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Dancers
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Episode 2; Tendrils
New met companions.
He never really liked
forests, too many damn trees. He was used to the open plain where one could see
anything that was coming for miles before it reached you. At worst, one or
another of the low slung predators could hide in the grass, but even then, from
horseback and with enough experience, he had learned to tell when the ripple in
the vegetation was caused by something other than the wind. Here, surrounded by
these towering plants, the only motion the forest sentinels swaying in an
unfelt breeze, the only sound the rustle of leaf and branch, there was no way
to tell when something was near you, no way to see what was more than a few
feet in any given direction. Certainly, this was far from the first time he’d
been in the woods, but usually it was a whole party of him and his clansmen,
hunting stag, elk, or wild boar, many pairs of eyes spread out. Now, it was
just him, him and all these damn trees. To be sure, he at least had his mount
for company, but that was in some ways worse than being alone, the horse was
even less comfortable in these surroundings than he was and she was likely to
shy at the odd shadows, or balk at the strange smells. It was worst when the
branches would meet over head, blocking out the sky from view and plunging both
horse and rider into a world of shifting shadows, pastels of green and brown.
At such times he could swear that every smallest patch of darkness was alive,
alive, aware, and watching. It didn’t help that the forest wasn’t still, the
breeze that he couldn’t feel in the too close air below the canopy causing the
trees to sway, the shadows to shift. He was constantly catching motion out of
the corner of his eye, constantly convinced that something had scurried out of
sight as he turned his head, something that was just waiting for him to settle
down, to drop his guard.
For the dozenth time that
day, he had to calm his mount, no easy task when he was as balky as she. The section
they were entering wasn’t too bad; it was a nicely open clearing, the sky easily
seen for a change, and the wind could actually be felt. He was tempted to bring
his mount to a stop, let her graze for a bit until both she and he had their
nerve back, but he couldn’t admit, not even to himself, that a man of full seasons
had been so spooked by such a small thing. The horse seemed to have a similar
notion; she slowed and curved her neck to eye the nearest clump of succulent
green grass with a speculative glance.
“Sorry girl,” he told her,
adjusting the small throwing ax and long sword he wore at either side of his
belt and resituating the bow slung over his shoulder, “We’ve no time to stop
for your belly’s sake.”
He twitched the rains and
clucked his tongue. The mare gave a gusty sigh of regret, causing her flanks to
expand and deflate under her rider’s legs, and turned her nose back to the
path.
They’d gone but a few
strides more, before someone came from under the trees across the clearing. A
wagon, pulled by a squat and long suffering old nag came plodding forward; the
gnarled old man, one of two figures riding on the wagon’s seat, was holding a
crossbow trained on the clansman.
“Here now,” he called in
the language of the land bound, “Who are you, and what you be doing in these here
woods by yourself then?”
The old woman next to him
tucked at one arm, pulling the tip of the bolt aside from the old man’s target,
“Henrik,” she said querulously, “that be a clansman, sent by herself if I don’t
miss my guess. Show a little courtesy man.”
Keeping his hands well away
from his belt, the rider bowed from the saddle and called to them in their own
tongue, “Begging your pardon good folk. I’m called Breaker. Would you be the
lady Catharine’s Nanny and her husband perchance?”
“And why would you be
wanting to know that?” the old man growled.
“Oh yes indeed,” the woman
said with a sunny smile that added even more wrinkles to her features, managing
to speak over her husband without actually raising her voice, “and glad it is
we are to see you too. Evil times, evil times in these hills have come. Henrik,
put that thing down before you lose yourself an eye.”
Breaker smiled in relieved
amusement. These were the people he’d been charged to find and bring back with
him, and though he’d not say so, he was glad of the company. The old man,
Henrik, grumbling something as he put his weapon down, looked to be the sort
who’d make any who jumped them regret it. Breaker wouldn’t lay odds that the
old fellow would live; he looked to be too old to move very quickly. Still, far
from showing the timidity that the foolish of his clan claimed all land bound
felt, the old man seemed all too ready to attack, like some grey-muzzled hound,
too old for the hunt, but still protective of his fire and family. He’d make
whoever came for him pay for the privilege of spilling his blood for certain.
“I was sent by your Mistress
to see you safely to your destination,” he told them, “I’m sorry if I
frightened you.”
The old man’s hand strayed
toward his crossbow, but he aborted the motion as he looked over at his wife,
satisfying himself with a muttered comment about who was frightened by what
that the clansman didn’t quite catch.
