well... here is the Beginnings of the Fairy Godmother story. Hope you like it. It's nowhere near done, obviously, and I'm quite sure it's not going to be close to finished for a while. But here it is.
Chapter 1
One could say that the reason high school really sucks for the fantasy-loving girl is because it is definitely not like the fairy tales they read about as kids. There are no fairy godmothers that carry magic wands, no princes that can come along to sweep a hard working and deserving young lady off her feet and into a Wedding-Bound Happily Ever After. Life just does not work like that for most people.
For other girls, fairy tales are stuff to laugh at. And, honestly, I sometimes wish I could be you.
But for kids like me… fairy tales are the reason we're dorks. They are things to analyze from a literary perspective and to study for the archetypes and motifs and themes that come up. I have never really believed in fairy tales and happy endings; I have never really bothered fantasizing about getting carried off into a Happily Ever After. It just seems like taking the easy way out to let a man do all the dirty work.
If truth be told, I really wanted the girl to shove the prince off the horse, take the reins, and gallop off to do her best to save the world on her own terms at least once in at least one of the stories. The Savior of the World did not have to succeed; I just wanted a girl to attempt to fill the role for a change.
This would also be a wonderful time to point out that nowhere in any volume of Grimm’s tales, Andersen’s tales, and most volumes of folk tales does anything remotely like having a butt-kicking female exist.
Which, I might add, really sucks.
High school can suck, do not get me wrong – but what I've learned is that everyone could use a little magic. And, generally, I'm the one who has to provide that magic – it's an occupational hazard.
I know, I know – all you skeptics are saying, “Oh, fairy tales are just fiction” and “These fairy tales would never work out in the twenty-first century” and “Fairy Godmothers don't exist at all.” But you're wrong – I know that for a fact. I've already done enough to realize that how wrong the third statement is.
You see, I am a fairy godmother.
It all started when I walked into a tree on the last day of eighth grade.
Yes, a tree.
In the middle of the sidewalk.
Where did this tree come from?
I had no clue whatsoever.
But this tree changed my life.
Like most people would, I became very confused. Why was there a tree in the middle of a sidewalk? Why did it look like this particular tree had ALWAYS been in the middle of this very sidewalk, when I knew for a fact that it had not been there the day before?
And then a little man with a crooked nose, sagging skin, irate black eyes and a scraggly beard poked his head out of a knot in the tree and said in a deep voice that had a bit of a Brooklyn accent, “Oh, wonderful. She's here!”
“Um… what?” I said. This was even more confusing – this tree housed a little man, and both of them looked like they had been here since forever even though they most assuredly had NOT been in this very location twenty-four hours ago.
“You're here!” he cried again.
“Um… yeah…” I said. “Were you expecting me?”
“Of course we were,” the little man exclaimed with glee. “Why wouldn't we be?”
Um… because I don't know any little people who live in trees? And also, I don't know anyone who lives in a tree, period? And also, I have no idea who you are? “Uh… I think you have the wrong person…”
“You are Ericka Rose Dalnorn, address is 25 Rosenburg Street?” he confirmed.
Yeeesss…” I said slowly.
“Yes, we were expecting you,” he said briskly. “Come on in, and we shall get this interview started.”
“Um... like a job interview?” I asked cautiously. I was also becoming wary of the long-imprinted Mom-Quote: “do NOT enter anyone’s house if you don't know who they are.”
“What other sort of interview is there?” he answered.
“Uh…”
“Don't answer that. Come inside.” He disappeared from view and reappeared a few moments later from a small door near the base of the tree.
“Um, I didn't apply for any job. I think you have the wrong person,” I said as I ducked into the tree, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the situation.
“No, you are Ericka Rose Dalnorn, and you live on Rosenburg Street, and your appearance matches our descriptions. This meeting is scheduled.”
“Then why was I not informed of it?” I asked. I felt I had a right to know.
“Because your guardians are stupid humans. Take a seat anywhere.” He gestured around the room. Unfortunately, all the furniture looked as if it were better suited for someone more the size of – there’s really no other word for it – the dwarf, who was currently telling me that I had applied for a job.
“Now,” said the dwarf, settling himself on a small wooden rocking chair and giving me a critical look as he pulled out a clipboard, “Basic questions. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said slowly.
“Do you have a best friend?”
“Yes.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
The dwarf gave me a sharp look. “Name?”
“Alexander James Nolanew.”
“Any romantic interest in Alexander James Nolanew?”
“No…” Alex and I had been friends since kindergarten, and nothing had changed since then. I mean, I had thought about liking him, but the idea died three seconds after it came into existence.
“I see,” the dwarf said skeptically and made a note on his clipboard. “Anyway… age?”
“Fourteen.”
“Hair…” he glanced up. “Straight and coppery. Eyes…”
“Hazel,” I said.
He squinted at me for a second or two. “Green. With glasses.”
“Hazel,” I insisted. “With glasses.”
“Oh, very well,” he sighed, then added something like, “Hazel-eyed blahblahblah my arse,” under his breath. The “blahblahblah” sounded kind of like “godmother,” but I wasn’t entirely sure. “Height…”
“Five foot seven and growing.”
“What height do you expect to be at in four years?” he inquired.
“Um… I don’t know. Five-nine, maybe?”
“It doesn’t have to be definite.”
“Then go with five-nine,” I decided.
“Body type…”
“Body type?” I repeated. “Why do you need to know my body type? I don’t even know what my body type IS.”
The dwarf gave me a long, searching look, as if he were sizing me up, which he probably was. “Hourglass,” he concluded after a few moments of staring awkwardly at my midsection. “And it is part of the archetype identification. It has no lasting effect on whether you get hired; it is only to identify which archetype you will receive.”
“Archetype identification?” I repeated. “WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?”
“Do you know nothing, Miss Dalnorn?” the dwarf asked in an exasperated tone.
“Apparently,” I answered in equal irritation. “Would you care to inform me, or do I have to figure it out for myself?”
“Well, since you're here, I guess I should be the one to tell you,” the dwarf mused. “Very well, then. Take a seat.”
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Monday, May 16, 2011
Friday, January 7, 2011
Random Literary Update
Hello! I can't really remember the last time I did a proper literary update, and I feel like doing one now, soo... yeah. I also can't remember where I left off last time, so I may or may not have backtracked a little ways. SO here it is. (yes, it IS Nikita).
Chapter 3
Two months? Sparraben had told me that that was my time frame for training. He had decided, however, that I was either terrible at doing combat or great at it, and had insisted that I extend the training period to seven months if I wanted his help on anything.
Although this gave me a lot more time to develop every skill I had to learn, it also freaked me out slightly. Two months after I’d left home would mean that there would be a chance that Sonru would only have a body and little more. Seven months, however, would probably guarantee him not only a body but a sizable killing force as well before the only person who knew he was on the rise – also known as me – would have a chance to alert anyone who appeared to care.
Although Sparraben had lectured me on the first day about not jumping into things too quickly, I hadn’t learned that lesson well enough when he said my training should probably be extended for another five months. Two months after Grampa’s death was when the trees just began to change color and the weather grew cool. Four months after his death was when you couldn’t go anywhere without freezing, but the boots and the Ranger cloak I had been given would reduce the cold enormously (although the only times I was ever truly warm was when I had to practice with a sword non-stop for two hours). Five months after was not only in the middle of the winter holiday (usually celebrated with gifts, but the only one I got that year was an order to do more target practice, which wasn’t really a gift at all), it was right in the middle of the worst part of the snowy season. It was also just my luck that that year was the worst winter that any part of Illindara had seen for more than a century. Snow didn’t fall once: it fell three times, each dumping out almost a foot of white powder.
Either way, before I knew it, the trees were budding again, which was sort of alarming. Although I was not more physically fit than I had ever been and I had acquired more skills in almost seven months than I had in thirteen years, I was scared that the trees would wake up from their hibernation and tell me that Sonru was on the brink of annihilating the Three Cities – the general center of Illindara in most senses of the term.
One morning, soon after the trees had began to bud again, Sparraben announced that soon I would be getting my horse, and then we would review all the things I had learned.
“After that,” he added, “You only have about a week of training left, and then you’re free to go save the world or whatever it is you wanted to do.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked.
“Nope,” he replied. “Faug sent you because you needed my skills, but you know enough now to fare well enough on your own.”
“But there’s so much I don’t know,” I protested.
“This is true,” Sparraben replied. “But I can’t teach you much more of the basics without making you an official apprentice, and I don’t think either of us has time for that.”
“As I recall, I had to agree to train with you in order for you to help me with Grampa’s mission,” I reminded him.
“But so much depends on you and what you’re doing,” he said, and for once, I thought I heard something that sounded like some degree of approval in his voice. “I’ve done enough here. I’m getting too old for adventures anyway.”
“I think you’ve just gotten too comfortable here,” I retorted.
“This may be,” he answered, “But at some point you’re going to have to stand on your own two feet. Do I think you’re ready? No, I don’t. But you’ve proven me wrong so often so far that I’m probably trying to protect you or something.” He said this almost sarcastically, but I wondered whether maybe he was trying to protect me or something… but I couldn’t think why he would have any reason to do that.
“But aside from my improvement, I’m still not as good as you,” I said, still trying to persuade him. I didn’t think I was ready to go alone, either, but I knew I wouldn’t if I didn’t get some help first. “You know more about everything than I do. You’re a better fighter than I am. What if there are three big tall guys who have cornered me and I can’t reach my bow and they have reinforcements coming?”
“Nikita, we’ve been over this.”
“But what if I don’t kick any of them hard enough? What if there are twenty by the time I get out? What if they have a mage, hmm? What do I do then?”
“You know what to do,” Sparraben sighed.
“Reveal that I’m an elemental and get myself killed?” I knew I could employ the power of the trees against an adversary, but I had only ever managed it once and it was by accident.
Sparraben was quiet for a while after I’d issued that statement. After a long, somber pause, he said quietly, “I never told you how your father and Grandmother died?”
I didn’t get why he’d changed the subject, but I didn’t mind. It hadn’t been bugging me, but I’d been thinking about it every so often. “No,” I answered. “How do you know how it happened?”
“I saw it,” he said quietly. “Both of them.”
“WHAT?”
Sparraben’s face was grave. “It happened on the same day, but about thirty years apart. It was two days before you showed up on my doorstep.”
I’d shown up on his doorstep two days after Grampa had died. There was no way it was a coincidence.
“Rhyda, your grandmother, needed to go outside the walls of Norasona to get some air and talk to the trees,” he continued. “I guess it’s an elemental thing, the need to be out in nature. Anyway, she went into the forest, to the stream not too far from here. She was talking to the water and making it do tricks – I don’t know why. I watched from a tree – I was practicing out-of-sight archery when she showed up. All of a sudden, an arrow flew out of nowhere and hit her in the chest, right in the heart, and went so deep the end nearly poked out her back. I always liked her. Not romantically, of course, but she was a lot like you’ll probably turn out – strong, spirited, and powerful. I’d given her a few months’ training when she was about your age, so I cared about her, and I was really, really mad when she was killed.”
“What happened after she was shot?”
“The one who did it came looking for his target, him and his buddy, talking about how good a shot the first guy was. They were big and stupid, so they were talking about their plans right in the open where anyone could have heard them, and I listened. They were apparently killing elementals for bounty from some warlord. The elementals had apparently stolen his glory, and now he wanted them all dead, even the single- and double-elementals like you and your father – a long-term grudge or something. Rhyda was probably one of the last full elementals left on this earth, and the warlord wanted his revenge on her kind.”
I was quiet for a moment, pulling it all in. “Did they get the arrow?” I asked.
“No, just the body,” he replied. “They left the arrow. I guess they thought if someone saw the arrow, they would assume it was one of mine. They must have known I lived nearby.”
“So do you have the arrow?”
“Yes, and the one that killed your father,” he said. “They’re the exact same kind, killed by the exact same people. I’m saving them for when I meet the ones who killed them. I cared about Rhyda, and I cared about her family.”
“How did you get my father’s arrow?”
“He died in almost the exact same way, just a lot closer to my cabin. He didn’t die quite as quickly as your grandmother – probably because the shot was just shy of any vital organs. The hunters came to look for him, but they saw he wasn’t dead and decided not to kill him there. I pulled the arrow once they left, and he had life left in him to walk most of the way back to your house, mumbling about his children. He was gone by the time he reached the edge of the forest.”
I nodded mutely. I knew where the story went from there; I could see it clearly in my head.
Dad had staggered all the way across Farmer Bag’s fields, which had greatly irritated Farmer Bag until he saw what condition the Destroyer of his Beans was in. Farmer Bag then half-carried Dad across the bean field and into our beet patch when Mum saw them from the cabin and raced out to help. Farmer Bag and Mum dragged Dad into the cabin, where we all saw – me and Jack included – how bad the wound really was when Mum pulled off his shirt to bind the wound. The most disturbing part was that Dad had been skinny enough that you could see his heart beating through the skin below his ribcage, and the blood came gushing out of the wound every time the skin above it fluttered with the beat of his heart.
Mum had wrapped all the spare cloth she could find around his middle, but the blood came out too fat.
I remember Dad’s last words to Mum, and I suddenly realized why Mum had been so cautious last summer when Grampa had told me to find Sparraben.
He had said, “Leanna… Sparraben… protect… Nikita… Jack… watch out… Rangers… heroes!”
Then, like Grampa, he’d expired.
Six years later, I’d taken the exact same course in the opposite direction, to seek out Sparraben in search of answers instead of departing his company with a mystery. It was almost poetic.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
“You were too weak,” was the reply.
“Too weak to know how my father died when I saw him go with my own eyes when I was seven.”
“To weak, too tired to absorb the information,” he amended. “Now that you’re capable of handling a lot on your own, and you’re determined to go forth and conquer, you need to be warned: what happened to them could happen to you, too. You need to be on your guard.”
Be on your guard. That was the first rule of being a Ranger Trainee. Well, it was the second rule. The first rule was to Always Be Patient. The second rule was to Always Be on Your Guard. The third rule was to Never Disobey Rule Number One and Two. Seven months of hard training had pounded that into my head, but that still didn’t mean I was ready to go on a quest on my own.
That evening, I went out onto the slight porch of Sparraben’s cabin to talk to the trees. They had only started budding a few days before, which meant they would finally be awake enough to deliver some news. Winter for all trees except the evergreens is like an extended period of almost-hibernation – they were asleep, sure, but I was still able to hear them (sometimes I didn’t want to). As winter wore on, they got quieter, but I was still able to talk to Pine until the Big Snows came and I couldn’t get close enough to hear what he was saying.
“Hello?” I asked the trees, unsure if they would be able to hear me. It was a weird doubt – I’d been keeping the ability going on purpose, in the irrational fear that the elemental part of me would somehow die if I didn’t have regular contact with nature.
However, all I heard now was silence.
I tried again. “Hello? Oak? Ash? Poplar? Are you there? What about you, Elm? Cedar? Willow? Pine? Hello?”
There was no answer from any of the trees. Pine usually was good about answering when I called, even if it was to tell me, in his polite way, to shut up. I found his lack of response disturbing. The trees had specifically told me that their hibernation would end soon after they began budding, and in the fading light, I could definitely tell that buds and leaves and whippy young branches were present on almost every tree in Sparraben’s grove, but not one of them had answered when I had called their name. I could still feel the slight rumble of energy coming from the forest, but now it seemed sort of distant, like the energy in Sparraben’s Grove was detached from the energy of the rest of the Silvercourt Forest.
Then words came jogging out from a distant memory: the Forgotten Glen. The trees there had gone so long without the presence of something else they’d been driven silent.
That day, I had also found out that groups of trees were going silent prematurely; groves of trees were suddenly cut off from the energy of the forest when other creatures passed through them regularly and chattered to the trees.
The energy here wasn’t stirring at all, even though before the snow I was talking easily to Pine, and before that, to the entire grove. I’d heard them talking in their sleep until the Big Snow.
Now the energy here seemed to be cut off.
Nothing was stirring. The buds didn’t giggle; the leaves didn’t rustle; no trees groaned in a waking-up sort of fashion.
I had waited too long.
Chapter 3
Two months? Sparraben had told me that that was my time frame for training. He had decided, however, that I was either terrible at doing combat or great at it, and had insisted that I extend the training period to seven months if I wanted his help on anything.
Although this gave me a lot more time to develop every skill I had to learn, it also freaked me out slightly. Two months after I’d left home would mean that there would be a chance that Sonru would only have a body and little more. Seven months, however, would probably guarantee him not only a body but a sizable killing force as well before the only person who knew he was on the rise – also known as me – would have a chance to alert anyone who appeared to care.
Although Sparraben had lectured me on the first day about not jumping into things too quickly, I hadn’t learned that lesson well enough when he said my training should probably be extended for another five months. Two months after Grampa’s death was when the trees just began to change color and the weather grew cool. Four months after his death was when you couldn’t go anywhere without freezing, but the boots and the Ranger cloak I had been given would reduce the cold enormously (although the only times I was ever truly warm was when I had to practice with a sword non-stop for two hours). Five months after was not only in the middle of the winter holiday (usually celebrated with gifts, but the only one I got that year was an order to do more target practice, which wasn’t really a gift at all), it was right in the middle of the worst part of the snowy season. It was also just my luck that that year was the worst winter that any part of Illindara had seen for more than a century. Snow didn’t fall once: it fell three times, each dumping out almost a foot of white powder.
Either way, before I knew it, the trees were budding again, which was sort of alarming. Although I was not more physically fit than I had ever been and I had acquired more skills in almost seven months than I had in thirteen years, I was scared that the trees would wake up from their hibernation and tell me that Sonru was on the brink of annihilating the Three Cities – the general center of Illindara in most senses of the term.
One morning, soon after the trees had began to bud again, Sparraben announced that soon I would be getting my horse, and then we would review all the things I had learned.
“After that,” he added, “You only have about a week of training left, and then you’re free to go save the world or whatever it is you wanted to do.”
“Aren’t you coming with me?” I asked.
“Nope,” he replied. “Faug sent you because you needed my skills, but you know enough now to fare well enough on your own.”
“But there’s so much I don’t know,” I protested.
“This is true,” Sparraben replied. “But I can’t teach you much more of the basics without making you an official apprentice, and I don’t think either of us has time for that.”
“As I recall, I had to agree to train with you in order for you to help me with Grampa’s mission,” I reminded him.
“But so much depends on you and what you’re doing,” he said, and for once, I thought I heard something that sounded like some degree of approval in his voice. “I’ve done enough here. I’m getting too old for adventures anyway.”
“I think you’ve just gotten too comfortable here,” I retorted.
“This may be,” he answered, “But at some point you’re going to have to stand on your own two feet. Do I think you’re ready? No, I don’t. But you’ve proven me wrong so often so far that I’m probably trying to protect you or something.” He said this almost sarcastically, but I wondered whether maybe he was trying to protect me or something… but I couldn’t think why he would have any reason to do that.
“But aside from my improvement, I’m still not as good as you,” I said, still trying to persuade him. I didn’t think I was ready to go alone, either, but I knew I wouldn’t if I didn’t get some help first. “You know more about everything than I do. You’re a better fighter than I am. What if there are three big tall guys who have cornered me and I can’t reach my bow and they have reinforcements coming?”
“Nikita, we’ve been over this.”
