friezes told of thereafter Aran knew nothing about. He dared not to stretch out his hand to touch it, but looked back at Gabriel’s face. The man seemed to have lost much of his worry and the frown that was etched into his face had lifted. With another few steps they reached the end of the corridor and the land of the Ealda opened splendidly before them.
It was situated in a green valley, an oasis like Aran had never seen. Great houses were carved into all the rock faces and small villages could be seen between the lush grass and trees. He could see two great lakes and many streams flowing from fountains in the stone. A few people turned to look at them, but Aran was too busy taking everything in to notice that he, too, pulled stares of wonder.
“Welcome to the Valley of the Ealda,” Migael smiled. “Come, let us take you to the Elders.”
“Migael,” Aran said, stopping the man. “I do not know how to thank you, Sir.” He looked out over the valley once more. “This is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. Thank you for showing it to me. I-” his voice faltered, “I can die now, having seen the beauty of Airthai.”
Gabriel frowned and looked at Migael. “We are only taking you to the Elders to tell your story. We are not taking you there to be executed.” He walked ahead along the pathway to one of the large stone houses, for the moment unable to face the boy.
“Why would you spare my life?” Aran asked Migael. “I killed one of your people when he was trying to help me.”
“You did not know at the time that Leshem was attempting to help you. You were delirious with heat and fatigue and thirst.” A sadness came into his eyes. “Gabriel also lost his son about a season ago. He was about your age. He was training to be one of the AÃhla.” Migael walked further. “Just because you have been shown mercy doesn’t mean a wrong wasn’t committed or that we won’t mourn Leshem. But we will look past that in the hope that you can live a better life and give meaning to his death.”
Day 28 – April 28 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – A Kind of Magic
Day 28 – April 28 – NaShoStoMo Challenge – A Kind of Magic
I fondly remember watching my grandmother crochet while she watched TV – a travel program we watched during morning tea. With the yarn on her lap, her hands moved at an incredible speed and lacy cloth formed by magic between her fingers. She barely looked down, but kept her eyes on the screen or even talked to me while her hands did their own thing. At five years old I couldn’t understand how she could just move her hands and the yarn could spin by magic between her fingers. One day I asked her to show me how she did her magic.
That she showed me the ‘secret’ didn’t take away any of the pleasure of watching her. Rather, I wanted to try it out myself. She explained that I will need a bigger needle to start off with, but that she will teach me soon. My grandfather was now secretly charged with going into town to go and buy a crochet hook suitable for a beginner. My grandmother, meanwhile, picked out a ball of yarn in my favourite colour – purple – from her stash in their room and with a huge smile they showed me the surprise gift one afternoon. The hook was made from bright yellow plastic and suited well to my small hand. I learned how to hold the yarn and make chain stitches. Soon I learned how to make trebles and do filet crochet. Then followed working in the round and getting to work with a smaller hook and finer yarn. One month I was even treated with a crochet magazine, and I started to work from ‘grown up’ patterns.
A few years after that, and not long after my grandfather’s death, my grandmother passed away. When we had to start clearing out the cupboards, my mother pointed me towards my grandmother’s cupboards where her yarn stash was kept. “You’re the one that does all the crafting around here,” she said. “You should have her needlework things.” I stared at the cupboards in disbelief. Me? I sat down and opened the first pair of doors. They smelled of my grandma and I had to fight back the tears.
All her yarn was still there, along with a couple of half-finished doilies and sweaters. From one cupboard came a whole stack of crochet magazines. I couldn’t believe she was never coming back, even though I had lived through her whole illness.
Then, from one cupboard came three bags which I had forgotten about completely. I had been five or six when she had showed them to me. “One day, when you’re grown up, this will be yours,” she said, pointing to one. Now, almost ten years later, I pulled the blanket from the bag. My name, written on a slip of paper, was still pinned on it. The granny squares all had purple in them and I immediately remembered where I had seen the yarn before. It was the same yarn she used to teach me how to crochet with.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Day 26 – April 26 – Part 3 – Just a Little Technical Flaw
Day 26 – April 26 – Part 3 – Just a Little Technical Flaw
“We understand it was an experiment, Smith, we want to know what went wrong.”