“You’ll have to be
forgiving him,” the old woman said, smiling fondly at her man, “He was a guard for
his lordship, and the old fool has not got it into his bald head that such days
are long passed him now.”
“I keep telling you woman,”
Henrik said, “the vow is for life. To come when called, and to stand ready.”
Breaker nodded in
understanding; he knew all about vows.
“Yes, of course dear. But there be younger men
a plenty to come when called, and to do all that standing about too.”
“Well,” the clansman said, “Old or not, I’ll
be glad to have such a stout fellow at my back.”
Henrik frowned, “Here now
boy, you’d not be after mocking an old man.”
“Not at all. Why, I recall
when my clan fought off a group of raiders, a warrior no older than yourself, did
he not account for many a younger and stronger man?”
Henrik’s eyes narrowed at
the rider as he gave a skeptical grunt, “I don’t know, Did he now?”
Breaker looked up toward
the sky, judging the hours of daylight remaining as best he could considering this
soggy land’s ever present clouds.
“Gentlefolk,” he said with
no trace of the irony he felt applying the term to the belligerent old badger,
“the hour grows late. If perhaps the Goodman could keep an eye on the trail
behind us, I’ll keep my gaze forward. Between the two of us, we should be safe
enough, even in this strange land you folk call your own.”
Henrick gave a tug to his
long and tangled grey-beard, his dark eyes distant as he considered. After a
scant few heartbeats, he allowed that he was satisfied by such an arrangement
with another grunt and a nod.
The clansman turned his
mount round and pressed his heels gently into her sides. He had to give the
rains an easy pull to slow her somewhat; he wanted to remain at the plodding gait
that seemed the best the horse and wagon behind him could muster. Comforted by
the presence of others, he confidently led the small group of travelers back
into the unchancy shadows of the forest.
Their new home.
with a quiet scraping he
drug the mattress across the floor, followed by the pool of light from the
flashlight held in his new wife’s hand, the only source of light they had
thought to bring with them. They were finally home, home in a way that neither
of them had ever been before, home in the new, not quite finished house that
was to host them in the new life that they were to make for one another. It had
been a spur of the moment decision. They’d planned to spend one more night at
the old apartment, but excitement, and the unexpected help of a relative had
caused them to move the bed after all, and they had both suddenly decided, with
child like excitement, to spend the night in their new house. Like a couple of
naughty teenagers, they’d been looking forward to breaking the house in, but
before that, they’d taken advantage of the remaining daylight to get as much
done as they could before the night’s darkness had forced them to stop. To any
outside observer, it would be difficult to tell what, exactly, they’d managed
to do. The furniture was still spread around the rooms; the boxes, with labels
that no longer had anything to do with their contents were still scattered
across the floor; but they had actually made quite a dent in the long and
growing list of things they had to do before their home was ready.
John laid the mattress on
the floor while she held the light for him.
“Thanks hon.” he said as he
came up to give her a kiss and claim the light. He crawled on the mattress and
let out a very long sigh.
She perched herself on the
bed, what there was of it, and looked down at him. With a sly smile, she
reached across his back to pluck the flashlight from his other side.
“So?” she said slowly,
waiting for john to roll off his belly and look at her before holding the
flashlight beam under her chin; “Do you think our new home is haunted?”
He snorted, “The ghost of a
ten year mortgage.”
The house was newly constructed,
and it still wasn’t quite finished: there was no carpet in several of the
rooms, the sheetrock walls still didn’t have any paper to cover the mud and
tape, the power hadn’t been connected, there was no phone, and there was a
smattering of other chores that needed doing; but it had been surprisingly
cheap, was in a good neighborhood for raising children, and was about midway
between where they worked.
“Oooo,” she said in her
ghost voice, “compound interest, late payment penalties, bad credit.”
John wriggled around on the
bed as she dug her fingers into his ribs. He was, to her unending delight,
devilishly ticklish, something that didn’t quite fit is tough guy persona. He
flipped over and sat up, catching her hands by the wrist. They froze for a moment,
their eyes locking together in the dim glow of the flashlight that lay
forgotten on the mattress where she’d dropped it. John made a soft sigh as he
lent forward, her hands still caught in his grip, and brushed his lips against
hers. He drew back and smiled down at her. She half closed her eyes and parted
her lips, face up turned and waiting. She let her eyes slip shut, body tingling
in anticipation. John released her wrists and she felt the warmth of his breath
against her upturned face, but the kiss didn’t come. In fact, John moved away,
sitting back and sniffing at the air.