“But what if I don’t kick any of them hard enough? What if there are twenty by the time I get out? What if they have a mage, hmm? What do I do then?”
“You know what to do,” Sparraben sighed.
“Reveal that I’m an elemental and get myself killed?” I knew I could employ the power of the trees against an adversary, but I had only ever managed it once and it was by accident.
Sparraben was quiet for a while after I’d issued that statement. After a long, somber pause, he said quietly, “I never told you how your father and Grandmother died?”
I didn’t get why he’d changed the subject, but I didn’t mind. It hadn’t been bugging me, but I’d been thinking about it every so often. “No,” I answered. “How do you know how it happened?”
“I saw it,” he said quietly. “Both of them.”
“WHAT?”
Sparraben’s face was grave. “It happened on the same day, but about thirty years apart. It was two days before you showed up on my doorstep.”
I’d shown up on his doorstep two days after Grampa had died. There was no way it was a coincidence.
“Rhyda, your grandmother, needed to go outside the walls of Norasona to get some air and talk to the trees,” he continued. “I guess it’s an elemental thing, the need to be out in nature. Anyway, she went into the forest, to the stream not too far from here. She was talking to the water and making it do tricks – I don’t know why. I watched from a tree – I was practicing out-of-sight archery when she showed up. All of a sudden, an arrow flew out of nowhere and hit her in the chest, right in the heart, and went so deep the end nearly poked out her back. I always liked her. Not romantically, of course, but she was a lot like you’ll probably turn out – strong, spirited, and powerful. I’d given her a few months’ training when she was about your age, so I cared about her, and I was really, really mad when she was killed.”
“What happened after she was shot?”
“The one who did it came looking for his target, him and his buddy, talking about how good a shot the first guy was. They were big and stupid, so they were talking about their plans right in the open where anyone could have heard them, and I listened. They were apparently killing elementals for bounty from some warlord. The elementals had apparently stolen his glory, and now he wanted them all dead, even the single- and double-elementals like you and your father – a long-term grudge or something. Rhyda was probably one of the last full elementals left on this earth, and the warlord wanted his revenge on her kind.”
I was quiet for a moment, pulling it all in. “Did they get the arrow?” I asked.
“No, just the body,” he replied. “They left the arrow. I guess they thought if someone saw the arrow, they would assume it was one of mine. They must have known I lived nearby.”
“So do you have the arrow?”
“Yes, and the one that killed your father,” he said. “They’re the exact same kind, killed by the exact same people. I’m saving them for when I meet the ones who killed them. I cared about Rhyda, and I cared about her family.”
“How did you get my father’s arrow?”
“He died in almost the exact same way, just a lot closer to my cabin. He didn’t die quite as quickly as your grandmother – probably because the shot was just shy of any vital organs. The hunters came to look for him, but they saw he wasn’t dead and decided not to kill him there. I pulled the arrow once they left, and he had life left in him to walk most of the way back to your house, mumbling about his children. He was gone by the time he reached the edge of the forest.”
I nodded mutely. I knew where the story went from there; I could see it clearly in my head.
Dad had staggered all the way across Farmer Bag’s fields, which had greatly irritated Farmer Bag until he saw what condition the Destroyer of his Beans was in. Farmer Bag then half-carried Dad across the bean field and into our beet patch when Mum saw them from the cabin and raced out to help. Farmer Bag and Mum dragged Dad into the cabin, where we all saw – me and Jack included – how bad the wound really was when Mum pulled off his shirt to bind the wound. The most disturbing part was that Dad had been skinny enough that you could see his heart beating through the skin below his ribcage, and the blood came gushing out of the wound every time the skin above it fluttered with the beat of his heart.
Mum had wrapped all the spare cloth she could find around his middle, but the blood came out too fat.
I remember Dad’s last words to Mum, and I suddenly realized why Mum had been so cautious last summer when Grampa had told me to find Sparraben.
He had said, “Leanna… Sparraben… protect… Nikita… Jack… watch out… Rangers… heroes!”
Then, like Grampa, he’d expired.
Six years later, I’d taken the exact same course in the opposite direction, to seek out Sparraben in search of answers instead of departing his company with a mystery. It was almost poetic.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” I asked.
“You were too weak,” was the reply.
“Too weak to know how my father died when I saw him go with my own eyes when I was seven.”
“To weak, too tired to absorb the information,” he amended. “Now that you’re capable of handling a lot on your own, and you’re determined to go forth and conquer, you need to be warned: what happened to them could happen to you, too. You need to be on your guard.”
Be on your guard. That was the first rule of being a Ranger Trainee. Well, it was the second rule. The first rule was to Always Be Patient. The second rule was to Always Be on Your Guard. The third rule was to Never Disobey Rule Number One and Two. Seven months of hard training had pounded that into my head, but that still didn’t mean I was ready to go on a quest on my own.
That evening, I went out onto the slight porch of Sparraben’s cabin to talk to the trees. They had only started budding a few days before, which meant they would finally be awake enough to deliver some news. Winter for all trees except the evergreens is like an extended period of almost-hibernation – they were asleep, sure, but I was still able to hear them (sometimes I didn’t want to). As winter wore on, they got quieter, but I was still able to talk to Pine until the Big Snows came and I couldn’t get close enough to hear what he was saying.
“Hello?” I asked the trees, unsure if they would be able to hear me. It was a weird doubt – I’d been keeping the ability going on purpose, in the irrational fear that the elemental part of me would somehow die if I didn’t have regular contact with nature.
However, all I heard now was silence.
I tried again. “Hello? Oak? Ash? Poplar? Are you there? What about you, Elm? Cedar? Willow? Pine? Hello?”
There was no answer from any of the trees. Pine usually was good about answering when I called, even if it was to tell me, in his polite way, to shut up. I found his lack of response disturbing. The trees had specifically told me that their hibernation would end soon after they began budding, and in the fading light, I could definitely tell that buds and leaves and whippy young branches were present on almost every tree in Sparraben’s grove, but not one of them had answered when I had called their name. I could still feel the slight rumble of energy coming from the forest, but now it seemed sort of distant, like the energy in Sparraben’s Grove was detached from the energy of the rest of the Silvercourt Forest.
Then words came jogging out from a distant memory: the Forgotten Glen. The trees there had gone so long without the presence of something else they’d been driven silent.
That day, I had also found out that groups of trees were going silent prematurely; groves of trees were suddenly cut off from the energy of the forest when other creatures passed through them regularly and chattered to the trees.
The energy here wasn’t stirring at all, even though before the snow I was talking easily to Pine, and before that, to the entire grove. I’d heard them talking in their sleep until the Big Snow.
Now the energy here seemed to be cut off.
Nothing was stirring. The buds didn’t giggle; the leaves didn’t rustle; no trees groaned in a waking-up sort of fashion.
I had waited too long.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Hello!/ Literature
Greetings! I have been super non-finishing-novel-y, and I have started SOMETHING ELSE! (NaNo 2011, anyone?) So here's what I've written. Yes, I dreamt something VERY similar to this. It happened on Saturday night. I don't remember the details very well, except it was a mix of really scary and really cool. I didn't wake up at the same point, but the scene did change at the same point. So here it is.
The enterprise began in the late afternoon. Every year near the Winter Festival, the dragon comes and terrorizes our town. It has happened for hundreds of years. Nobody really knows why, but everybody is powerless with terror to stop it.
Except for now. My friends and I have decided that enough is enough. This dragon – we do not even know his name, he’s just The Dragon – has caused enough damage, enough pain, enough suffering. Every year he comes and causes enough damage to take the rest of the year to fix, and yet he comes again the next year and destroys it all again.
Every year, he takes a few young women as well – teenage girls normally between the ages of thirteen and seventeen – to take back to his lair to either eat or torture.
My friends and I, we’re sick of being sick with terror. We have made a plan.
Early in the evening that the Dragon is destined to arrive, we all meet up at my house. Everyone – all seven or eight of us – is armed with some sort of heavy weapon. Jeremiah carries a battle axe. Samuel is armed withhis great-grandfather’s magic sword. I carry my bow, a small pouch of pine sap, and a torch in order to fight fire with fire.
Although I am the only girl in the group, that is no matter. All the boys know that I am the best shot in town.
We’re all nervous as the time ticks onward. Although we’re frustrated with the Dragon, the large beast still holds the spot of “Most Feared” in all of our hearts.
Soon we hear the normal, terrifying sounds of the Dragon’s approach – his roar, his heavy footsteps, his deep breathing. We spread out. My heart pounds.
Jeremiah, Samuel, James, and Damian are going to be the close-range fighters, while Max, Hector, and I are going to be the long-range fighters – I have my longbow with the fire; the boys have their crossbows. The sounds of the beast grow closer. The time is nearing midnight.
The screams start when the beast has reached the top of my street. I see the house of the Millers go up in flames at the top of the hill. That was Jeremiah’s house. He’d just finished rebuilding it from last year.
I stand behind the shrubs in front of my house and draw an arrow from my quiver.
The Dragon’s nearing us now, breathing heavily.
The smell of smoke from Jeremiah’s house comes down to my nose.
I dip the tip of my arrow into the pine sap and then dip it into the flame of the torch until it lights. I keep the arrow pointed downwards until I’m ready to draw the bow.
And suddenly, there’s the Dragon. He’s massive, with bright green scales and spikes all down his back and around his eyes and mouth and nostrils.
My heartbeat quickens. I’ve heard the commotion this dragon causes many times, but I’ve never actually seen the beast until now.
I draw my bow. The flames from the arrow burn my hand slightly as I take aim.
Soon the beast is near enough so that, if I plan my shot correctly, I can hit it right in the eye.
The dragon turns its head, fixing one yellow-orange eye on me. I’m paralyzed the moment our eyes meet.
And that’s when the loud beeping of my alarm clock pulled me out of my dream.
Every other night since summer break began I’ve been visited by the same dream of fighting a dragon that has been terrorizing a town. And I’ve always woken up right as I draw back my bow and meet the eyes of the beast. My feelings about it? They’re in a delicate balance – on the one hand, I’m glad I’m not about to shoot a dragon in the eye, because, even in Dreamland, that thing is absolutely petrifying. On the other hand, however, I’ve been terrorized by the dragon so much – oh yes, I meant to use the word “terrorized” – that I want to shoot it already so I can stop having dreams about killing dragons and start having dreams about eating peanuts in the Amazon and finishing my college applications.
I mean really, is it normal to have a lot of dreams about dragon-slaying? I don’t think it would be for someone my age – unless, of course, the dragon is some sort of subliminal reference to college applications and my fire arrow is a pen or something. But I doubt it.
The enterprise began in the late afternoon. Every year near the Winter Festival, the dragon comes and terrorizes our town. It has happened for hundreds of years. Nobody really knows why, but everybody is powerless with terror to stop it.
Except for now. My friends and I have decided that enough is enough. This dragon – we do not even know his name, he’s just The Dragon – has caused enough damage, enough pain, enough suffering. Every year he comes and causes enough damage to take the rest of the year to fix, and yet he comes again the next year and destroys it all again.
Every year, he takes a few young women as well – teenage girls normally between the ages of thirteen and seventeen – to take back to his lair to either eat or torture.
My friends and I, we’re sick of being sick with terror. We have made a plan.
Early in the evening that the Dragon is destined to arrive, we all meet up at my house. Everyone – all seven or eight of us – is armed with some sort of heavy weapon. Jeremiah carries a battle axe. Samuel is armed withhis great-grandfather’s magic sword. I carry my bow, a small pouch of pine sap, and a torch in order to fight fire with fire.
Although I am the only girl in the group, that is no matter. All the boys know that I am the best shot in town.
We’re all nervous as the time ticks onward. Although we’re frustrated with the Dragon, the large beast still holds the spot of “Most Feared” in all of our hearts.
Soon we hear the normal, terrifying sounds of the Dragon’s approach – his roar, his heavy footsteps, his deep breathing. We spread out. My heart pounds.
Jeremiah, Samuel, James, and Damian are going to be the close-range fighters, while Max, Hector, and I are going to be the long-range fighters – I have my longbow with the fire; the boys have their crossbows. The sounds of the beast grow closer. The time is nearing midnight.
The screams start when the beast has reached the top of my street. I see the house of the Millers go up in flames at the top of the hill. That was Jeremiah’s house. He’d just finished rebuilding it from last year.
I stand behind the shrubs in front of my house and draw an arrow from my quiver.
The Dragon’s nearing us now, breathing heavily.
The smell of smoke from Jeremiah’s house comes down to my nose.
I dip the tip of my arrow into the pine sap and then dip it into the flame of the torch until it lights. I keep the arrow pointed downwards until I’m ready to draw the bow.
And suddenly, there’s the Dragon. He’s massive, with bright green scales and spikes all down his back and around his eyes and mouth and nostrils.
My heartbeat quickens. I’ve heard the commotion this dragon causes many times, but I’ve never actually seen the beast until now.
I draw my bow. The flames from the arrow burn my hand slightly as I take aim.
Soon the beast is near enough so that, if I plan my shot correctly, I can hit it right in the eye.
The dragon turns its head, fixing one yellow-orange eye on me. I’m paralyzed the moment our eyes meet.
And that’s when the loud beeping of my alarm clock pulled me out of my dream.
Every other night since summer break began I’ve been visited by the same dream of fighting a dragon that has been terrorizing a town. And I’ve always woken up right as I draw back my bow and meet the eyes of the beast. My feelings about it? They’re in a delicate balance – on the one hand, I’m glad I’m not about to shoot a dragon in the eye, because, even in Dreamland, that thing is absolutely petrifying. On the other hand, however, I’ve been terrorized by the dragon so much – oh yes, I meant to use the word “terrorized” – that I want to shoot it already so I can stop having dreams about killing dragons and start having dreams about eating peanuts in the Amazon and finishing my college applications.
I mean really, is it normal to have a lot of dreams about dragon-slaying? I don’t think it would be for someone my age – unless, of course, the dragon is some sort of subliminal reference to college applications and my fire arrow is a pen or something. But I doubt it.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
A bit
I chose not to do the ten-page option, but one of the little bits that I had to do instead was to type up one of the scenes. So here's one. YAY!
King Shakkan, like all over-confident kings, had long believed that the only creatures that could penetrate his hideaway were the ones that lived and worked there, and, like his fellow over-confident kings, had not bothered to listen to the warnings that the guards had been trying to give him and had chosen to throw a one-man party instead.
These choices being what they were, the group of travelers that strode into King Shakkan’s large, torch-lit throne room found the leader of the goblins in a state of complete and utter drunkenness, having raided the very last of King Acherna’s wine stores to supplement his one-man celebration of his stupidity.
Since the Goblin King had decided upon this course of action rather than one of alert defense, he was utterly surprised to see that there were five very large creatures in the throne room, and they looked too big to be goblins. In fact, that one creature on the end looked like a human with WINGS, but that couldn’t be right, could it?
“I… I am… I am… King Shakkan!” The king babbled in his drunkenness, swaying as he attempted to rise to his feet, a large bottle of wine in his hand. “What are you doin’ here?” Although he was the king of the goblins, Shakkan appeared to be just a really short human – no taller than around five feet.
“Um… you are the king of the goblins, right?” Nemesis asked uncertainly. It was kind of unnerving to see Shakkan swaying on his feet so much, so obviously out of line that it was almost pathetic to watch.
“Um… am I?” Shakkan mumbled, stumbling as he tried to stand up straight. “Oh… yeah, I s’pose I am. What can I do for you?” He took another drink from the container in his hand.
Nemesis hesitated. She wasn’t entirely sure how to say, “Well, you can start by dying, if you don’t mind. And, if it isn’t too much trouble, please sit back and relax while we do it for you,” in a polite enough that still get through to the drunk king’s brain and stay in there.
“We’re here to kill you, sorry,” Kaibom said, before Nemesis had figured out how to say it to him nicely.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Nem corrected.
“Wait, there’s another way of putting it?” Kaibom asked in surprise.
Before Nem could reply, the drunken king wondered, “Kill me? Why’d’ya wanna kill me?”
“Well, there’s the fact that –” Nemesis began, but the king cut her off.
“I DON’T WANNA DIE!” he wailed. “I’m not ready to – I’m too young to die!”
“You’ve been around for three thousand years, Shakkan,” Nemesis said.
“I have no sons!” Shakkan wailed. “No heirs! Who will watch this place when I die! NOBODY! That’s who! Why must you do this to me?”
“Shakkan, you’re drunk,” Nemesis told him sadly. However, Shakkan was too busy wailing about how he couldn’t die just yet to listen, going onto his knees in desperation.
Finally, Zazan was the one who decided that enough was enough. Striding forward, he gave Shakkan a hard backhand slap on the face, adding to it a little malicious electric shock that nevertheless brought Shakkan to his senses a bit more. Shakkan stopped wailing and clutched the hand-shaped burn on his face.
“For your information, Shakkan,” Nemesis said, striding forward, her mind made up, “There are more than a few people who have been monitoring your behavior for the last three thousand years, and they think it’s time that your power was removed.” She drew Fenn, her Aerian blade.
Something ticked in Shakkan’s head. Aerian blade.. girl... prophecy... stars...
Before Shakkan had entirely put the pieces together in his mind, his life had been snuffed out in a stab right through the heart.
It was the first time that Nemesis had ever killed anything in cold blood, the first time she had spoken to one of her foes in such a calm manner before taking their life.
She wasn’t sure she liked it, but she gathered herself and looked at the two guards standing on either side of the throne. “Stay here and die, or take the knowledge of this death to your grave and leave at once,” she told them, her face pale and deadpan.
The goblins, terrified at what had just occurred, chose to run, though they were not entirely sure that they would not have preferred to die immediately more.
King Shakkan, like all over-confident kings, had long believed that the only creatures that could penetrate his hideaway were the ones that lived and worked there, and, like his fellow over-confident kings, had not bothered to listen to the warnings that the guards had been trying to give him and had chosen to throw a one-man party instead.
These choices being what they were, the group of travelers that strode into King Shakkan’s large, torch-lit throne room found the leader of the goblins in a state of complete and utter drunkenness, having raided the very last of King Acherna’s wine stores to supplement his one-man celebration of his stupidity.
Since the Goblin King had decided upon this course of action rather than one of alert defense, he was utterly surprised to see that there were five very large creatures in the throne room, and they looked too big to be goblins. In fact, that one creature on the end looked like a human with WINGS, but that couldn’t be right, could it?
“I… I am… I am… King Shakkan!” The king babbled in his drunkenness, swaying as he attempted to rise to his feet, a large bottle of wine in his hand. “What are you doin’ here?” Although he was the king of the goblins, Shakkan appeared to be just a really short human – no taller than around five feet.
“Um… you are the king of the goblins, right?” Nemesis asked uncertainly. It was kind of unnerving to see Shakkan swaying on his feet so much, so obviously out of line that it was almost pathetic to watch.
“Um… am I?” Shakkan mumbled, stumbling as he tried to stand up straight. “Oh… yeah, I s’pose I am. What can I do for you?” He took another drink from the container in his hand.
Nemesis hesitated. She wasn’t entirely sure how to say, “Well, you can start by dying, if you don’t mind. And, if it isn’t too much trouble, please sit back and relax while we do it for you,” in a polite enough that still get through to the drunk king’s brain and stay in there.