“May I have some water, please?”
“After you have answered our questions.”
“But-”
“After you have answered our questions you can have all the imported spring water you can drink, for all I care. But first you must answer our questions. Now. What went wrong?”
“I am not sure. The device was made by the best brains the government could buy. I installed it myself. It was supposed to work.”
“But it was an experiment.”
“Experiments may work. We were sure that this one would work.”
“Look at these pictures. Do you know these people?”
“I know their faces. Look – I only installed the devices at the desk I was told. I didn’t choose them. The system chose them. I didn’t ask their names. It wasn’t necessary.”
“Not necessary, Smith? O’Brian was a devoted husband. Van der Berg would have become a grandmother yesterday. Kelembe was the only bread winner in the family.”
“The experiment was supposed to work.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No.”
“Where are these people… these… test subjects now, Smith?”
“I – we are not completely sure. You see, we wanted to increase time within the field created by the device. We thought that it would either work or nothing would happen. There would have been enough time in a day for one person to do the work of ten or twenty people!”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said that a million times! Where are they?”
“Technically they are still in the same place, Sir. But I am afraid that, due to an unforeseen technical error we have sent them to another time. Unfortunately and completely by accident. And we have yet to find them or the device that sent them there. May I have some water now, please?”
Day 26 – April 26 – Part 2 – A Lift
Day 26 – April 26 – Part 2 – A Lift
The problem with hitch-hiking in a known ghost spot is that no one particularly wants to give you a lift. I knew this, of course, before I packed a bag and trekked out to the main road to get a lift to the closest metropolis, but I did it anyway. I was dressed in my best jeans (no tears, only a little fraying and a couple of paint spots) and my best shirt. I took my hat off every time a car passed and I threw my thumb into the air. After a couple of hours I started off down the road in what I hoped was the right direction. A couple of trucks passed me, their horns blaring and I even caught a couple of curses as I lifted my thumb and smiled my best “I-just-want-a-ride-to-town-not-to-kill-you” smile. It didn't work.
I camped out that first night underneath a sign proclaiming that the next fast food family restaurant was only 20 miles away. I had no idea we had a family restaurant that close. But it did prove to me that I was going in the right direction. I had only been off the farm a couple of times in my life and then we only went to the local general dealer.
I ate a stale sandwich and waited to fall asleep with my head cradled on my bag. I wondered if I would see one of the hitch-hiking ghosts. Maybe they could give me a pointer or two in getting a ride to the city. It was worth a try. I only had one soggy sandwich left and was not about to turn back home before I had even tried to get a job in the city. I would show the family that I could make a living for myself in the city.
I woke up the next morning when the sun started to glint off the sign above my head. It was nearly nine o’clock and I quickly jumped up to check that I still had all my belongings. Everything was there, including the money hidden inside my hat, and I could feel my whole body relaxing. I put my hat back on, rummaged in my bag for a piece of gum and threw my thumb in the air with each car that passed as I plodded along.
Ahead I came to a bend in the road. On one side was a plain golden with wheat. On the other side the earth plunged away. Right on the bend, where the earth fell away was planted an old wooden cross. The ribbons on it were faded and the flowers long dead. I walked up to it and bent down to better get a look at what was written on it. A flash of light blinded me for a moment.
The problem with hitch-hiking in a known ghost spot is that no one particularly wants to give you a lift. I knew this, of course, before I packed a bag and trekked out to the main road to get a lift to the closest metropolis, but I did it anyway. I was dressed in my best jeans (no tears, only a little fraying and a couple of paint spots) and my best shirt. I took my hat off every time a car passed and I threw my thumb into the air. It didn’t work. It was as if I was completely invisible.