“We’re here to kill you, sorry,” Kaibom said, before Nemesis had figured out how to say it to him nicely.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Nem corrected.
“Wait, there’s another way of putting it?” Kaibom asked in surprise.
Before Nem could reply, the drunken king wondered, “Kill me? Why’d’ya wanna kill me?”
“Well, there’s the fact that –” Nemesis began, but the king cut her off.
“I DON’T WANNA DIE!” he wailed. “I’m not ready to – I’m too young to die!”
“You’ve been around for three thousand years, Shakkan,” Nemesis said.
“I have no sons!” Shakkan wailed. “No heirs! Who will watch this place when I die! NOBODY! That’s who! Why must you do this to me?”
“Shakkan, you’re drunk,” Nemesis told him sadly. However, Shakkan was too busy wailing about how he couldn’t die just yet to listen, going onto his knees in desperation.
Finally, Zazan was the one who decided that enough was enough. Striding forward, he gave Shakkan a hard backhand slap on the face, adding to it a little malicious electric shock that nevertheless brought Shakkan to his senses a bit more. Shakkan stopped wailing and clutched the hand-shaped burn on his face.
“For your information, Shakkan,” Nemesis said, striding forward, her mind made up, “There are more than a few people who have been monitoring your behavior for the last three thousand years, and they think it’s time that your power was removed.” She drew Fenn, her Aerian blade.
Something ticked in Shakkan’s head. Aerian blade.. girl... prophecy... stars...
Before Shakkan had entirely put the pieces together in his mind, his life had been snuffed out in a stab right through the heart.
It was the first time that Nemesis had ever killed anything in cold blood, the first time she had spoken to one of her foes in such a calm manner before taking their life.
She wasn’t sure she liked it, but she gathered herself and looked at the two guards standing on either side of the throne. “Stay here and die, or take the knowledge of this death to your grave and leave at once,” she told them, her face pale and deadpan.
The goblins, terrified at what had just occurred, chose to run, though they were not entirely sure that they would not have preferred to die immediately more.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Unexpected Literary Update!!!
Well, since I'm bored, I have nothing to post, and I don't really feel like not posting anyway (and, to be honest, I'm also doing this so I can maybe get some more hits), I'm going to be putting up the next 1200 words of the Nikita story. Why ONLY 1200 words, you may ask, since I wrote 2600 words last time? Why not all 2600? Well, I'll tell you: when the literary catastrophe that I'll be beginning next week (also known as "The Crazy Adventures of Nemesis" and/ or my NaNoWriMo novel attempt) is over, and since it's being written in a composition notebook and probably won't be typed up until winter break due to lack of finishing and ample amounts of procrastination, I'll have to get back to the real world of Passing Creative Writing, and I want to have time to recover from being braindead (as I'm sure I will be after writing 1700 words a DAY) and still be able to pass (as it's probably one of two courses I currently have a good grade in). Case in point, it's only 1200 words to give me a while in December to think of what's coming next.
So here it is. YAY!
“Well, part of it,” I admitted. “Part of it I just figured out on my own.”
“Which parts?”
“Well, the trees told me the part about Sonru and his army…”
“The trees told you about Sonru,” Sparraben repeated bemusedly.
“Yes, sir.” I decided that it would be best to at least address him politely now that he was the one asking questions.
“Trees told you that one of the darkest Dark Lords in the history of dark lords is forming an army,” he stated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure you weren’t sleeping?” Sparraben said doubtfully.
“Quite sure, sir. My legs were still hurting from walking.”
“Care to explain how the trees were able to communicate this information to you?” he asked.
“You see, my grandma was an Elemental, and…”
“What was her name?” Sparraben interrupted.
“Rhyda Shynade. She was one of the last full elementals left.”
Sparraben’s expression finally changed to something other than anger for longer than a few seconds. He now looked pensive. “Has anyone told you that you look just like her?”
“No,” I said quietly. “Mum never knew her, and Dad died before he could tell me a lot about her.”
“How did your father die, exactly?” he asked next.
“Blue Fever, according to Mum,” I answered.
“Do you remember whether anyone else in your family caught it that year?”
I paused, pushing my memory back. “No, I don’t think anyone did, no,” I said. “But I remember that he came in from the fields one day and his face was all red, and there was a bloody spot on his shirt near where his heart was. And I remember thinking that it was weird that he had died of the Blue Fever when you get boils and spots on your arms, not your chest. And his arms were clean.”
Sparraben’s face was unreadable, but I could tell he was still thinking. “His arms were clean,” he said slowly, “Because more likely than not, he was killed by something that wasn’t the Blue Fever. Did he have an Elemental trait?”
“Yes, Earth and Water,” I replied.
“Did you ever find out how your grandma died?”
“No,” I said quietly. Why did he suddenly want to know how my various deceased relatives met their ends? It wasn’t significant, was it?
“Hm…” he muttered, more to himself than to me. After a long pause, during which I waited very nervously for his verdict, he said, “All right, I’ll do it.”
I couldn’t help grinning a little bit, but the grin faded as he added, “But under the condition that you do a two-month crash course of Ranger Training.”
“Two months?” I repeated, aghast. “Isn’t that a bit LONG?”
“No; in fact, it’s rather short,” Sparraben replied. “Any shorter a time, and you would miss an important point.”
“But… But…” I stuttered. A million reasons WHY two months would be too long – the mysterious Sonru’s growing presence being a significant factor in most of them – raced through my mind, but Sparraben’s height and obvious strength stopped me from voicing my doubts.
“Well?” he asked.
“is there any way you could make it any shorter?” I squeaked nervously.
“no,” he replied shortly. “It’s this way or I’m out.”
A battle was going on in my head – figuring out where Sonru was, WHAT exactly he was, what he was doing, and how I could stop him, all on one hand, and getting Sparraben’s vast amounts of skill and knowledge to do so, which would probably prove to be the wiser course of action simply because of his experience.
“Um… Okay,” I said.
“You are impatient to defeat Sonru,” he observed bluntly. “I can see it in your face. But the first lesson you must learn is patience. Being too hasty can cost you a kill; cause you to overlook a chance. Moving too soon can cost you your life. Get it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said timidly. If he was trying to intimidate me, it was working.
“Good,” he said. “Your training begins now. Remember that this is a crash course – you won’t be able to do anything really well, but you’ll be able to do a lot of things well enough to survive. Understand, girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
And so the real adventure began – the first day of the rest of my life, you might say. The first thing I did as a trainee was to surrender my bag and to begin doing pushups.
Chapter 3
Two months? Sparraben had told me that that was my time frame for training. He had decided, however, that I was either terrible at doing combat or great at it, and had insisted that I extend the training period to seven months if I wanted his help on anything.
Although this gave me a lot more time to develop every skill I had to learn, it also freaked me out slightly. Two months after I’d left home would mean that there would be a chance that Sonru would only have a body and little more. Seven months, however, would probably guarantee him not only a body but a sizeable killing force as well before the only person who knew he was on the rise – also known as me – would have a chance to alert anyone who appeared to care.
Although Sparraben had lectured me on the first day about not jumping into things too quickly, I hadn’t learned that lesson well enough when he said my training should probably be extended for another five months. Two months after Grampa’s death was when the trees just began to change color and the weather grew cool. Four months after his death was when you couldn’t go anywhere without freezing, but the boots and the Ranger cloak I had been given would reduce the cold enormously (although the only times I was ever truly warm was when I had to practice with a sword non-stop for two hours). Five months after was not only in the middle of the winter holiday (usually celebrated with gifts, but the only one I got that year was an order to do more target practice, which wasn’t really a gift at all), it was right in the middle of the worst part of the snowy season. It was also just my luck that that year was the worst winter that any part of Illindara had seen for more than a century. Snow didn’t fall once: it fell three times, each dumping out almost a foot of white powder.
Either way, before I knew it, the trees were budding again, which was sort of alarming. Although I was not more physically fit than I had ever been and I had acquired more skills in almost seven months than I had in thirteen years, I was scared that the trees would wake up from their hibernation and tell me that Sonru was on the brink of annihilating the Three Cities – the general center of Illindara in most senses of the term.
One morning, soon after the trees had began to bud again, Sparraben announced that soon I would be getting my horse, and then we would review all the things I had learned.
“After that,” he added, “You only have about a week of training left, and then you’re free to go save the world or whatever it is you wanted to do.”
So here it is. YAY!
“Well, part of it,” I admitted. “Part of it I just figured out on my own.”
“Which parts?”
“Well, the trees told me the part about Sonru and his army…”
“The trees told you about Sonru,” Sparraben repeated bemusedly.
“Yes, sir.” I decided that it would be best to at least address him politely now that he was the one asking questions.
“Trees told you that one of the darkest Dark Lords in the history of dark lords is forming an army,” he stated.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you sure you weren’t sleeping?” Sparraben said doubtfully.
“Quite sure, sir. My legs were still hurting from walking.”
“Care to explain how the trees were able to communicate this information to you?” he asked.
“You see, my grandma was an Elemental, and…”
“What was her name?” Sparraben interrupted.
“Rhyda Shynade. She was one of the last full elementals left.”
Sparraben’s expression finally changed to something other than anger for longer than a few seconds. He now looked pensive. “Has anyone told you that you look just like her?”
“No,” I said quietly. “Mum never knew her, and Dad died before he could tell me a lot about her.”
“How did your father die, exactly?” he asked next.
“Blue Fever, according to Mum,” I answered.
“Do you remember whether anyone else in your family caught it that year?”
I paused, pushing my memory back. “No, I don’t think anyone did, no,” I said. “But I remember that he came in from the fields one day and his face was all red, and there was a bloody spot on his shirt near where his heart was. And I remember thinking that it was weird that he had died of the Blue Fever when you get boils and spots on your arms, not your chest. And his arms were clean.”
Sparraben’s face was unreadable, but I could tell he was still thinking. “His arms were clean,” he said slowly, “Because more likely than not, he was killed by something that wasn’t the Blue Fever. Did he have an Elemental trait?”
“Yes, Earth and Water,” I replied.
“Did you ever find out how your grandma died?”
“No,” I said quietly. Why did he suddenly want to know how my various deceased relatives met their ends? It wasn’t significant, was it?
“Hm…” he muttered, more to himself than to me. After a long pause, during which I waited very nervously for his verdict, he said, “All right, I’ll do it.”
I couldn’t help grinning a little bit, but the grin faded as he added, “But under the condition that you do a two-month crash course of Ranger Training.”
“Two months?” I repeated, aghast. “Isn’t that a bit LONG?”
“No; in fact, it’s rather short,” Sparraben replied. “Any shorter a time, and you would miss an important point.”
“But… But…” I stuttered. A million reasons WHY two months would be too long – the mysterious Sonru’s growing presence being a significant factor in most of them – raced through my mind, but Sparraben’s height and obvious strength stopped me from voicing my doubts.
“Well?” he asked.
“is there any way you could make it any shorter?” I squeaked nervously.
“no,” he replied shortly. “It’s this way or I’m out.”
A battle was going on in my head – figuring out where Sonru was, WHAT exactly he was, what he was doing, and how I could stop him, all on one hand, and getting Sparraben’s vast amounts of skill and knowledge to do so, which would probably prove to be the wiser course of action simply because of his experience.
“Um… Okay,” I said.
“You are impatient to defeat Sonru,” he observed bluntly. “I can see it in your face. But the first lesson you must learn is patience. Being too hasty can cost you a kill; cause you to overlook a chance. Moving too soon can cost you your life. Get it?”
“Yes, sir,” I said timidly. If he was trying to intimidate me, it was working.
“Good,” he said. “Your training begins now. Remember that this is a crash course – you won’t be able to do anything really well, but you’ll be able to do a lot of things well enough to survive. Understand, girl?”
“Yes, sir.”
And so the real adventure began – the first day of the rest of my life, you might say. The first thing I did as a trainee was to surrender my bag and to begin doing pushups.
Chapter 3
Two months? Sparraben had told me that that was my time frame for training. He had decided, however, that I was either terrible at doing combat or great at it, and had insisted that I extend the training period to seven months if I wanted his help on anything.
Although this gave me a lot more time to develop every skill I had to learn, it also freaked me out slightly. Two months after I’d left home would mean that there would be a chance that Sonru would only have a body and little more. Seven months, however, would probably guarantee him not only a body but a sizeable killing force as well before the only person who knew he was on the rise – also known as me – would have a chance to alert anyone who appeared to care.
Although Sparraben had lectured me on the first day about not jumping into things too quickly, I hadn’t learned that lesson well enough when he said my training should probably be extended for another five months. Two months after Grampa’s death was when the trees just began to change color and the weather grew cool. Four months after his death was when you couldn’t go anywhere without freezing, but the boots and the Ranger cloak I had been given would reduce the cold enormously (although the only times I was ever truly warm was when I had to practice with a sword non-stop for two hours). Five months after was not only in the middle of the winter holiday (usually celebrated with gifts, but the only one I got that year was an order to do more target practice, which wasn’t really a gift at all), it was right in the middle of the worst part of the snowy season. It was also just my luck that that year was the worst winter that any part of Illindara had seen for more than a century. Snow didn’t fall once: it fell three times, each dumping out almost a foot of white powder.
Either way, before I knew it, the trees were budding again, which was sort of alarming. Although I was not more physically fit than I had ever been and I had acquired more skills in almost seven months than I had in thirteen years, I was scared that the trees would wake up from their hibernation and tell me that Sonru was on the brink of annihilating the Three Cities – the general center of Illindara in most senses of the term.
One morning, soon after the trees had began to bud again, Sparraben announced that soon I would be getting my horse, and then we would review all the things I had learned.
“After that,” he added, “You only have about a week of training left, and then you’re free to go save the world or whatever it is you wanted to do.”
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Nikita part whatever this is...
The trees then did something that sounded like very leafy laughter.
“This is true,” the Oak said.
“Can you tell me where he lives?” I asked.
“It is a short walk straight ahead for you,” the Ash told me, “His cabin is in a clearing that is impossible to miss.”
“All right,” I said.
I started into the forest, although my legs were finally starting to feel tired and my feet were beginning to hurt. I had barely slept in a day and a half, I realized. My eyes itched with tiredness and from squinting in the noonday sun.
“One last thing,” the Poplar rumbled. “The trees are all connected. We will hear of what occurs with you, no matter who you speak to, be it a two-leg, a four-leg, or a tree. We will know of it. Should you need us, speak to the trees, and we will hear you.”
“May the breeze be always at your back,” the Ash added.
“And may the spirits stay with you, Nikita Hyatha,” the Oak finished. “Go in peace, Listener of the Forest.”
“Thank you for everything,” I said. The title of ‘Listener of the Forest’ sounded rather intimidating.
With that, I stepped across the border between the wheat fields and the deep power of the Silvercourt Forest. Instantly, my weariness vanished. The energy of the wood was staggering; it flowed through everything in almost visible waves. It was not exactly magic, but it was a powerful, living force. It was all at once the energy of a thousand living things and the energy of the air itself, of newborn beings and the oldest trees in the forest, all intertwined and bound together like some massive net that allowed enormous freedom. The energy itself was something beautiful almost, but something that was also very intimidating and would demand respect.
The forest itself, beyond the sturdy outer perimeter, was actually quite open-looking and young. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the trees, and I finally felt that I was on an adventure.
My energy renewed, I continued on straight ahead, like the trees had suggested. There was a path of sorts that led in roughly a straight line in the direction I wanted to go, but the trail was somewhat overgrown and was covered in easily snapped twigs. I felt like it was unwise to be making such a ruckus in a new environment, but nothing stirred.
I reached Sparraben’s cabin about fifteen minutes after entering the wood. Although the energy of the forest still kept the trees looking sturdy but young, I couldn’t help noticing that they were growing closer together, limiting the amount of light that filtered through the canopy.
In Sparraben’s clearing, the occasional stream of light still shot through the top level of leaves, but for the most part, everything was somewhat dark and tinted green.
The cabin itself was nothing special. It was a simple structure made of wood with a few chairs in front and a chimney in the back. The door, as I approached it, looked sturdy and intimidating and very, very solid. The same panic that had visited me before entering the woods washed over me again. This time, however, I was surrounded by the energy I knew well, though I had never met it, and that was what pushed me forward, though I was still terrified.
Taking a few deep breaths, I knocked on the door, sure that the occupant would hear the pounding of my heart better than the knock of my fist on the wood. There was a few second’s pause, then a voice sounded from inside.
“WHAT?” It demanded in a gruff, angry tone. There was the sound of feet pounding against a dirt floor, then an angry-looking man about a head and a half taller than I was opened the door. “What do you want?” He spat, in a tone that implied that he wouldn’t comply with whatever I asked of him.
“I’m… I’m…” I stuttered, terrified by the anger in his eyes and in his tone. “I... uh… I’m looking for- for Sparraben of Li-Lianland in the name of Shyasha Rinkari, the scarred princess of the Three Cities of Illindara.”
“What about Sparraben?” the man demanded.
“I – my grandpa sent me,” I stammered. “He- he said Sparraben could help – help me with my – what I have to do.” The anger his glance showed that he was about to boil over. I wondered if I had interrupted something important that he’d been doing. Like sleeping. Or something. I was fairly certain that this was the same Sparraben that Grampa had talked about – he had the same scar under his right eye, which was brown, while the other one was cobalt blue.
“Who’s your grandpa, then?” Sparraben demanded.
“His name was Faug Hyatha,” I told him anxiously, “and he lived in Anana before he went on the Crystal Quest.” Something in Sparraben’s gaze flickered for a moment, but his stance was still aggressive and the flicker of emotion was gone in an instant.
“Look, I came out here to get away from all that, not to have MORE adventures,” he grunted, “so clear off.” He turned around and began to shut the door.
Although I knew it was terribly rude, I stuck my foot into the gap between the frame and the door before it shut. The reaction caused an immense, painful reaction in all of the toes on my left foot.
“Please, I need your help,” I begged, clutching my foot. “Please. I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t absolutely necessary. Would you please listen?”
Sparraben turned around and regarded me for a moment, and I saw again the flicker of emotion in his eyes. I now was able to recognize it as something that resembled either pity or hope. Although he seemed to be a shrewd man, the look in Sparraben’s glanced made it seem that he believed the tears welling up in my eyes were due to desperation rather than an instinctive reaction to the growing pain in my foot.
“All right then, girl,” Sparraben finally conceded. “What do you have to say?”
“Well… first, I wanted to say that Grampa told me stories about you and Shyasha Rinkari, and I think you’re amazing,” I started. I’d learned from attempts to force Jack to do stuff that starting out with flattery always worked best.
“Girl, I’m not going to waste time listening to you rant about how much you love me,” Sparraben snapped. “It only works to make weaklings listen.”
I guess that option didn’t work. I silently cursed Jack for being one of three people I actually talked to. “All right,” I said slowly, “I know you’re the best. Grampa always said it. He also said on his deathbed that I had to find you and get you to help me bring Shyasha Rinkari back from the dead and to convince King Telsiel that a war is about to happen because the Dark Lord, Sonru, is bringing down the forest to raise up an army, and you’re the only one who can help because you’re the best Ranger out there.”
“He told you all of this on his deathbed?”
“This is true,” the Oak said.
“Can you tell me where he lives?” I asked.
“It is a short walk straight ahead for you,” the Ash told me, “His cabin is in a clearing that is impossible to miss.”
“All right,” I said.
I started into the forest, although my legs were finally starting to feel tired and my feet were beginning to hurt. I had barely slept in a day and a half, I realized. My eyes itched with tiredness and from squinting in the noonday sun.
“One last thing,” the Poplar rumbled. “The trees are all connected. We will hear of what occurs with you, no matter who you speak to, be it a two-leg, a four-leg, or a tree. We will know of it. Should you need us, speak to the trees, and we will hear you.”
“May the breeze be always at your back,” the Ash added.
“And may the spirits stay with you, Nikita Hyatha,” the Oak finished. “Go in peace, Listener of the Forest.”
“Thank you for everything,” I said. The title of ‘Listener of the Forest’ sounded rather intimidating.
With that, I stepped across the border between the wheat fields and the deep power of the Silvercourt Forest. Instantly, my weariness vanished. The energy of the wood was staggering; it flowed through everything in almost visible waves. It was not exactly magic, but it was a powerful, living force. It was all at once the energy of a thousand living things and the energy of the air itself, of newborn beings and the oldest trees in the forest, all intertwined and bound together like some massive net that allowed enormous freedom. The energy itself was something beautiful almost, but something that was also very intimidating and would demand respect.
The forest itself, beyond the sturdy outer perimeter, was actually quite open-looking and young. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the trees, and I finally felt that I was on an adventure.
My energy renewed, I continued on straight ahead, like the trees had suggested. There was a path of sorts that led in roughly a straight line in the direction I wanted to go, but the trail was somewhat overgrown and was covered in easily snapped twigs. I felt like it was unwise to be making such a ruckus in a new environment, but nothing stirred.
I reached Sparraben’s cabin about fifteen minutes after entering the wood. Although the energy of the forest still kept the trees looking sturdy but young, I couldn’t help noticing that they were growing closer together, limiting the amount of light that filtered through the canopy.
In Sparraben’s clearing, the occasional stream of light still shot through the top level of leaves, but for the most part, everything was somewhat dark and tinted green.
The cabin itself was nothing special. It was a simple structure made of wood with a few chairs in front and a chimney in the back. The door, as I approached it, looked sturdy and intimidating and very, very solid. The same panic that had visited me before entering the woods washed over me again. This time, however, I was surrounded by the energy I knew well, though I had never met it, and that was what pushed me forward, though I was still terrified.
Taking a few deep breaths, I knocked on the door, sure that the occupant would hear the pounding of my heart better than the knock of my fist on the wood. There was a few second’s pause, then a voice sounded from inside.
“WHAT?” It demanded in a gruff, angry tone. There was the sound of feet pounding against a dirt floor, then an angry-looking man about a head and a half taller than I was opened the door. “What do you want?” He spat, in a tone that implied that he wouldn’t comply with whatever I asked of him.
“I’m… I’m…” I stuttered, terrified by the anger in his eyes and in his tone. “I... uh… I’m looking for- for Sparraben of Li-Lianland in the name of Shyasha Rinkari, the scarred princess of the Three Cities of Illindara.”
“What about Sparraben?” the man demanded.
“I – my grandpa sent me,” I stammered. “He- he said Sparraben could help – help me with my – what I have to do.” The anger his glance showed that he was about to boil over. I wondered if I had interrupted something important that he’d been doing. Like sleeping. Or something. I was fairly certain that this was the same Sparraben that Grampa had talked about – he had the same scar under his right eye, which was brown, while the other one was cobalt blue.
“Who’s your grandpa, then?” Sparraben demanded.
“His name was Faug Hyatha,” I told him anxiously, “and he lived in Anana before he went on the Crystal Quest.” Something in Sparraben’s gaze flickered for a moment, but his stance was still aggressive and the flicker of emotion was gone in an instant.
“Look, I came out here to get away from all that, not to have MORE adventures,” he grunted, “so clear off.” He turned around and began to shut the door.
Although I knew it was terribly rude, I stuck my foot into the gap between the frame and the door before it shut. The reaction caused an immense, painful reaction in all of the toes on my left foot.
“Please, I need your help,” I begged, clutching my foot. “Please. I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t absolutely necessary. Would you please listen?”
Sparraben turned around and regarded me for a moment, and I saw again the flicker of emotion in his eyes. I now was able to recognize it as something that resembled either pity or hope. Although he seemed to be a shrewd man, the look in Sparraben’s glanced made it seem that he believed the tears welling up in my eyes were due to desperation rather than an instinctive reaction to the growing pain in my foot.
“All right then, girl,” Sparraben finally conceded. “What do you have to say?”
“Well… first, I wanted to say that Grampa told me stories about you and Shyasha Rinkari, and I think you’re amazing,” I started. I’d learned from attempts to force Jack to do stuff that starting out with flattery always worked best.
“Girl, I’m not going to waste time listening to you rant about how much you love me,” Sparraben snapped. “It only works to make weaklings listen.”
I guess that option didn’t work. I silently cursed Jack for being one of three people I actually talked to. “All right,” I said slowly, “I know you’re the best. Grampa always said it. He also said on his deathbed that I had to find you and get you to help me bring Shyasha Rinkari back from the dead and to convince King Telsiel that a war is about to happen because the Dark Lord, Sonru, is bringing down the forest to raise up an army, and you’re the only one who can help because you’re the best Ranger out there.”
“He told you all of this on his deathbed?”
Monday, October 4, 2010
Cassidy+Damian
Well, I don't have a bit of the Nikita story for you today. This is due to the fact that I don't have to turn in the usual stuff this week (long story), and I don't want to get super confuzzled about when the updates go up/ when stuff gets counted and stuff. So that's the reasoning for that. More to come next week!
HOWEVER, a lot of my friends have been asking me whether I've worked on a story that I was working on over the summer and showed a lot of them. And I know I told you (if you're reading this) that I wasn't going to post it until November, but since a lot of you have asked about it, and I've e-mailed it out to a couple of people once I typed some up, but not everyone has seen the typed version (stuff sometimes happens in the translation from paper to computer). So here is the Cassidy and Damian story that a lot of people that I met over the summer have read.
Memo to creative writing teacher: This isn't for my 100 points!
So here it is. :D
It was very hard to like Prince Damian of Erianland when I was entirely predisposed not to. The thing is, at age five, I already knew I would have to marry him. My father, the king of Choracert, which was right next to Erianland, had told me so. I wasn’t happy about it.
At age five, we girls sometimes do hope to marry. But I was worried that I would have to right away, and when I was assured that I wouldn’t have to for many years, I was determined to find something else wrong with the matter. I always enjoyed my freedom, and I didn’t like the fact that my father was insisting that he and I go to a faraway land (my mother being deceased in childbirth, the gods rest her soul) to meet my fair prince every single summer. When I was finally talked into going, I was still inclined to hate the place.
Damian was an only child of a single mother. When we finally rode into the palace on June 1st (I was still cursing the place in my head, but remembering the little etiquette I knew and not saying any of it aloud), I thought it was a rather dismal place, although the sun was shining and the place was lively. My eyes found each crack in the stone walls, saw all the ivy crawling untamed in the inner courtyard, and noticed every fault of each face turned my way.
Damian himself was far from my mental picture of my ideal ‘fair prince’. He was a arrogant sort of figure, with dark hair the color of the deepest layer of dirt (the kind the worms liked), brown eyes in a shade that reminded me of a pile of sick I’d seen one time (the person’s sick was brown, for some reason), freckles under his eyes and across his nose (which turned up slightly at the end), and an expression that was full of a resentment that matched my own. I could tell that our only common quality for many years would be our mutual dislike.
The next thing I knew, I’d been lifted off my pony and forced to curtsy, first to Queen Lilia and then to Prince Damian. I hated the part I knew was coming: when his disgusting, sweaty hand took mine and his scratchy lips pressed for a moment against my knuckles.
That action sealed the contract: we were bound to hate each other every year from the beginning of June until the end of August, revenge consisting of pranks and attempted avoidance and all-around hatred. The first crime was that kiss. I was able to stomp on Damian’s foot as we entered the castle. The next day, Damian tripped down the main staircase. After that, I slipped on a wet floor, but caught myself easily.
When I was six, Damian’s tree house was covered in pink and yellow smiley faces and peace signs (it had been a dark forest green before), and my possessions were scattered around my room later that day. When I was seven, Damian’s horse went rampant and it took hours to get him under control. Damian couldn’t think of any sort of revenge for that.
On and on it went, each trying to outdo the other. Private wrestling matches were held. I won a fair few. Races on horseback (with me in trousers and riding astride) were won by me also. Archery, sports, pranks, tricks, bruises, cuts, pain, humiliation, defeat, revenge, and victory all could be used to describe my summers (on my side, that is). Although I was a princess, I refused to act like one. Fights were won by using resources and facing your enemies straight on, not cowering in the corner like a sissy. I wore men’s clothes constantly to remind Damian that although I was a girl, I was not to be treated as a fragile creature (and also to remind my ladies-in-waiting of that).
I must make clear that the private war that was executed between Damian and me was strictly for crimes that the other had committed; it had nothing to do with either of our parents. In fact, I was sure for a long time that neither my father nor Queen Lilia knew of the secret conflict between their children. In fact, I’m glad that Queen Lilia didn’t know of the rivalry, nor did she seem to take it personally if she did: when I was thirteen, I began my monthly bleeding, and if it hadn’t been for her, I would have been humiliated beyond belief for my panic at finding blood on my underpants. The secret war continued for many long years. When we were ten, Damian pulled his cousin Martin into the deal. Martin was a boy from the town who wasn’t exactly smart, but at least caused the numbers to shift greatly in Damian’s favor. I was still able to take on two boys in a battle of wits and strength, and came out the stronger of it. My favorite remark to Damian and Martin was, “Take THAT!” I also said it to them as often as possible, though Martin seemed to always take particular offense to it whenever I did. He seemed to think I was cheating somehow, when, I think, he just couldn’t accept that I was smarter than him and Damian both, and that he, Martin, was just the one who did the dirty work. I was glad when he finally left our midst to run a fief down south.
When I was seventeen, it all changed.
The war had become less physical and more of a battle of wits. I hadn’t dared not to wear pants constantly, just in case. I did care about clothes, but I cared in the sense of “oh, my shirt is ripped. I’m going to fix it tonight,” instead of just letting it be. I did not like wearing what most girls called “flattering clothes” – corsets, bodices, high shoes. I called them ‘elements of torture.’
Although I’d started puberty at the age of thirteen, Damian didn’t start growing until fourteen. If I’d met him for the first time at age fifteen, I might have thought him mildly attractive; but, having grown up with him trying to humiliate me every summer, I still saw him as a brat who had often tripped me on the stairs. At sixteen, the war was waning, but I still rode astride a horse and wore pants more than skirts (though I did grow my copper-colored hair to my waist and braided it every day, something I considered practical but girly). Although Damian was learning some manners, I still believed it to be a false pretense when he was speaking in this polite manner to me.
At age seventeen, I was forced to ride in a carriage in a dress, corset, AND high shoes all the way to Erianland. It was tedious, but I spent the time going over my new pranks in my head and relishing the thought of the look on Damian’s face when he found out that his rival could seduce him… and then hurt him. I greatly enjoyed that idea, and strongly considered using it, until I remembered that I never really understood how one seduces people. It probably had something to do with my ungainly height – I had stopped growing when I was fifteen, and that left me at five foot eight (which was three inches taller than the next girl, who seemed to be on the arm of a different boy each week).
Damian and I had been forced, ever since the age of fourteen, to share a few minutes of civil conversation with nobody else around before the Secret War recommenced. It was a difficult time for both of us, because we didn’t want to sound weak or awkward, but we also didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression (rather, the correct impression, but also the impression that nobody would approve of), should they come in and find us giving each other mutinous looks and shooting insults.
This summer began no differently. I was shoved unceremoniously through one door by my father. I was usually able to catch myself fairly easily, to make it look like I had simply forgotten that there was a slight bump in the threshold as a doorstop. Today, however, I was in a floor length dress that my father had, on no uncertain terms, threatened to murder me if I messed it up. I was also wearing shoes that were three inches taller than I was used to. The shoes, too, had to be returned at the end of the summer in pristine condition over pain of death and eternal mutilation. Between the dress and the shoes, pretending to forget the doorstop that day was not as easy as it normally was. I stumbled upon entrance, as usual, and stepped forward to catch my balance. My foot caught in the skirt of the dress (which was very large, by the way), and I stumbled almost to the floor, my back somehow turning downward. I would have hit the floor had it not been that I had also nearly run into someone during my unsuccessful entrance, and it was that someone who caught me at about their waist level.
This all happened in a matter of moments, and it took a few more seconds to remember why I was being held several feet above the ground and how it was that I had gotten there. When everything was put back into place in my head, I looked up at the person who’d caught me, intending to arise from their grasp in as graceful a manner as I could manage, thank them civilly, and continue on my merry way. Well, that ended up not working.
First of all, I was unable to rise from the person’s grasp because they’d already set me on my feet. I couldn’t thank them civilly because this person turned out to be Damian, and it was against our unspoken creed for either of us to thank the other for anything in a civil manner unless in the company of our elders. I was also incapable of continuing on my merry way – my merry way had just turned rather dour at the sight of Damian and my way wasn’t taking me anywhere, since I had reached my destination. Things being as they were, I inclined my head and curtsied formally.
“Nice entrance,” Damian said, smirking.
“You didn’t have to catch me,” I retorted, glaring.
“And let a lady fall?” he said amicably. He couldn’t be serious! He’d have been delighted to let me fall. “Of course I had to.”
“And what about the summers of the past?” I snapped. “Are you saying that it’s time I forgot you were rude and humiliated me at every opportunity?”
“No,” Damian said. “Although it would be nice if you did.”
“I’m not saying what either of us did was right, but this is out of character for you,” I told him. “One would expect that you just laugh as I tripped ungainly through the door.”
“What, you didn’t honestly think I was going to stay a puny little monster forever, did you?” Damian replied, laughing slightly.
“No. I thought you’d grow into a tall, annoying monster at some point.” Damian was now almost four inches taller than me now (with the shoes), and I wasn’t happy about it.
“Of course, I’d never expect you to wear a dress around here after the age of five, and here you are, looking like a right and proper lady.”
“Was that a compliment?” I demanded.
“You’ve heard of the concept of flattery, then?” Damian answered, smirking again.
“I have indeed,” I said. “But I never thought I’d hear it from you.”
“So are you surprised I’ve changed?”
“Naturally. I’m also beginning to wonder why you’ve suddenly decided to play nice.”
“I wasn’t intending to,” Damian said, “But then you entered, and chivalry intervened.”
“Because I’m wearing a dress.”
“And you tripped over it.”
“And you suddenly decided that it was high time you played Prince Charming?”
“Well, it seemed appropriate, as you seemed to be a distressing damsel.”
“I’m a self-rescuing princess, Damian,” I snapped.
“Whatever you say,” he muttered.
The situation was saved by the servant coming to tell us that each parent wanted to see the other’s child. At this point, we would normally look at each other, smile a bit, and walk to the door as dignified as we could manage without actually touching each other (aside from some toes being trod on and some shoulders being bumped to off-balance each other). This year, Damian bowed and offered me his arm. I gave him a look as I took it. Although he had begun to act more princely, Damian would always seem to me to be the irksome boy who tripped me whenever someone had just finished mopping the floors.
So began the summer of differentness. For one thing, there were a lot fewer pranks. For another, Damian actually was being nice to me. Martin had gone off to be the leader of a fief down south, so we didn’t see him very often. Instead, Damian began to help me with riding and archery instead of hinder me – teaching me how to ride bareback and how to shoot a double arrow from a longbow, things like that. Soon my suspicion decreased as we became friends for the first time.
Of course, there were the times when I did prank him for time’s sake, like the times when we went fishing and I pushed him into the water. Of course, the next time we went fishing, it would be me who got pushed into the water, but then I would ask him to ‘help a lady out of the water’ and then pull him in after me.
“You know, you are incredibly clumsy for a princess,” Damian said on a fishing day (it was my turn to fall into the water).
“Why, thanks,” I replied. “I try.”
As we went onto the banks to get our dry clothes (we were in such a habit of knocking each other into the water that a spare change of clothes was always on the packing list), Damian asked, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
“Shove you in the lake,” I said without hesitation.
Damian kept asking questions like that over the next few weeks, and I threatened him with being shot with multiple arrows, making my horse kick him off his horse, wearing my three-inch shoes and kicking him in the face with them, or tripping him on the stairs… again.
Eventually, though, I began to wonder why I was threatening him with pain if he kissed me. I began to pay a little more attention to him. He was really nice, after all, and nobody had ever really been willing to teach me how to shoot. I started noticing the little things – how he always inclined his head slightly whenever he was listening to me, as if he was actually thinking about what I was saying. He also kept good eye contact and, I noticed, his eyes were actually a rather pretty shade of chocolate-y brown. I started to wonder what it would be like to be kissed. I’d never really thought about it before.
One day, Damian was working with me again on archery. I was an impeccable shot now; I don’t know why I still practiced and why I still asked for his advice.
Damian stood a ways back as I strung two arrows.
“Now, hold that,” Damian said, circling around my back. I obeyed. I sensed his presence very close to mine. “Use your back muscles, Cassidy. Shoulder blades and the lower back.” The areas tensed automatically. “Good,” he murmured. “And bring this hand a little farther back…” he guided my right hand, which was holding the arrows, back a little farther past my jaw. “Perfect,” he said. “And release…”
I released the arrows. They hit the exact middle of the target. I lowered my bow, my shoulders and right-hand fingers aching from holding the longbow (which was almost as tall as me) during Damian’s drawn-out critique.
“Very good, Cassidy,” Damian murmured in my ear. I could feel the warmth coming off his body, but I didn’t turn. My free right hand was suddenly filled by Damian’s fingers. I instinctively moved away, intending to put my bow in the upright stand by the shooting line, but just as I reached it, my arm reached its full length, and Damian hadn’t let go of my hand. I put the bow in the stand and turned to look at Damian.
“What?” I asked. My voice was suddenly quiet.
“You’re beautiful when you shoot,” he whispered, his eyes locking on mine.
“Thank you,” I murmured, moving towards him again, my eyes not leaving his.
“What would you do,” Damian asked quietly, “If I kissed you right now?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Why don’t you try and find out?” I replied.
“No pain?”
“That’s debatable.”
Damian was still holding my hand. I could still vaguely feel the tension of the bowstring on the inner joints of my fingers, but that was in the way back of my brain.
I’d never been this close to anybody before.
His eyes were still on mine. His right hand was on my waist; my left was on his shoulder.
The fading sunset flickered off the side of his face.
He leaned down. My left hand was on the back of his neck. Damian’s hand had let go of mine. His entire arm was around my waist. My right hand was on his arm.
I could feel his breath on my face.
My brain closed down and went fuzzy.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. Would that kiss mean we’d HAVE to marry, just like it had meant we’d HAVE to hate each other when we were five?
Was it SUPPOSED to feel like that when you kissed someone?
There was no denying that I was now hopelessly in love with Damian. Just saying his name made some little firework go off in my head.
But I’d seen some of the girls in Choracert, who swooned every time they were looked at by a boy who was mildly attractive. Would I have to join their ranks, now that I knew exactly how they felt?