Day 26 – April 26 – Part 1 – Sleeping Beauty
Day 26 – April 26 – Part 1 – Sleeping Beauty
No one was completely sure where Josephine Grim had gone. She had lived in the same house on the same street for 87 years. She was out pottering in the garden nearly every day before the paper was even delivered. Then, one day, she didn’t collect the paper where it fell by her gate. No one noticed the first few days. All the neighbours swore that she kept to herself most of the time and were usually on her way back in the house by the time anyone ventured outside for their papers or to go to work. After about a week someone noticed the pile of newspapers at her gate. Like a good neighbour, they left a note at the gate asking her to please remove the papers as it is an eyesore to the rest of the neighbourhood. After almost two weeks, when the growing pile of newspapers caught someone’s eye again, the neighbours started to argue who should be the one to climb over the gate and either knock on the door and have a word with her or look through the windows and call an ambulance if the worst had happened.
At last Abe drew the short straw and he huffed and puffed over the gate. Luckily he had a proper pile of soggy newspapers to break his fall. He straightened his tie and walked up to the door. A bell hung there along with a bronze knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. He rang the bell, waited a while and then tried the knocker. There was still no answer after the third knock, so he went over to the windows to check if he could see Josephine. He didn’t want to ad “or what was left of her”.
He made his way around the house, knocking on windows and looking through the slits between the curtains. Still nothing. By this time a few of the other neighbours had picked the lock on the gate and also made their way to the house, unsure whether they wanted to find her or not. Soon everyone was whispering about the myriad of deaths they had seen on television shows and which one would be applicable to this situation.
Then Gregory, a teenager strangely adept at picking locks, picked the lock on the back door and stepped inside, a hand over his nose and mouth. The other adults left him to go in alone as they “didn’t want too many people spoiling the crime scene”.
He took a shallow breath. The house smelled… musty but homely. The kind of smell you get when fresh baked cookies are carried through a dusty library filled with old books. But there was another smell underneath it all. The smell of wet earth and new leaves. He took his hand from his face and took a deep breath. Behind him one of the neighbours quickly closed the door before any unwanted smells could drift outside.
Gregory picked his way through the house. The kitchen was empty, so was the living room, corridor, bathrooms (for that he was especially thankful), as well as the first three bedrooms he looked into. At last he came to the end of the corridor and what he surmised was Josephine’s bedroom. The door was closed and he knocked, calling out her name.
“Ma’am?” he tried again after a few seconds. “Ma’am? I am going to open the door.” He took a few steps back and rammed the door with his shoulder as he had seen so many times on the TV. The door didn’t budge and he bounced away with a throbbing shoulder. He used his less heroic – but far less painful – way of entering and picked this lock as well. He hoped no one would ask why he could so easily pick locks, but if he saved Mrs Grim’s life he was sure no one would care. He wondered if he cared enough to give an old lady mouth-to-mouth. He pushed the picture from his mind and opened the bedroom door.
He stepped into the room and felt something give away beneath his foot. With a shudder he looked down. The floor was covered in dirt. Not dust or dirty clothes, papers and plates (like his room), but ground. He pushed the door open farther and realised where the wet-ground-and-leaves smell came from. The room was alive. Or rather, the stuff inside the room.
The dressed was made from living trees, the four poster bed was four living trees, the wardrobes were criss-crossing branches and had actual green, growing leaves on them. Gregory ventured deeper into the room and saw a figure lying in the shadows on the bed.
He switched the bed lamp on and saw that it was a woman – sleeping, by the looks of it. He bent over her.
“Excuse me?” he tried and touched her shoulder. She didn’t stir, so he felt her neck for a pulse. It was there, though it was faint. He watched her for a while and saw that she was breathing very slowly. He looked at her face. She must be about his age, he surmised. And surely, one little kiss wouldn’t hurt…
He bent over and kissed her. And she opened her eyes.