I tossed and turned for hours, sleep constantly evading me. It came into my grasp once, and dreamed I was at a princess detention center, being punished for the crime of falling in love. Everyone’s spirit was broken, even mine.
I woke up with a start. It was almost dawn. I decided I’d go for a walk, since I couldn’t rest. I changed into my day clothes – male ones – and slipped my little two-blade knife into my pocket. I tugged on my dad’s old plaid button-down shirt, but didn’t bother doing the buttons over my sleeveless undershirt – I was most likely the only one awake to see the indecency. I decided not to put on my shoes. Just as I walked out my bedroom door and turned to go downstairs, I felt a hand slip around my waist and another over my mouth. Another pair of rough, calloused hands tied something over my eyes in a strong knot. I began to fight the hands that held me, but as hard as I tried to stomp on the person’s feet, kick them in a sensitive area, or wriggle out of their grasp, they would not let go.
After several seconds of me writhing, kicking, and attempting to pry away their rough, strong hands, the second person knocked me over the head with something hard, and I guess I fell unconscious, because I don’t remember anything that happened for a while.
When I regained consciousness, my body awareness had completely changed. I was far closer to the ground – my head was about three feet above the soil now – and my butt seemed to extend back behind my head. As I rose to my feet, it felt like I was on my hands and knees, but my back end was unnaturally far away from my front. Looking behind me, I saw that I had a tail. My mouth seemed to have more teeth, and my head seemed smaller and my neck seemed longer. I also felt like I was covered with fur.
Once I’d got my bearings, I began looking around. I was on a beach of a fairly large lake. Across the water was an enormous castle with about a million turrets and watch towers silhouetted against the darkening sky. On my side of the lake, there were several paths that led into a wooded area that had clearings every few feet.
Since I was completely confused about my appearance, I walked over to the water, or at least I started to. The way my muscles were moving was weird, and that is why I halted – it was as if I were using all of my guts to walk, instead of just my hips. I was also walking on four legs instead of two, and claws that extended from my legs dug into the ground as I walked.
Shaking myself, I began to move forward again. I was about to look into the water when I heard a small, timid voice behind me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” it said. I turned. Behind me, a mouse cowered atop a very large Labrador of some sort.
“Um… what?” I was amazed to find that my vocal cords were still functioning normally, or at least how I was used to them functioning.
“Don’t look into the water,” said the dog in a deep masculine voice that didn’t sound old, but it was definitely past puberty. “You’ll summon Morlessor if you do.”
“Who’s Morlessor?” I wondered.
“He’s the wizard,” the mouse squeaked in a high, female voice. “He’s the reason I’m a mouse and Jake’s a dog and you’re a big, scary, spotted cat.”
“I’m a what?”
“I’m not sure, honestly,” Jake said. “I’ve seen drawings and pictures of big cats, but none of what you are. The closest thing I could say is a leopard, but leopards don’t have shadow lines and they have splotches, not spots, and they don’t have rings on their tails. They’re also a bit bigger, I think, and they don’t have electric blue eyes.”
“Why am I a big, unidentified form of cat?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the mouse squeaked. “Morlessor has his reasons, which I don’t want to find out.”
“Maya’s a mouse because she’s always nervous,” Jake explained. “And I’m a Labrador because I’m apparently really loyal and such.”
“But why are we here?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Maya said. “Morlessor wanted me for my father’s land. He’s lord of a duchy, you see. At first he held a ransom, but then he decided that since I’m old enough to get married, he’d do that instead and inherit the land legally. But I’ve always said no because I really don’t want someone like that being a lord over anything.” She looked terrified that she had actually insulted someone.
“I tried to save her,” Jake added. “I was on my way to becoming a knight when she went missing. We were best friends growing up, and I was always really protective of her because she’s so shy that she used to get picked on. But Morlessor knew I was coming and now we’re both incapable of leaving the castle grounds after dark. It’s part of the curse.”
“What are the standards of the curse, exactly?”
“We’re animals during the daylight hours, but when the moon clears this horizon, we become human no matter where we are,” Jake explained. “We can go anywhere as animals, but if we’re off the grounds after moonrise, we’ll become human, but we won’t be able to speak, move, or see.”
“We change back at dawn, regardless of where we are,” Maya continued. “If we’ve stayed on the grounds through the night, we’ll retain a human part of our brains, like now. But if we’ve strayed and become frozen, we’ll be completely animal when we turn back. I’ll be completely mouse, Jake will only have the instincts of a dog, and your mind will be completely that of a big, ferocious-looking cat-type thing.”
“How does one break the curse, exactly?” I asked next.
“I have no idea,” they said as one.
“Yes, well, I do know the way to break this little spell,” said a voice behind me that sounded oddly familiar. “But I feel it necessary for the captives to see the true forms of their companions, don’t you?”
I looked east, where the moon was rising over a corner of the lake. Maya immediately leapt off of Jake’s back as bright light surrounded each of us. I could feel my back end coming forward, my front end going up, and my limbs changing size and proportion and shape as I turned back into a human. I was slightly dizzy when it was all over.
When I regained my senses, I realized that I was barefoot and my dad’s shirt was missing, leaving my shoulders practically bare. My knife was still in my pocket, however, and my belt was still on (for which I was EXTREMELY grateful).
I turned to face Morlessor, and when I did, I received a slight shock.
“MARTIN?!?”
“The name is Morlessor, darling,” he replied, an irritated note in his voice. Since when did Martin talk like he was better than he actually was, and since when did he ever have the nerve to call a girl darling? It was true that he’d lost a lot of weight, started practicing magic, and donned all-black attire; complete with cape and cool-looking hat, but Martin was still Martin – Damian’s dimwitted sidekick, klutz of the century, and irritation extraordinaire. The fact that he fancied himself to be a charmingly evil wizard was pathetic. I didn’t like him as a pudgy, irritating, good-for-nothing nuisance, but I don’t think putting him in a position of authority was going to do any good for anybody.
“Martin, what have you done to yourself?” I asked.
“Oh, you’ve noticed?” he said easily. “I was hoping you would.”
“Just because I’ve noticed doesn’t mean I like it,” I pointed out. “And the more important question is, why have you got Maya and Jake AND me here all at the same time?”
“Well, funny you should ask,” Martin replied. “The lovely Maya is with us because her father can’t pay her ransom, and she still refuses to marry me, which is our alternative to the payment. Our good friend Jacob is in attendance because of the crazy little thing called love that drives us all mad, and Maya has got him going bonkers. Since I couldn’t have him publicizing the fact that I’m not actually running a fief down here, I’ve had to curse him, too.
“You, however, are a different case. Unlike Maya, you are bait – something to lure another something here in order to be caught, not just to be exchanged for money or days or time like our friends here.”
“Damian,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“Why?”
“Because he has something that I want, darling,” Martin replied.
“The kingdom?”
“The kingdom,” he agreed. “And, as we are cousins and I am the oldest living relative on his father’s side, once precious Damian is out of the way, Erianland will be MINE!”
“You’re raving,” I announced.
“That’s a matter of opinion, darling,” he answered.
“No, Martin, it is a gosh-darn fact,” I snapped. “And stop calling me ‘darling.’ It’s getting on my nerves. You also haven’t told us how to get out of this curse yet, either.”
“I’m not telling,” Martin said tenaciously. I had a sudden flashback to Martin, Age Eleven, after a horse race: after seeing that I’d won by a long shot, he simply reined in his horse halfway to the finish line and said I’d cheated, simply because he was a bad rider and I was lighter than he was.
“Martin, if you don’t tell I swear I’ll…”
“The love of another will end your stay, and a monster you both must slay, although they may not stay for long, the bonds of love must still be strong,” he recited.
“So why haven’t Jake and Maya been freed yet?” I demanded.
“It’s supposed to be friend love, not romantic love,” he told me unenthusiastically. “And, regrettably, those two have the wrong kind.”
“Right,” I muttered.
“That’s not the only solution,” Martin said. “The alternative solution would be if Maya married me and her land would therefore be mine, or if you married me and your land would therefore be mine, and either Jake or our beloved Damian’s hearts would be broken and they would be desperate. Of course, your situation would be more ideal, because when you have a heartbroken prince; it’s a lot easier to take over a country.”
“Well, I’m not going to marry you,” I said stubbornly.
“Well, if you don’t, then you’re stuck here,” Martin snapped.
“Well, fine then,” I shot back. “I can get out without your worthless breath down my neck, thank you very much.”
“I’m sure you will, just as you cheated your way through every summer when we were young,” Martin sneered. “Which reminds me – your animal is a cheetah, because you are the biggest cheater I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“And you make the worst puns that I have ever had the misfortune to come across,” I retorted. “You’re nothing but an angry little man, aren’t you?” Come to think of it, he was rather short – I towered over him by almost a head and a half.
“An angry little man with power!” he cried.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Martin…” I slapped him hard across the face. “Now, get out of here.”
“Oh, it’s payback time,” he cackled under his breath.
I think this is the longest post I've done in quite a while... wow...
Anyway, PLEASE COMMENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!!!
HOWEVER, a lot of my friends have been asking me whether I've worked on a story that I was working on over the summer and showed a lot of them. And I know I told you (if you're reading this) that I wasn't going to post it until November, but since a lot of you have asked about it, and I've e-mailed it out to a couple of people once I typed some up, but not everyone has seen the typed version (stuff sometimes happens in the translation from paper to computer). So here is the Cassidy and Damian story that a lot of people that I met over the summer have read.
Memo to creative writing teacher: This isn't for my 100 points!
So here it is. :D
It was very hard to like Prince Damian of Erianland when I was entirely predisposed not to. The thing is, at age five, I already knew I would have to marry him. My father, the king of Choracert, which was right next to Erianland, had told me so. I wasn’t happy about it.
At age five, we girls sometimes do hope to marry. But I was worried that I would have to right away, and when I was assured that I wouldn’t have to for many years, I was determined to find something else wrong with the matter. I always enjoyed my freedom, and I didn’t like the fact that my father was insisting that he and I go to a faraway land (my mother being deceased in childbirth, the gods rest her soul) to meet my fair prince every single summer. When I was finally talked into going, I was still inclined to hate the place.
Damian was an only child of a single mother. When we finally rode into the palace on June 1st (I was still cursing the place in my head, but remembering the little etiquette I knew and not saying any of it aloud), I thought it was a rather dismal place, although the sun was shining and the place was lively. My eyes found each crack in the stone walls, saw all the ivy crawling untamed in the inner courtyard, and noticed every fault of each face turned my way.
Damian himself was far from my mental picture of my ideal ‘fair prince’. He was a arrogant sort of figure, with dark hair the color of the deepest layer of dirt (the kind the worms liked), brown eyes in a shade that reminded me of a pile of sick I’d seen one time (the person’s sick was brown, for some reason), freckles under his eyes and across his nose (which turned up slightly at the end), and an expression that was full of a resentment that matched my own. I could tell that our only common quality for many years would be our mutual dislike.
The next thing I knew, I’d been lifted off my pony and forced to curtsy, first to Queen Lilia and then to Prince Damian. I hated the part I knew was coming: when his disgusting, sweaty hand took mine and his scratchy lips pressed for a moment against my knuckles.
That action sealed the contract: we were bound to hate each other every year from the beginning of June until the end of August, revenge consisting of pranks and attempted avoidance and all-around hatred. The first crime was that kiss. I was able to stomp on Damian’s foot as we entered the castle. The next day, Damian tripped down the main staircase. After that, I slipped on a wet floor, but caught myself easily.
When I was six, Damian’s tree house was covered in pink and yellow smiley faces and peace signs (it had been a dark forest green before), and my possessions were scattered around my room later that day. When I was seven, Damian’s horse went rampant and it took hours to get him under control. Damian couldn’t think of any sort of revenge for that.
On and on it went, each trying to outdo the other. Private wrestling matches were held. I won a fair few. Races on horseback (with me in trousers and riding astride) were won by me also. Archery, sports, pranks, tricks, bruises, cuts, pain, humiliation, defeat, revenge, and victory all could be used to describe my summers (on my side, that is). Although I was a princess, I refused to act like one. Fights were won by using resources and facing your enemies straight on, not cowering in the corner like a sissy. I wore men’s clothes constantly to remind Damian that although I was a girl, I was not to be treated as a fragile creature (and also to remind my ladies-in-waiting of that).
I must make clear that the private war that was executed between Damian and me was strictly for crimes that the other had committed; it had nothing to do with either of our parents. In fact, I was sure for a long time that neither my father nor Queen Lilia knew of the secret conflict between their children. In fact, I’m glad that Queen Lilia didn’t know of the rivalry, nor did she seem to take it personally if she did: when I was thirteen, I began my monthly bleeding, and if it hadn’t been for her, I would have been humiliated beyond belief for my panic at finding blood on my underpants. The secret war continued for many long years. When we were ten, Damian pulled his cousin Martin into the deal. Martin was a boy from the town who wasn’t exactly smart, but at least caused the numbers to shift greatly in Damian’s favor. I was still able to take on two boys in a battle of wits and strength, and came out the stronger of it. My favorite remark to Damian and Martin was, “Take THAT!” I also said it to them as often as possible, though Martin seemed to always take particular offense to it whenever I did. He seemed to think I was cheating somehow, when, I think, he just couldn’t accept that I was smarter than him and Damian both, and that he, Martin, was just the one who did the dirty work. I was glad when he finally left our midst to run a fief down south.
When I was seventeen, it all changed.
The war had become less physical and more of a battle of wits. I hadn’t dared not to wear pants constantly, just in case. I did care about clothes, but I cared in the sense of “oh, my shirt is ripped. I’m going to fix it tonight,” instead of just letting it be. I did not like wearing what most girls called “flattering clothes” – corsets, bodices, high shoes. I called them ‘elements of torture.’
Although I’d started puberty at the age of thirteen, Damian didn’t start growing until fourteen. If I’d met him for the first time at age fifteen, I might have thought him mildly attractive; but, having grown up with him trying to humiliate me every summer, I still saw him as a brat who had often tripped me on the stairs. At sixteen, the war was waning, but I still rode astride a horse and wore pants more than skirts (though I did grow my copper-colored hair to my waist and braided it every day, something I considered practical but girly). Although Damian was learning some manners, I still believed it to be a false pretense when he was speaking in this polite manner to me.
At age seventeen, I was forced to ride in a carriage in a dress, corset, AND high shoes all the way to Erianland. It was tedious, but I spent the time going over my new pranks in my head and relishing the thought of the look on Damian’s face when he found out that his rival could seduce him… and then hurt him. I greatly enjoyed that idea, and strongly considered using it, until I remembered that I never really understood how one seduces people. It probably had something to do with my ungainly height – I had stopped growing when I was fifteen, and that left me at five foot eight (which was three inches taller than the next girl, who seemed to be on the arm of a different boy each week).
Damian and I had been forced, ever since the age of fourteen, to share a few minutes of civil conversation with nobody else around before the Secret War recommenced. It was a difficult time for both of us, because we didn’t want to sound weak or awkward, but we also didn’t want to give anyone the wrong impression (rather, the correct impression, but also the impression that nobody would approve of), should they come in and find us giving each other mutinous looks and shooting insults.
This summer began no differently. I was shoved unceremoniously through one door by my father. I was usually able to catch myself fairly easily, to make it look like I had simply forgotten that there was a slight bump in the threshold as a doorstop. Today, however, I was in a floor length dress that my father had, on no uncertain terms, threatened to murder me if I messed it up. I was also wearing shoes that were three inches taller than I was used to. The shoes, too, had to be returned at the end of the summer in pristine condition over pain of death and eternal mutilation. Between the dress and the shoes, pretending to forget the doorstop that day was not as easy as it normally was. I stumbled upon entrance, as usual, and stepped forward to catch my balance. My foot caught in the skirt of the dress (which was very large, by the way), and I stumbled almost to the floor, my back somehow turning downward. I would have hit the floor had it not been that I had also nearly run into someone during my unsuccessful entrance, and it was that someone who caught me at about their waist level.
This all happened in a matter of moments, and it took a few more seconds to remember why I was being held several feet above the ground and how it was that I had gotten there. When everything was put back into place in my head, I looked up at the person who’d caught me, intending to arise from their grasp in as graceful a manner as I could manage, thank them civilly, and continue on my merry way. Well, that ended up not working.
First of all, I was unable to rise from the person’s grasp because they’d already set me on my feet. I couldn’t thank them civilly because this person turned out to be Damian, and it was against our unspoken creed for either of us to thank the other for anything in a civil manner unless in the company of our elders. I was also incapable of continuing on my merry way – my merry way had just turned rather dour at the sight of Damian and my way wasn’t taking me anywhere, since I had reached my destination. Things being as they were, I inclined my head and curtsied formally.
“Nice entrance,” Damian said, smirking.
“You didn’t have to catch me,” I retorted, glaring.
“And let a lady fall?” he said amicably. He couldn’t be serious! He’d have been delighted to let me fall. “Of course I had to.”
“And what about the summers of the past?” I snapped. “Are you saying that it’s time I forgot you were rude and humiliated me at every opportunity?”
“No,” Damian said. “Although it would be nice if you did.”
“I’m not saying what either of us did was right, but this is out of character for you,” I told him. “One would expect that you just laugh as I tripped ungainly through the door.”
“What, you didn’t honestly think I was going to stay a puny little monster forever, did you?” Damian replied, laughing slightly.
“No. I thought you’d grow into a tall, annoying monster at some point.” Damian was now almost four inches taller than me now (with the shoes), and I wasn’t happy about it.
“Of course, I’d never expect you to wear a dress around here after the age of five, and here you are, looking like a right and proper lady.”
“Was that a compliment?” I demanded.
“You’ve heard of the concept of flattery, then?” Damian answered, smirking again.
“I have indeed,” I said. “But I never thought I’d hear it from you.”
“So are you surprised I’ve changed?”
“Naturally. I’m also beginning to wonder why you’ve suddenly decided to play nice.”
“I wasn’t intending to,” Damian said, “But then you entered, and chivalry intervened.”
“Because I’m wearing a dress.”
“And you tripped over it.”
“And you suddenly decided that it was high time you played Prince Charming?”
“Well, it seemed appropriate, as you seemed to be a distressing damsel.”
“I’m a self-rescuing princess, Damian,” I snapped.
“Whatever you say,” he muttered.
The situation was saved by the servant coming to tell us that each parent wanted to see the other’s child. At this point, we would normally look at each other, smile a bit, and walk to the door as dignified as we could manage without actually touching each other (aside from some toes being trod on and some shoulders being bumped to off-balance each other). This year, Damian bowed and offered me his arm. I gave him a look as I took it. Although he had begun to act more princely, Damian would always seem to me to be the irksome boy who tripped me whenever someone had just finished mopping the floors.
So began the summer of differentness. For one thing, there were a lot fewer pranks. For another, Damian actually was being nice to me. Martin had gone off to be the leader of a fief down south, so we didn’t see him very often. Instead, Damian began to help me with riding and archery instead of hinder me – teaching me how to ride bareback and how to shoot a double arrow from a longbow, things like that. Soon my suspicion decreased as we became friends for the first time.
Of course, there were the times when I did prank him for time’s sake, like the times when we went fishing and I pushed him into the water. Of course, the next time we went fishing, it would be me who got pushed into the water, but then I would ask him to ‘help a lady out of the water’ and then pull him in after me.
“You know, you are incredibly clumsy for a princess,” Damian said on a fishing day (it was my turn to fall into the water).
“Why, thanks,” I replied. “I try.”
As we went onto the banks to get our dry clothes (we were in such a habit of knocking each other into the water that a spare change of clothes was always on the packing list), Damian asked, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
“Shove you in the lake,” I said without hesitation.
Damian kept asking questions like that over the next few weeks, and I threatened him with being shot with multiple arrows, making my horse kick him off his horse, wearing my three-inch shoes and kicking him in the face with them, or tripping him on the stairs… again.
Eventually, though, I began to wonder why I was threatening him with pain if he kissed me. I began to pay a little more attention to him. He was really nice, after all, and nobody had ever really been willing to teach me how to shoot. I started noticing the little things – how he always inclined his head slightly whenever he was listening to me, as if he was actually thinking about what I was saying. He also kept good eye contact and, I noticed, his eyes were actually a rather pretty shade of chocolate-y brown. I started to wonder what it would be like to be kissed. I’d never really thought about it before.
One day, Damian was working with me again on archery. I was an impeccable shot now; I don’t know why I still practiced and why I still asked for his advice.
Damian stood a ways back as I strung two arrows.
“Now, hold that,” Damian said, circling around my back. I obeyed. I sensed his presence very close to mine. “Use your back muscles, Cassidy. Shoulder blades and the lower back.” The areas tensed automatically. “Good,” he murmured. “And bring this hand a little farther back…” he guided my right hand, which was holding the arrows, back a little farther past my jaw. “Perfect,” he said. “And release…”
I released the arrows. They hit the exact middle of the target. I lowered my bow, my shoulders and right-hand fingers aching from holding the longbow (which was almost as tall as me) during Damian’s drawn-out critique.
“Very good, Cassidy,” Damian murmured in my ear. I could feel the warmth coming off his body, but I didn’t turn. My free right hand was suddenly filled by Damian’s fingers. I instinctively moved away, intending to put my bow in the upright stand by the shooting line, but just as I reached it, my arm reached its full length, and Damian hadn’t let go of my hand. I put the bow in the stand and turned to look at Damian.
“What?” I asked. My voice was suddenly quiet.
“You’re beautiful when you shoot,” he whispered, his eyes locking on mine.
“Thank you,” I murmured, moving towards him again, my eyes not leaving his.
“What would you do,” Damian asked quietly, “If I kissed you right now?”
I hesitated for a moment. “Why don’t you try and find out?” I replied.
“No pain?”
“That’s debatable.”
Damian was still holding my hand. I could still vaguely feel the tension of the bowstring on the inner joints of my fingers, but that was in the way back of my brain.
I’d never been this close to anybody before.
His eyes were still on mine. His right hand was on my waist; my left was on his shoulder.
The fading sunset flickered off the side of his face.
He leaned down. My left hand was on the back of his neck. Damian’s hand had let go of mine. His entire arm was around my waist. My right hand was on his arm.
I could feel his breath on my face.
My brain closed down and went fuzzy.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. Would that kiss mean we’d HAVE to marry, just like it had meant we’d HAVE to hate each other when we were five?
Was it SUPPOSED to feel like that when you kissed someone?
There was no denying that I was now hopelessly in love with Damian. Just saying his name made some little firework go off in my head.
But I’d seen some of the girls in Choracert, who swooned every time they were looked at by a boy who was mildly attractive. Would I have to join their ranks, now that I knew exactly how they felt?
I tossed and turned for hours, sleep constantly evading me. It came into my grasp once, and dreamed I was at a princess detention center, being punished for the crime of falling in love. Everyone’s spirit was broken, even mine.
I woke up with a start. It was almost dawn. I decided I’d go for a walk, since I couldn’t rest. I changed into my day clothes – male ones – and slipped my little two-blade knife into my pocket. I tugged on my dad’s old plaid button-down shirt, but didn’t bother doing the buttons over my sleeveless undershirt – I was most likely the only one awake to see the indecency. I decided not to put on my shoes. Just as I walked out my bedroom door and turned to go downstairs, I felt a hand slip around my waist and another over my mouth. Another pair of rough, calloused hands tied something over my eyes in a strong knot. I began to fight the hands that held me, but as hard as I tried to stomp on the person’s feet, kick them in a sensitive area, or wriggle out of their grasp, they would not let go.
After several seconds of me writhing, kicking, and attempting to pry away their rough, strong hands, the second person knocked me over the head with something hard, and I guess I fell unconscious, because I don’t remember anything that happened for a while.
When I regained consciousness, my body awareness had completely changed. I was far closer to the ground – my head was about three feet above the soil now – and my butt seemed to extend back behind my head. As I rose to my feet, it felt like I was on my hands and knees, but my back end was unnaturally far away from my front. Looking behind me, I saw that I had a tail. My mouth seemed to have more teeth, and my head seemed smaller and my neck seemed longer. I also felt like I was covered with fur.
Once I’d got my bearings, I began looking around. I was on a beach of a fairly large lake. Across the water was an enormous castle with about a million turrets and watch towers silhouetted against the darkening sky. On my side of the lake, there were several paths that led into a wooded area that had clearings every few feet.
Since I was completely confused about my appearance, I walked over to the water, or at least I started to. The way my muscles were moving was weird, and that is why I halted – it was as if I were using all of my guts to walk, instead of just my hips. I was also walking on four legs instead of two, and claws that extended from my legs dug into the ground as I walked.
Shaking myself, I began to move forward again. I was about to look into the water when I heard a small, timid voice behind me.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” it said. I turned. Behind me, a mouse cowered atop a very large Labrador of some sort.
“Um… what?” I was amazed to find that my vocal cords were still functioning normally, or at least how I was used to them functioning.
“Don’t look into the water,” said the dog in a deep masculine voice that didn’t sound old, but it was definitely past puberty. “You’ll summon Morlessor if you do.”
“Who’s Morlessor?” I wondered.
“He’s the wizard,” the mouse squeaked in a high, female voice. “He’s the reason I’m a mouse and Jake’s a dog and you’re a big, scary, spotted cat.”
“I’m a what?”
“I’m not sure, honestly,” Jake said. “I’ve seen drawings and pictures of big cats, but none of what you are. The closest thing I could say is a leopard, but leopards don’t have shadow lines and they have splotches, not spots, and they don’t have rings on their tails. They’re also a bit bigger, I think, and they don’t have electric blue eyes.”
“Why am I a big, unidentified form of cat?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the mouse squeaked. “Morlessor has his reasons, which I don’t want to find out.”
“Maya’s a mouse because she’s always nervous,” Jake explained. “And I’m a Labrador because I’m apparently really loyal and such.”
“But why are we here?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Maya said. “Morlessor wanted me for my father’s land. He’s lord of a duchy, you see. At first he held a ransom, but then he decided that since I’m old enough to get married, he’d do that instead and inherit the land legally. But I’ve always said no because I really don’t want someone like that being a lord over anything.” She looked terrified that she had actually insulted someone.
“I tried to save her,” Jake added. “I was on my way to becoming a knight when she went missing. We were best friends growing up, and I was always really protective of her because she’s so shy that she used to get picked on. But Morlessor knew I was coming and now we’re both incapable of leaving the castle grounds after dark. It’s part of the curse.”
“What are the standards of the curse, exactly?”
“We’re animals during the daylight hours, but when the moon clears this horizon, we become human no matter where we are,” Jake explained. “We can go anywhere as animals, but if we’re off the grounds after moonrise, we’ll become human, but we won’t be able to speak, move, or see.”
“We change back at dawn, regardless of where we are,” Maya continued. “If we’ve stayed on the grounds through the night, we’ll retain a human part of our brains, like now. But if we’ve strayed and become frozen, we’ll be completely animal when we turn back. I’ll be completely mouse, Jake will only have the instincts of a dog, and your mind will be completely that of a big, ferocious-looking cat-type thing.”
“How does one break the curse, exactly?” I asked next.
“I have no idea,” they said as one.
“Yes, well, I do know the way to break this little spell,” said a voice behind me that sounded oddly familiar. “But I feel it necessary for the captives to see the true forms of their companions, don’t you?”
I looked east, where the moon was rising over a corner of the lake. Maya immediately leapt off of Jake’s back as bright light surrounded each of us. I could feel my back end coming forward, my front end going up, and my limbs changing size and proportion and shape as I turned back into a human. I was slightly dizzy when it was all over.
When I regained my senses, I realized that I was barefoot and my dad’s shirt was missing, leaving my shoulders practically bare. My knife was still in my pocket, however, and my belt was still on (for which I was EXTREMELY grateful).
I turned to face Morlessor, and when I did, I received a slight shock.
“MARTIN?!?”
“The name is Morlessor, darling,” he replied, an irritated note in his voice. Since when did Martin talk like he was better than he actually was, and since when did he ever have the nerve to call a girl darling? It was true that he’d lost a lot of weight, started practicing magic, and donned all-black attire; complete with cape and cool-looking hat, but Martin was still Martin – Damian’s dimwitted sidekick, klutz of the century, and irritation extraordinaire. The fact that he fancied himself to be a charmingly evil wizard was pathetic. I didn’t like him as a pudgy, irritating, good-for-nothing nuisance, but I don’t think putting him in a position of authority was going to do any good for anybody.
“Martin, what have you done to yourself?” I asked.
“Oh, you’ve noticed?” he said easily. “I was hoping you would.”
“Just because I’ve noticed doesn’t mean I like it,” I pointed out. “And the more important question is, why have you got Maya and Jake AND me here all at the same time?”
“Well, funny you should ask,” Martin replied. “The lovely Maya is with us because her father can’t pay her ransom, and she still refuses to marry me, which is our alternative to the payment. Our good friend Jacob is in attendance because of the crazy little thing called love that drives us all mad, and Maya has got him going bonkers. Since I couldn’t have him publicizing the fact that I’m not actually running a fief down here, I’ve had to curse him, too.
“You, however, are a different case. Unlike Maya, you are bait – something to lure another something here in order to be caught, not just to be exchanged for money or days or time like our friends here.”
“Damian,” I said.
“Precisely.”
“Why?”
“Because he has something that I want, darling,” Martin replied.
“The kingdom?”
“The kingdom,” he agreed. “And, as we are cousins and I am the oldest living relative on his father’s side, once precious Damian is out of the way, Erianland will be MINE!”
“You’re raving,” I announced.
“That’s a matter of opinion, darling,” he answered.
“No, Martin, it is a gosh-darn fact,” I snapped. “And stop calling me ‘darling.’ It’s getting on my nerves. You also haven’t told us how to get out of this curse yet, either.”
“I’m not telling,” Martin said tenaciously. I had a sudden flashback to Martin, Age Eleven, after a horse race: after seeing that I’d won by a long shot, he simply reined in his horse halfway to the finish line and said I’d cheated, simply because he was a bad rider and I was lighter than he was.
“Martin, if you don’t tell I swear I’ll…”
“The love of another will end your stay, and a monster you both must slay, although they may not stay for long, the bonds of love must still be strong,” he recited.
“So why haven’t Jake and Maya been freed yet?” I demanded.
“It’s supposed to be friend love, not romantic love,” he told me unenthusiastically. “And, regrettably, those two have the wrong kind.”
“Right,” I muttered.
“That’s not the only solution,” Martin said. “The alternative solution would be if Maya married me and her land would therefore be mine, or if you married me and your land would therefore be mine, and either Jake or our beloved Damian’s hearts would be broken and they would be desperate. Of course, your situation would be more ideal, because when you have a heartbroken prince; it’s a lot easier to take over a country.”
“Well, I’m not going to marry you,” I said stubbornly.
“Well, if you don’t, then you’re stuck here,” Martin snapped.
“Well, fine then,” I shot back. “I can get out without your worthless breath down my neck, thank you very much.”
“I’m sure you will, just as you cheated your way through every summer when we were young,” Martin sneered. “Which reminds me – your animal is a cheetah, because you are the biggest cheater I have ever had the misfortune to meet.”
“And you make the worst puns that I have ever had the misfortune to come across,” I retorted. “You’re nothing but an angry little man, aren’t you?” Come to think of it, he was rather short – I towered over him by almost a head and a half.
“An angry little man with power!” he cried.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. “Martin…” I slapped him hard across the face. “Now, get out of here.”
“Oh, it’s payback time,” he cackled under his breath.
I think this is the longest post I've done in quite a while... wow...
Anyway, PLEASE COMMENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE!!!!!!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Nikita Part Three: I CAN TALK TO TREES?
Chapter 2
I felt stupid that I hadn’t anticipated the potential dangers of the Silvercourt Forest. Something in my head – the part that had grown up knowing the way of life on a farm where the only danger was the heat and the birds – had not made the connection that a forest of trees was far different from a forest of wheat, barley, corn, and beans, and that a forest of trees would actually be capable of growing tall enough and spaced out enough to hide things aside from me. The coward bit of my head wanted to turn back NOW, go home NOW, and make some lame excuse to Mum about having gone into town with a few coins to try and get some new seeds or something. I had actually turned around and had begun working on the seed story some more, and had exited the shade of the trees, when I heard a whisper.
It wasn’t a very loud whisper by any means; in fact, I wouldn’t have noticed it if a small shiver of energy hadn’t sped through the ground beneath my feet. It wasn’t as if the earth were about to split in two beneath my feet; in fact, it felt like the same sort of shiver of energy I felt when new seeds germinated – a tense, expectant sort of “HI! HERE I AM!” type of energy.
The whisper, I knew intuitively, had come from the trees. It had said, softly but firmly, “Stop.”
I halted. Nothing like this had every happened before, especially not with any wheat, barley, corn, or bean plants.
“What?” I murmured, surprised at what had just happened.
“Stay,” the trees rustled. I think, to anyone else, it would have appeared that the trees were being affected by a wind that the fields did not experience. “We’ve never met anyone like you in a long time.”
“You can… talk?” I asked, turning around.
“We have always been able to speak,” an oak said. She sounded about my age. I don’t know how I knew she was an oak; I wasn’t even sure I was looking at the right tree, but I was pretty sure she was the one with the knot on her left side, my right, that kind of looked like a face. “But it has been a long time since we have met someone with the power to Listen.”
“How long has it been, exactly?” I wondered.
“We cannot say,” a nearby, deep-voiced poplar replied. “Time does not pass for us the same way that it does for you.”
“We can guarantee that it has been a very long time indeed since we have been able to converse with a two-leg,” the oak said.
“We had nearly given up hope,” an ash said in a fast, frontal accent. Now, I realized, the three trees with which I was communicating stood in a rough semi-circle in front of me. It was rather bizarre to thing that I had never actually seen a real tree and now I was talking to three of them.
“We have nearly met the fate of the Forgotten Glen,” the Oak murmured sadly.
“What happened at the Forgotten Glen?” I wondered.
“Nothing,” The poplar rumbled. “That is the sad thing.”
“None of the two-legs who could Listen went there for centuries,” the Oak murmured. “That’s why we began calling it the Forgotten Glen, you see, because eventually, no two-leg went there. It is in one of the oldest parts of the forest where the roots run deep, and where, as the rumors have it, the darkest creatures creep. But now the trees there are quiet, and they cannot speak to anyone, not even to murmur amongst themselves. They have gone into a sleep that it is close to impossible to wake up from. You cannot speak. You cannot move. You cannot grow. You just sit there, like some basic garden plant.”
“It is happening slowly, all over the forest,” the Ash admitted wearily. “Lately, however, patches of the forest have fallen silent even though a group of two-legs went by recently. The forest is not dying, just falling silent. That is the sadder thing to watch.”
“Who is doing this?” I wondered. It felt like my motives for finding Sparraben – I didn’t know why I felt so strongly about it, I was just sure that I had to act. “And why?”
“It is a dark wizard,” rumbled the Poplar, “Sonru.”
The name hit a bell in my head. “Sonru?” I repeated. “Wasn’t he killed at the end of the Crystal Wars?”
“The Crystal Wars are far from over,” murmured the Ash. “They’ve only just begun. That was the first battle. The next, I fear, may be coming soon.”
“Sonru was not killed at the end of the first encounter,” the Poplar explained, “just dissipated. He is gaining strength, bit by bit. He has already found a new body, and he is now drawing energy from the wood to fuel his new army. He must be stopped. The fate of the wood depends on it.”
This news was slightly shocking. I didn’t even know that trees could talk, and now they were telling me that something had to be done about some crazy wizard guy that I’d thought had died. Surely Grampa hadn’t expected this.
Or maybe he had!
“Grampa knew,” I said aloud, the little pieces finally coming together in my head. “He knew which is why he told me I had to go to meet – and then bring her – and that’s why I had to know! Because he knew I could talk to you! And… and…” Excitement was rushing through my body, suddenly invigorating me and restoring the energy I hadn’t known I’d lost.
“Do you think this child has lost it?” the Ash wondered to the other two. “She looks a bit young to be losing it, for a two-leg. But you never know.”
“No, I haven’t lost it,” I assured him giddily. “I’ve only just realized what’s been going on! What can you tell me about Sparraben of Lianland?”
“Sparraben of Lianland?” the Oak scoffed. “He resides near here. Although he cannot Listen as you can, he can understand what many humans cannot. But he’s long gone.”
“What do you mean, he’s long gone?” I demanded. “He hasn’t left?”
“No, he’s still here,” the Oak said. “But he’s not right in the head.”
“In fact, he hasn’t gone anywhere in about ten of your years,” The Poplar offered. “Only leaves his hut to go find food. Then sits inside yet again and broods. Hasn’t spoken to anybody in years, I believe. He was a rather nice chap a few years back, right until the end of the First Crystal War. Always went around with a respect for the forest. He used our shadows and whispered thanks whenever he killed something, things like that. Now he just sits in his cabin and shoots a bit of game, picks a few berries. Never bothers to go out and smell the sap, these days. Sad, really.”
“Well, where does he live? Maybe I can talk to him,” I suggested.
“I doubt it,” the Oak replied. “He won’t talk to anyone. We’ve tried.”
“Do you think that might have anything to do with the fact that he probably can’t understand what you’re saying?”
I felt stupid that I hadn’t anticipated the potential dangers of the Silvercourt Forest. Something in my head – the part that had grown up knowing the way of life on a farm where the only danger was the heat and the birds – had not made the connection that a forest of trees was far different from a forest of wheat, barley, corn, and beans, and that a forest of trees would actually be capable of growing tall enough and spaced out enough to hide things aside from me. The coward bit of my head wanted to turn back NOW, go home NOW, and make some lame excuse to Mum about having gone into town with a few coins to try and get some new seeds or something. I had actually turned around and had begun working on the seed story some more, and had exited the shade of the trees, when I heard a whisper.
It wasn’t a very loud whisper by any means; in fact, I wouldn’t have noticed it if a small shiver of energy hadn’t sped through the ground beneath my feet. It wasn’t as if the earth were about to split in two beneath my feet; in fact, it felt like the same sort of shiver of energy I felt when new seeds germinated – a tense, expectant sort of “HI! HERE I AM!” type of energy.
The whisper, I knew intuitively, had come from the trees. It had said, softly but firmly, “Stop.”