“Gregory!” she said a little sleepy. “Didn’t think you’d be the one to come and wake me.” She sat up and stretched. “Just took a little beauty rest. How long was I asleep? Did anyone worry? How did you get in?”
“I – uh – two weeks – uh,” he stuttered. “Who are you?”
“I’m Josephine Grim, Dear,” she said and picked up a hand mirror. “Oh dear,” she frowned and touched her face. “I think I forgot to set the alarm. How silly of me. That’s the problem with fairy genes, you never quite know how it’s going to turn out. Well, lucky for me I don’t look too old for my Prince Charming, hey?”
Day 25 Part 1 – April 25 – NaShoStoMo Challenge - The Voices in My Head
Day 25 – April 25 – The Voices in My Head
The tinnitus was especially bad today. Usually it was only a vague ringing in the background, one I could easily block out by getting busy with work or putting on the radio. On a worse day I would try to drown out the ringing by listening to music via earphones. I always start with some pop before moving on to Classical. If that stopped working and the ringing worked its way through the blasting of the orchestras, I would try some alternative bands. When that didn’t work anymore I would use metal to try and drown the ringing while trying to keep my mind on whatever work I was busy with. At the moment it was working the deep fryer in a local fast food joint.
It’s not that I’m not motivated, you see, but I do have some… issues relating to the ringing that makes me somewhat unwanted in an office. I haven’t worked in an office for over two years, and I admit throwing a brand new computer out of a fifth story window and then breaking the other computers on that floor is not a good way to act. And it sure doesn’t give out positive energy. I do not care. I heard the voices. And I am not crazy. When I turned on the new computer they were there. Babbling between the static-like ringing in my ears. Not saying anything much – not anything I could understand anyway – but they were there when the computer was on. They were gone when the computer was turned off. Yes, I understand now that I could just have turned the computer off and taken a sick day. But throwing a computer out of a building or smashing the cursed circuits and cards and whatever else constitutes the machine did make me feel good. And at least I took the anger out on non-living things. I could have taken it out on my colleagues. Had they ever thought about that?
But here, in the kitchen, I could be in charge. The noise blocked out the ringing on most days. The earphones I wore almost constantly on the bad days blocked out the rest. And I could take out my anger on a new batch of fries every few minutes. I could channel the ringing out of my ears through my arms, and out of my finger tips into the boiling oil and let it burn away. I haven’t felt like attacking something in the three months I’ve worked here.
But today I can’t get the bloody ringing to stop. I can’t get it drowned out. I have taken the meds. I have tried pop, Classical, alternative and metal. I have even tried singing along to the metal and humming along to the metal as if the right pitch will counteract the ringing and make it stop. I have even fried more fries that usual, channelling all the while. But it’s only getting worse and I’m getting agitated. Really, really agitated.
I take the ear phones from my ears and tell Robby – who’s in charge back here – that I’m taking a tea break. I fill a paper cup with the sludge this place call tea and ad some milk and sugar to make it somewhat palatable. Then I step outside into the alley behind the restaurant and take in a deep breath of musty air. The smell of hot oil clings to my pores and gives me a daily headache, but today not even that takes my mind off of the ringing.
I stick a finger in my ear and wiggle it around as if that will suddenly clear everything up. But, of course, it doesn’t. I take a sip of scalding tea. But the ringing gets louder. Like static when you’re trying to get to your favourite station on a cheap radio. Then it starts again. The voices. Or, this time, the voice.
I look around to make sure that there’s no one else who is talking to me. The ringing comes back and is replaced after a few seconds with a voice speaking with a strange English accent. I try the finger-in-ear-wiggle again and then, suddenly, I can hear what the voice is saying. As if someone found the right knob and turned the volume up.
“Hello?” the strange voice says, then clears it’s throat. “Hello, Sentient Being Residing on Planet Earth. We come in peace. I repeat. We come in peace.”
Well, at least the ringing has stopped.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)