I halted. Nothing like this had every happened before, especially not with any wheat, barley, corn, or bean plants.
“What?” I murmured, surprised at what had just happened.
“Stay,” the trees rustled. I think, to anyone else, it would have appeared that the trees were being affected by a wind that the fields did not experience. “We’ve never met anyone like you in a long time.”
“You can… talk?” I asked, turning around.
“We have always been able to speak,” an oak said. She sounded about my age. I don’t know how I knew she was an oak; I wasn’t even sure I was looking at the right tree, but I was pretty sure she was the one with the knot on her left side, my right, that kind of looked like a face. “But it has been a long time since we have met someone with the power to Listen.”
“How long has it been, exactly?” I wondered.
“We cannot say,” a nearby, deep-voiced poplar replied. “Time does not pass for us the same way that it does for you.”
“We can guarantee that it has been a very long time indeed since we have been able to converse with a two-leg,” the oak said.
“We had nearly given up hope,” an ash said in a fast, frontal accent. Now, I realized, the three trees with which I was communicating stood in a rough semi-circle in front of me. It was rather bizarre to thing that I had never actually seen a real tree and now I was talking to three of them.
“We have nearly met the fate of the Forgotten Glen,” the Oak murmured sadly.
“What happened at the Forgotten Glen?” I wondered.
“Nothing,” The poplar rumbled. “That is the sad thing.”
“None of the two-legs who could Listen went there for centuries,” the Oak murmured. “That’s why we began calling it the Forgotten Glen, you see, because eventually, no two-leg went there. It is in one of the oldest parts of the forest where the roots run deep, and where, as the rumors have it, the darkest creatures creep. But now the trees there are quiet, and they cannot speak to anyone, not even to murmur amongst themselves. They have gone into a sleep that it is close to impossible to wake up from. You cannot speak. You cannot move. You cannot grow. You just sit there, like some basic garden plant.”
“It is happening slowly, all over the forest,” the Ash admitted wearily. “Lately, however, patches of the forest have fallen silent even though a group of two-legs went by recently. The forest is not dying, just falling silent. That is the sadder thing to watch.”
“Who is doing this?” I wondered. It felt like my motives for finding Sparraben – I didn’t know why I felt so strongly about it, I was just sure that I had to act. “And why?”
“It is a dark wizard,” rumbled the Poplar, “Sonru.”
The name hit a bell in my head. “Sonru?” I repeated. “Wasn’t he killed at the end of the Crystal Wars?”
“The Crystal Wars are far from over,” murmured the Ash. “They’ve only just begun. That was the first battle. The next, I fear, may be coming soon.”
“Sonru was not killed at the end of the first encounter,” the Poplar explained, “just dissipated. He is gaining strength, bit by bit. He has already found a new body, and he is now drawing energy from the wood to fuel his new army. He must be stopped. The fate of the wood depends on it.”
This news was slightly shocking. I didn’t even know that trees could talk, and now they were telling me that something had to be done about some crazy wizard guy that I’d thought had died. Surely Grampa hadn’t expected this.
Or maybe he had!
“Grampa knew,” I said aloud, the little pieces finally coming together in my head. “He knew which is why he told me I had to go to meet – and then bring her – and that’s why I had to know! Because he knew I could talk to you! And… and…” Excitement was rushing through my body, suddenly invigorating me and restoring the energy I hadn’t known I’d lost.
“Do you think this child has lost it?” the Ash wondered to the other two. “She looks a bit young to be losing it, for a two-leg. But you never know.”
“No, I haven’t lost it,” I assured him giddily. “I’ve only just realized what’s been going on! What can you tell me about Sparraben of Lianland?”
“Sparraben of Lianland?” the Oak scoffed. “He resides near here. Although he cannot Listen as you can, he can understand what many humans cannot. But he’s long gone.”
“What do you mean, he’s long gone?” I demanded. “He hasn’t left?”
“No, he’s still here,” the Oak said. “But he’s not right in the head.”
“In fact, he hasn’t gone anywhere in about ten of your years,” The Poplar offered. “Only leaves his hut to go find food. Then sits inside yet again and broods. Hasn’t spoken to anybody in years, I believe. He was a rather nice chap a few years back, right until the end of the First Crystal War. Always went around with a respect for the forest. He used our shadows and whispered thanks whenever he killed something, things like that. Now he just sits in his cabin and shoots a bit of game, picks a few berries. Never bothers to go out and smell the sap, these days. Sad, really.”
“Well, where does he live? Maybe I can talk to him,” I suggested.
“I doubt it,” the Oak replied. “He won’t talk to anyone. We’ve tried.”
“Do you think that might have anything to do with the fact that he probably can’t understand what you’re saying?”
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Another Story!!
My friend and I went to the Renn Fest today. It was a LOT of fun. Afterwards, we came home and had dinner, and then we sat down and finished writing this story, which we had started before dinner. It initially started as a sentence story, where I did a sentence and then she did a sentence, but then it sort of progressed to chunks of dialogue and the ensuing description of events. You'll see. But we sometimes tagged onto each other's quote with another sentence. Like, at one point, one guy's line is half her idea and half mine. So... yeah. Here it is! (it's supposed to be funny and we're probably not going to continue it after tonight, so don't be thinking you're going to see this again, because you probably won't.)
The Sentence Story
By KnitterWriterBlogger and KnitterWriterBlogger's BFF
On September 25, 2010
After the Renn Fest.
Hooray!
(KnitterWriterBlogger was first.)
Once upon a time there was a girl named Enya. She met someone by the name of Willow at the Renaissance Festival. Willow and Enya worked in adjacent shops; Willow had a weaponry shop and Enya had a clothing shop. Willow met Enya while on their lunch break at the Steak on a Stake booth. Willow greatly respected any girl who could eat Steak on a Stake, and he respected Enya more because she managed it in a corset and that she ordered a non-diet soda. She found it to be funny how when he tried to eat his steak, half fell on part of his shirt because he was trying to play it too cool around her. Willow was very nervous around Enya, for she was very pretty, but he had no way of knowing that Enya disliked pickup lines of any sort, regardless of whether or not they had a medieval connotation.
So, this is what he said to her upon meeting her: “Oh fair maiden, doth thou knoweth where one might find a more becoming shirt?”
“Yes,” Enya told him, “But if you buy one from me it’ll still cost you thirty bucks.”
“Why’s that?”
“As far as I know there’s no employee discount, and I’m not favoring anybody,” Enya replied, adding in her head, regardless of how attractive they think they are.
“Well, that’s a bit mean…can’t I change your mind at all?”
“Does this mean you don’t have enough cash?”
“Nah, I just thought I’d try my luck – especially as my luck was good enough to bring me to you today.”
“Well, if your luck is good enough, then you’ll have a replica of Sting to trade for a clean shirt, and if it’s not, then may I suggest that you go to Firefly Fantasy?”
“Lucky for me, I do – however, it costs more than thirty bucks for the metal version.”
“Well, then, Firefly Fantasy is down by the Globe Theater, but I’m not sure they stock men’s sizes, come to think of it.”
“You hurt me deeply.”
“Because I don’t want my merch having more barbecue sauce on it than necessary?”
“Oh, well; I can make it through the day like this.”
“Good luck with that,” Enya said, “But a word of advice: work on your pickup lines.”
“I was trying nothing of the sort,” he said, pretending to be hurt, “But you are rather dazzling, by the way.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” Enya told him, turning back into her shop, “But Sting will get you a new shirt, and five bucks will get you some portable laundry detergent.”
“Fine, come with me and I’ll get you the sword.”
Ten minutes later, Enya had a replica of Sting, Frodo’s sword, on her belt, along with its scabbard, and Willow had a clean shirt (Enya had taken mercy on him and given him one of the less hideous ones.)
“So, what’s your name anyway?” Willow asked, leaning over the barrier between their booths a few minutes later while there was a lull in business.
“Enya,” she told him shortly, “And do you have a name, Armor Boy?”
“I like that name, just call me that, and I’ll be happy.”
“Yeah,” Enya said sarcastically, “When Grandma calls tonight and asks if I’ve made any friends here, I’ll say, ‘Yes, Grandma, my New Best Friend Turned Booth Mate’s name is Armor Boy.’”
“I’m sure she’ll be very impressed. It’s not every day that you meet someone as careful as to handle this stuff safely.”
“And it’s not every day that you meet someone whose name sounds like a Superhero Identity.”
“Yeah, I’m just cool like that.”
Just then, Willow’s assistant, Bob, came up and jabbed him in the ribs, whispering, “dude, your lunch break ended ten minutes ago. Stop flirting and get back to work – some dude out here wants to see the double knives.”
“Fine, fine, but could you tell her that my name is Armor Boy and to leave it at that while I take care of him?”
Bob relayed the message, to which Enya replied, “Yeah, right. And who are you? Chain Mail Man?”
“You know, I like that name more than anything, Sweetheart.”
“What is it with men and metal-related, sarcastically-implied nicknames?” Enya wondered aloud.
“Don’t know. I just don’t favor my real name too highly.”
“Maybe you should take your own advice,” Enya suggested. “Stop flirting and get back to work.”
“Sure. But – a little FYI – keep working on Armor Boy. He’ll come clean if you wear him down enough.”
Enya was relieved when she had to turn her back on ‘Chain Mail Man’ and answer a teenage girl’s question about prices. The teenage girl was persistent in trying to find something cheap, yet beautiful too, so she was distracted for over half an hour – which made Willow lonely, as his booth calmed down.
Eventually, Willow wandered over to Enya’s booth, where the teenage girl was inspecting the bodices with a critical eye and refusing to pull one that was above twenty dollars.
“May I be of any assistance, my ladies?”
Enya looked over at him with a slight smirk. “You think you can handle bodices, Armor Boy?”
“Sure. My younger sister surprisingly thought that I was good at this clothes selection thing.”
The girl turned around with a dark blue bodice with yellow brocade in her hand. “Willow, that was years ago,” she snapped. “And I think this one’s good,” she added to Enya. “Fifteen bucks?”
Before Enya could reply, Willow glared at his sister as he said, “Sakura, why are you so mean? Anyway, you know I don’t like that name. So stop calling me that!”
Enya hid a giggle behind her hand. “Sakura, that’s fifteen dollars, and please don’t have a row, it’s bad for business,” she said.
Sakura sighed. “Fine.” She turned and headed for the cash register with Enya. As they made the transaction and Willow left for the Weaponry Department, Sakura murmured to Enya, “Where’d he get Armor Boy? That’s a lot more embarrassing than Willy Whee.”
Willow spun around. “I heard that!” he called over. “Just call me Will, okay? Or Armor Boy…?”
“How old is he?” Enya asked Sakura. “One would think that a guy in his early twenties would object to superhero names.”
“Well, I haven’t ever known him to have a name like that, so I guess that he just must like you a lot. Either that, or he’s just thankful to have a nickname that he won’t be teased too much about – well, at least by most people aside from myself, of course.”
“Well, he only got the nickname today,” Enya said. “Long story with bad pickup lines.” She handed Sakura her change.
“Thanks, and yeah, there’s a reason why he hasn’t had a girlfriend yet, even though he’s twenty-three. But he’s getting better…I think…Bye!” She dashed off before Enya could reply…
As the booths were closing up for the night, Willow offered Enya a ride home – “You look like you could use a lift,” were his exact words.
“Hmm, I’ll tell you my decision when we get to the car park. By the way, it’s a shame that you aren’t better at pick-up lines, ‘cause you aren’t exactly ugly…”
“What’s with your aversion to guys, anyway?” Willow asked, falling into step beside Enya as they wound their way out of the fairground. “Bad relationship?”
“Something like that. Oh, and have you really never had a girlfriend before?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Willow said shortly. “So what about the ride?”
“Why not? It beats the bus. Just no trying anything romance-y or you will regret making that trade earlier,” Enya replied.
“Do I really take you as that kind of a guy?” he asked as he stopped in front of a dark blue SUV. “This is it.”
“Most dudes don’t wear skirts, dude,” Enya reminded him. “23rd and 4th, by the way,” she added as they got into the car.
“Hey – I lost a bet to Bob, okay…?”
“Chain Mail Man? He didn’t seem smart enough to think in big enough quantities for a bet.”
“Well, he’s actually pretty smart – for the most part. Anyway, you live with your grandmother?”
“I don’t live with my grandma, but she calls every other weekend. What was the bet?”
“The outcome of the Redskins game.”
“That’s not until tomorrow,” Enya said matter-of-factly. “What bet did you lose today?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said, blushing.
“It’s about lunch today, isn’t it?”
“Was I wearing a kilt then? Yes.”
“And you bet whether or not I’d talk to a guy in a kilt?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“So why won’t you tell me the bet, if it won’t affect me?”
“Cause, it didn’t turn out well for me even though I didn’t take the dare…”
“Oh, so you were betting who Sakura would berate first, is that it?”
“No…”
“You were betting whether I’d ask for Sting or the Orc Sword?”
“Didn’t we just go over this? It wasn’t to do with you.”
“Oh, was it whether the person at the Steak on a Stick place would correct you for wearing the kilt?”
“Just stop before you hurt yourself.”
“I thought it had nothing to do with me.”
He just glared at her. “Fine, I’ll tell you, but you’re not allowed to tell anybody, not even your Grandma,” Willow said shortly, and Enya nodded in agreement. “Okay, well, I said to Bob yesterday, ‘I bet you’d be too chicken to mess with our old football team’, when we saw them practicing yesterday. He said, ‘If I do, will you wear a kilt tomorrow?’ Like an idiot, I agreed.”
“So he went out on the field and…?” Enya prompted.
“Not even. He went into the changing rooms while as they were finishing up practice and grabbed all of their clothes. Before any of the jocks could put two and two together, he had tossed me the pile and the jocks mistook me for the prankster. Thus, I did a lot of running and begging for my life yesterday…”
“And so you’re wearing a kilt because Bob decided he’d be a jerk?” Enya asked. “’s not the end of the world.”
“I know. But the taunting and bruises weren’t exactly fun. Why do you think I was insisting on a black long-sleeved shirt earlier?”
“As I recall, getting a brand-new shirt of mine seemed to be better than having sauce all down your front for the rest of the day, OR going to Firefly Fantasy to get a little kid’s shirt instead.”
“Neither of those were my motivations. I just wanted to try and get to know you better – but my plan failed because I was a wimp,” he confessed.
“Well, this is sort of getting to know you better, isn’t it?” Enya said, finally starting to take to Willow. “And it’s quicker to take Elm Street to 23rd, by the way.”
“Danke shun,” he replied in German while trying to impress her, “And, yeah, so why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” He put on his turn signal and motioned for her to take the lead.
“Pelin pedi edhellen,” she said.
“Eh…? Sorry, I don’t believe they taught that language in my schools. But it sounds cool. Is it Gaelic?”
“It’s Sindarin,” Enya replied. “Common language of Tolkien’s elves. Based on old Finnish or old Welsh, I believe. I’ve studied it since high school.”
“Would you be willing to teach me?”
“Not right now,” Enya said. “My house is on the left. I’ll bring my Sindarin book tomorrow, though.”
“Cool,” he replied to the book comment, but when he parked and saw the house, his calm expression changed to one of awe. “This is where you live?” he exclaimed. “You aren’t suddenly going to tell me that you’re a Cullen by any chance?”
“No,” Enya sighed. “Grandma insisted I move in here. It was her house for most of her life, and she moved in to my parent’s house the same year I finished college. I rent out three rooms for some spare money. Working the Renn Fest circuit isn’t exactly profitable when it’s only for eight weeks.”
“Is it my imagination, or do you not sound like you like it here?”
“The Renn Fest circuit is fine. The town is fine. It’s the hugeness of the house that bugs me.”
“Can’t you do anything to make it more enjoyable for yourself? After all, home is where the heart is supposed to be, isn’t it?” He added in his thoughts, ‘though, my heart is drifting from my home to you…’
“That’s why I rent the rooms. It adds a bit of life to the house as well as some extra income.”
The Sentence Story
By KnitterWriterBlogger and KnitterWriterBlogger's BFF
On September 25, 2010
After the Renn Fest.
Hooray!
(KnitterWriterBlogger was first.)
Once upon a time there was a girl named Enya. She met someone by the name of Willow at the Renaissance Festival. Willow and Enya worked in adjacent shops; Willow had a weaponry shop and Enya had a clothing shop. Willow met Enya while on their lunch break at the Steak on a Stake booth. Willow greatly respected any girl who could eat Steak on a Stake, and he respected Enya more because she managed it in a corset and that she ordered a non-diet soda. She found it to be funny how when he tried to eat his steak, half fell on part of his shirt because he was trying to play it too cool around her. Willow was very nervous around Enya, for she was very pretty, but he had no way of knowing that Enya disliked pickup lines of any sort, regardless of whether or not they had a medieval connotation.
So, this is what he said to her upon meeting her: “Oh fair maiden, doth thou knoweth where one might find a more becoming shirt?”
“Yes,” Enya told him, “But if you buy one from me it’ll still cost you thirty bucks.”
“Why’s that?”
“As far as I know there’s no employee discount, and I’m not favoring anybody,” Enya replied, adding in her head, regardless of how attractive they think they are.
“Well, that’s a bit mean…can’t I change your mind at all?”
“Does this mean you don’t have enough cash?”
“Nah, I just thought I’d try my luck – especially as my luck was good enough to bring me to you today.”
“Well, if your luck is good enough, then you’ll have a replica of Sting to trade for a clean shirt, and if it’s not, then may I suggest that you go to Firefly Fantasy?”
“Lucky for me, I do – however, it costs more than thirty bucks for the metal version.”
“Well, then, Firefly Fantasy is down by the Globe Theater, but I’m not sure they stock men’s sizes, come to think of it.”
“You hurt me deeply.”
“Because I don’t want my merch having more barbecue sauce on it than necessary?”
“Oh, well; I can make it through the day like this.”
“Good luck with that,” Enya said, “But a word of advice: work on your pickup lines.”
“I was trying nothing of the sort,” he said, pretending to be hurt, “But you are rather dazzling, by the way.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” Enya told him, turning back into her shop, “But Sting will get you a new shirt, and five bucks will get you some portable laundry detergent.”
“Fine, come with me and I’ll get you the sword.”
Ten minutes later, Enya had a replica of Sting, Frodo’s sword, on her belt, along with its scabbard, and Willow had a clean shirt (Enya had taken mercy on him and given him one of the less hideous ones.)
“So, what’s your name anyway?” Willow asked, leaning over the barrier between their booths a few minutes later while there was a lull in business.
“Enya,” she told him shortly, “And do you have a name, Armor Boy?”
“I like that name, just call me that, and I’ll be happy.”
“Yeah,” Enya said sarcastically, “When Grandma calls tonight and asks if I’ve made any friends here, I’ll say, ‘Yes, Grandma, my New Best Friend Turned Booth Mate’s name is Armor Boy.’”
“I’m sure she’ll be very impressed. It’s not every day that you meet someone as careful as to handle this stuff safely.”
“And it’s not every day that you meet someone whose name sounds like a Superhero Identity.”
“Yeah, I’m just cool like that.”
Just then, Willow’s assistant, Bob, came up and jabbed him in the ribs, whispering, “dude, your lunch break ended ten minutes ago. Stop flirting and get back to work – some dude out here wants to see the double knives.”
“Fine, fine, but could you tell her that my name is Armor Boy and to leave it at that while I take care of him?”
Bob relayed the message, to which Enya replied, “Yeah, right. And who are you? Chain Mail Man?”
“You know, I like that name more than anything, Sweetheart.”
“What is it with men and metal-related, sarcastically-implied nicknames?” Enya wondered aloud.
“Don’t know. I just don’t favor my real name too highly.”
“Maybe you should take your own advice,” Enya suggested. “Stop flirting and get back to work.”
“Sure. But – a little FYI – keep working on Armor Boy. He’ll come clean if you wear him down enough.”
Enya was relieved when she had to turn her back on ‘Chain Mail Man’ and answer a teenage girl’s question about prices. The teenage girl was persistent in trying to find something cheap, yet beautiful too, so she was distracted for over half an hour – which made Willow lonely, as his booth calmed down.
Eventually, Willow wandered over to Enya’s booth, where the teenage girl was inspecting the bodices with a critical eye and refusing to pull one that was above twenty dollars.
“May I be of any assistance, my ladies?”
Enya looked over at him with a slight smirk. “You think you can handle bodices, Armor Boy?”
“Sure. My younger sister surprisingly thought that I was good at this clothes selection thing.”
The girl turned around with a dark blue bodice with yellow brocade in her hand. “Willow, that was years ago,” she snapped. “And I think this one’s good,” she added to Enya. “Fifteen bucks?”
Before Enya could reply, Willow glared at his sister as he said, “Sakura, why are you so mean? Anyway, you know I don’t like that name. So stop calling me that!”
Enya hid a giggle behind her hand. “Sakura, that’s fifteen dollars, and please don’t have a row, it’s bad for business,” she said.
Sakura sighed. “Fine.” She turned and headed for the cash register with Enya. As they made the transaction and Willow left for the Weaponry Department, Sakura murmured to Enya, “Where’d he get Armor Boy? That’s a lot more embarrassing than Willy Whee.”
Willow spun around. “I heard that!” he called over. “Just call me Will, okay? Or Armor Boy…?”
“How old is he?” Enya asked Sakura. “One would think that a guy in his early twenties would object to superhero names.”
“Well, I haven’t ever known him to have a name like that, so I guess that he just must like you a lot. Either that, or he’s just thankful to have a nickname that he won’t be teased too much about – well, at least by most people aside from myself, of course.”
“Well, he only got the nickname today,” Enya said. “Long story with bad pickup lines.” She handed Sakura her change.
“Thanks, and yeah, there’s a reason why he hasn’t had a girlfriend yet, even though he’s twenty-three. But he’s getting better…I think…Bye!” She dashed off before Enya could reply…
As the booths were closing up for the night, Willow offered Enya a ride home – “You look like you could use a lift,” were his exact words.
“Hmm, I’ll tell you my decision when we get to the car park. By the way, it’s a shame that you aren’t better at pick-up lines, ‘cause you aren’t exactly ugly…”
“What’s with your aversion to guys, anyway?” Willow asked, falling into step beside Enya as they wound their way out of the fairground. “Bad relationship?”
“Something like that. Oh, and have you really never had a girlfriend before?”
“That’s irrelevant,” Willow said shortly. “So what about the ride?”
“Why not? It beats the bus. Just no trying anything romance-y or you will regret making that trade earlier,” Enya replied.
“Do I really take you as that kind of a guy?” he asked as he stopped in front of a dark blue SUV. “This is it.”
“Most dudes don’t wear skirts, dude,” Enya reminded him. “23rd and 4th, by the way,” she added as they got into the car.
“Hey – I lost a bet to Bob, okay…?”
“Chain Mail Man? He didn’t seem smart enough to think in big enough quantities for a bet.”
“Well, he’s actually pretty smart – for the most part. Anyway, you live with your grandmother?”
“I don’t live with my grandma, but she calls every other weekend. What was the bet?”
“The outcome of the Redskins game.”
“That’s not until tomorrow,” Enya said matter-of-factly. “What bet did you lose today?”
“You don’t want to know,” he said, blushing.
“It’s about lunch today, isn’t it?”
“Was I wearing a kilt then? Yes.”
“And you bet whether or not I’d talk to a guy in a kilt?”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
“So why won’t you tell me the bet, if it won’t affect me?”
“Cause, it didn’t turn out well for me even though I didn’t take the dare…”
“Oh, so you were betting who Sakura would berate first, is that it?”
“No…”
“You were betting whether I’d ask for Sting or the Orc Sword?”
“Didn’t we just go over this? It wasn’t to do with you.”
“Oh, was it whether the person at the Steak on a Stick place would correct you for wearing the kilt?”
“Just stop before you hurt yourself.”
“I thought it had nothing to do with me.”
He just glared at her. “Fine, I’ll tell you, but you’re not allowed to tell anybody, not even your Grandma,” Willow said shortly, and Enya nodded in agreement. “Okay, well, I said to Bob yesterday, ‘I bet you’d be too chicken to mess with our old football team’, when we saw them practicing yesterday. He said, ‘If I do, will you wear a kilt tomorrow?’ Like an idiot, I agreed.”
“So he went out on the field and…?” Enya prompted.
“Not even. He went into the changing rooms while as they were finishing up practice and grabbed all of their clothes. Before any of the jocks could put two and two together, he had tossed me the pile and the jocks mistook me for the prankster. Thus, I did a lot of running and begging for my life yesterday…”
“And so you’re wearing a kilt because Bob decided he’d be a jerk?” Enya asked. “’s not the end of the world.”
“I know. But the taunting and bruises weren’t exactly fun. Why do you think I was insisting on a black long-sleeved shirt earlier?”
“As I recall, getting a brand-new shirt of mine seemed to be better than having sauce all down your front for the rest of the day, OR going to Firefly Fantasy to get a little kid’s shirt instead.”
“Neither of those were my motivations. I just wanted to try and get to know you better – but my plan failed because I was a wimp,” he confessed.
“Well, this is sort of getting to know you better, isn’t it?” Enya said, finally starting to take to Willow. “And it’s quicker to take Elm Street to 23rd, by the way.”
“Danke shun,” he replied in German while trying to impress her, “And, yeah, so why don’t you tell me something about yourself?” He put on his turn signal and motioned for her to take the lead.
“Pelin pedi edhellen,” she said.
“Eh…? Sorry, I don’t believe they taught that language in my schools. But it sounds cool. Is it Gaelic?”
“It’s Sindarin,” Enya replied. “Common language of Tolkien’s elves. Based on old Finnish or old Welsh, I believe. I’ve studied it since high school.”
“Would you be willing to teach me?”
“Not right now,” Enya said. “My house is on the left. I’ll bring my Sindarin book tomorrow, though.”
“Cool,” he replied to the book comment, but when he parked and saw the house, his calm expression changed to one of awe. “This is where you live?” he exclaimed. “You aren’t suddenly going to tell me that you’re a Cullen by any chance?”
“No,” Enya sighed. “Grandma insisted I move in here. It was her house for most of her life, and she moved in to my parent’s house the same year I finished college. I rent out three rooms for some spare money. Working the Renn Fest circuit isn’t exactly profitable when it’s only for eight weeks.”
“Is it my imagination, or do you not sound like you like it here?”
“The Renn Fest circuit is fine. The town is fine. It’s the hugeness of the house that bugs me.”
“Can’t you do anything to make it more enjoyable for yourself? After all, home is where the heart is supposed to be, isn’t it?” He added in his thoughts, ‘though, my heart is drifting from my home to you…’
“That’s why I rent the rooms. It adds a bit of life to the house as well as some extra income.”
Monday, September 20, 2010
Nikita, Episode Two
Since I actually have deadlines I need to make for Creative Writing, this has been Super Epically Helpful in forcing me to go forward with the story I am currently working on. As I have to turn in 1200 words a week, it is IMMENSELY helpful in forcing me to write something for every story. (It also helps that last weekend I wrote 2100 words. I am currently at 2800 words. Now is the time when I actually have to start doing a lot more. Not that I mind. But still.) Anyhoo, here is the next set of (about) 1200 words. I DO have more stockpiled, but it's only about half a page, so don't get your hopes up until next week.
So here it is. Read it, comment on it, print it out and write all over it, whatever.
After my grandfather’s death, I knew that it was finally my time to have the adventure I’d always dreamed of. The only problem was getting Mum to understand that Grampa had asked me to, even after relaying every detail of our conversation to her.
“Nikita, you know better than to believe his stories,” Mum told me for what felt like the millionth time. I had tried and failed to get my mother to let me go on the mission while we chopped vegetables for dinner. “He was raving more and more as he got older and older.”
“You just don’t want to believe that I’m growing up, is that it?” I demanded.
“No, it’s because your grandfather had a very big imagination when he was younger, and as he got older, he began to confuse it with reality,” Mum shot back.
“But everyone knows that Shyasha Rinkari existed,” I insisted. “If she existed, why should Sparraben be a fragment of his imagination?”
“Because…” Mum’s voice faltered; the steady beat of her knife on the cutting board ceased abruptly. I looked up from my pile of parsnips. “I’ve heard stories of Sparraben,” Mum said quietly. “Beyond the ones your grandfather told, I mean. The man doesn’t sound like the most trustworthy of companions.”
“Everyone says that about Rangers,” I answered at once. Had I been around anyone else but my mother, I wouldn’t have the confidence to argue my point. Whenever I went into town, I would always accept insults and jokes without comment, and whenever I talked to anyone, be it the town crier or one of the farm hands, I would never state my own view and always agree with theirs, even if it differed radically from my own.
“Well, maybe it’s true,” Mum replied, returning to the carrots she was cutting. Mum’s opinion of Rangers was not uncommon – the rumors said they had dark magic and were really double agents against the rulers in Norasona, though Grampa said that was nonsense, and the Rangers just got a bad rap because they were a group who rarely took apprentices, lurked in dark shadows unseen, and had a greater knowledge of weaponry than most of the Royal Army combined.
“I still think it’s because you’re over protective,” I told her persistently. “I’m not a kid anymore, Mother. Grampa had been on loads of adventures by the time he was thirteen-”
“Grampa had nobody but your great-Uncle Valin to look after him from the time he was about five, so that’s irrelevant,” Mum interrupted.
“It would also be an insult to his memory to not try to heed his wishes, even if they turn out to be complete rubbish,” I added.
“I still don’t like the idea of you wandering around alone in the middle of Silvercourt Forest,” Mum said, taking a different tack. “There are dark creatures lurking in there.”
“Dark creatures lurk everywhere, Mum,” I sighed. “The trick is to find out which are the bad ones before they eat you.”
“You’re not going,” Mum snapped with a horribly irritating finality.
“Why?” I demanded; setting down my knife with more force than I thought was in my arms.
“I’ve just told you why,” Mum growled. When she’s mad, she doesn’t yell, she just gets kind of dark and vicious.
“Because you’re scared I’m going to die because my supposedly lunatic grandfather gave me the name of an allegedly untrustworthy Ranger who lives in a location with dark creatures and told me that I might be able to save the world?”
“Because it’s a dangerous enterprise no matter which way you slice it, and that would be far too unsafe an endeavor for any thirteen-year-old to undertake.”
“Mum, there’s going to be danger anywhere I go,” I told her.
She was quiet after that, and I decided I shouldn’t argue my point further.
I didn’t know why I had such a strong urge to seek out Sparraben, but I knew that, whatever my mother said, I would be packing a bag right after dinner and be leaving before dawn, regardless of whether anyone tried to stop me. And that’s what happened.
When I returned to my room that evening, I immediately began putting items into my small satchel for the next morning. I didn’t pack much, but I knew it would save a lot of time later on. I put in my flint, a knife for defense, a few spare changes of clothing, what little money I had, and my boots for when the weather got cold – since it was the middle of the summer, I normally walked around barefoot. My plan was to steal some food from the pantry when I left, to avoid the risk of Mum or Jack waking up for a midnight snack and finding the food gone before I had left the house.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I knew that I would need rest for my journey, but I spent the night in terror that someone would find out my plan and foil it. In truth, I could only sometimes stand up to my mother like I had before dinner. On the rare occasion that I did find my guts and use them to my advantage, my nerves spent the next few hours wondering if, when, and how badly she would retaliate.
When the horizon finally started to go pink, I rose from my cot and walked quietly over to the pantry, where I retrieved some fruits, vegetables, and a few muffins from the bakery – enough to last me through at least two days. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I crept out the door, walking through the grass of the yard so as to not leave footprints, and continued west, away from the sun. I don’t know why I was so sure that the Silvercourt Forest lay to the west; I was, however, completely certain of the fact that I was going to be walking for a long time, and that I did not want to have a headache from staring into the sun too long right after I’d succeeded in leaving home.
After walking away from the sun long enough to have the heat start moving from my back to the top of my head, I finally reached the outer edges of the Silvercourt Forest.
At home, my usual view of the world involved horizon and wheat to the north, south, and west, and wheat, the village, and our house to the east. During my long walk that morning, my view changed gradually – the house and eventually the walls of the village and, after a long while, our farm, vanished from view as I went farther and farther, occasionally snacking on bits of muffin. Over the last hour and a half, the Silvercourt Forest began looming over the horizon, growing steadily nearer and progressively darker and more intimidating.
Now that I’d reached the edge of the forest, I could see that the trees grew so close together that the roots were intertwined. The tangled roots gave the forest a look of old strength and deep, powerful magic. I could barely see past the first few trees, and a sudden thought struck me – anything could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. Anything and everything in that dark mass of trees had the power to inflict pain if it wanted to, even the vegetation. That, more than anything, made me realize that there was more to this whole questing thing that a few stolen blueberry muffins and that I really should have packed a bigger knife.
So here it is. Read it, comment on it, print it out and write all over it, whatever.
After my grandfather’s death, I knew that it was finally my time to have the adventure I’d always dreamed of. The only problem was getting Mum to understand that Grampa had asked me to, even after relaying every detail of our conversation to her.
“Nikita, you know better than to believe his stories,” Mum told me for what felt like the millionth time. I had tried and failed to get my mother to let me go on the mission while we chopped vegetables for dinner. “He was raving more and more as he got older and older.”
“You just don’t want to believe that I’m growing up, is that it?” I demanded.
“No, it’s because your grandfather had a very big imagination when he was younger, and as he got older, he began to confuse it with reality,” Mum shot back.
“But everyone knows that Shyasha Rinkari existed,” I insisted. “If she existed, why should Sparraben be a fragment of his imagination?”
“Because…” Mum’s voice faltered; the steady beat of her knife on the cutting board ceased abruptly. I looked up from my pile of parsnips. “I’ve heard stories of Sparraben,” Mum said quietly. “Beyond the ones your grandfather told, I mean. The man doesn’t sound like the most trustworthy of companions.”
“Everyone says that about Rangers,” I answered at once. Had I been around anyone else but my mother, I wouldn’t have the confidence to argue my point. Whenever I went into town, I would always accept insults and jokes without comment, and whenever I talked to anyone, be it the town crier or one of the farm hands, I would never state my own view and always agree with theirs, even if it differed radically from my own.
“Well, maybe it’s true,” Mum replied, returning to the carrots she was cutting. Mum’s opinion of Rangers was not uncommon – the rumors said they had dark magic and were really double agents against the rulers in Norasona, though Grampa said that was nonsense, and the Rangers just got a bad rap because they were a group who rarely took apprentices, lurked in dark shadows unseen, and had a greater knowledge of weaponry than most of the Royal Army combined.
“I still think it’s because you’re over protective,” I told her persistently. “I’m not a kid anymore, Mother. Grampa had been on loads of adventures by the time he was thirteen-”
“Grampa had nobody but your great-Uncle Valin to look after him from the time he was about five, so that’s irrelevant,” Mum interrupted.
“It would also be an insult to his memory to not try to heed his wishes, even if they turn out to be complete rubbish,” I added.
“I still don’t like the idea of you wandering around alone in the middle of Silvercourt Forest,” Mum said, taking a different tack. “There are dark creatures lurking in there.”
“Dark creatures lurk everywhere, Mum,” I sighed. “The trick is to find out which are the bad ones before they eat you.”
“You’re not going,” Mum snapped with a horribly irritating finality.
“Why?” I demanded; setting down my knife with more force than I thought was in my arms.
“I’ve just told you why,” Mum growled. When she’s mad, she doesn’t yell, she just gets kind of dark and vicious.
“Because you’re scared I’m going to die because my supposedly lunatic grandfather gave me the name of an allegedly untrustworthy Ranger who lives in a location with dark creatures and told me that I might be able to save the world?”
“Because it’s a dangerous enterprise no matter which way you slice it, and that would be far too unsafe an endeavor for any thirteen-year-old to undertake.”
“Mum, there’s going to be danger anywhere I go,” I told her.
She was quiet after that, and I decided I shouldn’t argue my point further.
I didn’t know why I had such a strong urge to seek out Sparraben, but I knew that, whatever my mother said, I would be packing a bag right after dinner and be leaving before dawn, regardless of whether anyone tried to stop me. And that’s what happened.
When I returned to my room that evening, I immediately began putting items into my small satchel for the next morning. I didn’t pack much, but I knew it would save a lot of time later on. I put in my flint, a knife for defense, a few spare changes of clothing, what little money I had, and my boots for when the weather got cold – since it was the middle of the summer, I normally walked around barefoot. My plan was to steal some food from the pantry when I left, to avoid the risk of Mum or Jack waking up for a midnight snack and finding the food gone before I had left the house.
I didn’t sleep at all that night. I knew that I would need rest for my journey, but I spent the night in terror that someone would find out my plan and foil it. In truth, I could only sometimes stand up to my mother like I had before dinner. On the rare occasion that I did find my guts and use them to my advantage, my nerves spent the next few hours wondering if, when, and how badly she would retaliate.
When the horizon finally started to go pink, I rose from my cot and walked quietly over to the pantry, where I retrieved some fruits, vegetables, and a few muffins from the bakery – enough to last me through at least two days. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I crept out the door, walking through the grass of the yard so as to not leave footprints, and continued west, away from the sun. I don’t know why I was so sure that the Silvercourt Forest lay to the west; I was, however, completely certain of the fact that I was going to be walking for a long time, and that I did not want to have a headache from staring into the sun too long right after I’d succeeded in leaving home.
After walking away from the sun long enough to have the heat start moving from my back to the top of my head, I finally reached the outer edges of the Silvercourt Forest.
At home, my usual view of the world involved horizon and wheat to the north, south, and west, and wheat, the village, and our house to the east. During my long walk that morning, my view changed gradually – the house and eventually the walls of the village and, after a long while, our farm, vanished from view as I went farther and farther, occasionally snacking on bits of muffin. Over the last hour and a half, the Silvercourt Forest began looming over the horizon, growing steadily nearer and progressively darker and more intimidating.
Now that I’d reached the edge of the forest, I could see that the trees grew so close together that the roots were intertwined. The tangled roots gave the forest a look of old strength and deep, powerful magic. I could barely see past the first few trees, and a sudden thought struck me – anything could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. Anything and everything in that dark mass of trees had the power to inflict pain if it wanted to, even the vegetation. That, more than anything, made me realize that there was more to this whole questing thing that a few stolen blueberry muffins and that I really should have packed a bigger knife.
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