“Damn,” he said, twisting
his head around to one side, nose questing at the air, “god, you smell that?”
She took a tentative sniff
of her own, then one or two longer ones, “I don’t smell anything.”
“You can’t smell that? God
it’s awful.”
He plucked the flashlight
from the surface of the bed and rolled to his feet, nostrils flaring as he
sought the source of the olfactory annoyance, “Damn! That just reeks. You
really can’t smell it?”
John began moving around
the bedroom, sniffing the air, shining the light along the bottom of the floor,
lifting boxes, moving this way and that.
“You didn’t pack any food,
no meat or eggs or anything like that?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
“Where the hell is that
coming from,” he said in irritation, sticking his head out of the room.
“Hey,” she called as he
left, taking the flashlight with him, “Don’t leave me alone in the dark!”
“Well come with me then,”
he said, his voice floating from down the hall, “I think it’s something down
stairs.”
With a long suffering sigh,
she trailed after him to search for whatever was bothering him, whether or not
she could smell it herself, half convinced that he was imagining things. Without
the light in the room, she half tripped over the boxes, cursing under her
breath as she did her best to navigate the gloom. She reached the stairs just
as John was heading through the basement door. She followed him down stairs,
pausing in the doorway, watching as he continued to sniff the air, moving back
and forth, playing the light along the ground, paying extra attention to the
corners and the edge where the floor met the walls.
He turned the corner, moving
out of her sight.
“I still don’t smell
anything.” she said as she took a couple of steps, noticing nothing but the
dusty scent of concrete.
“I can’t believe you can’t
smell It.” he called from round the corner, his shadow cast huge and misshapen on
the other wall, “there must be some dead animal or something down here, but I
can’t find it. I wonder if there’s something under the floor or... what the
fuck is that?”
The light vanished, leaving
her in sudden and impenetrable darkness.
“Hey!” she cried out, “turn
the light back on!”
No answer.
“John?”
No answer.
“Hey buddy,” she said,
voice rising with impatience, “This isn’t funny. Turn on the light!”
No answer.
She took a couple more
steps, “John?” she said in a very small voice.
She reached out her hand
and touched the wall. Slowly, steps made hesitant by a fear that she couldn’t define,
she moved away from the door, feeling the cold and grainy texture of the wall
sliding along under her fingers. It seemed to take an eternity, time stretching
until she felt as though she’d been crawling forward like this forever, that
she would never be able to stop, that she’d spend the rest of her life, the
rest of time like this, her only anchor to a dimly remembered reality of warmth
and light the heat stealing concrete at her hand.
When at last the wall fell
out from under her touch, she actually jumped, feeling as startled by reaching
the turn as if someone had yelled “BOO!” She gave herself a little shake and her
lips pressed together. A very prosaic explanation occurred to her, a childish something
her new husband wasn’t above doing.
“I swear to god John, if this is some sort of
joke...”
As the silence lengthened,
she continued to stand, continued to peer uselessly into the darkness, becoming
less certain by the moment that this was just a simple prank. Suddenly she
caught a whiff of something, a mixture of rotting vegetation and a rank animal
odor. Her eyes stung and watered from the foulness in the air. Had this been
what he’d been on about? No wonder he’d been so surprised that she didn’t smell
it. How had she missed this reek?
“Whoa,” she said in
disgust, “that’s awful!”
Almost like a reply to her
words, the air stirred around her, the smell growing even worse, a warm and
moist breeze rippling her clothing and blowing at her hair. Instinctively she
took a step back, but she couldn’t just stand there. If John hadn’t answered by
this time, he must have hurt himself, must have hit his head or passed out from
the stench; the light must have gone out when it hit the ground, this must be
some leak of some kind of industrial gas, or something. She kept running over
the possibilities, half in worry for her husband, half to avoid thinking about
the impossible wind that was still blowing around her. She began moving
forward, feeling with each foot carefully, expecting at any moment to encounter
the softness of John where he must be laying on the floor, resolutely refusing
to think that she was searching for his body.
At last the darkness
lifted, only for an instant, the flashlight that materialized in mid air
remaining alight only for the short time it took for it to fall to the cement
floor. That had been enough. More than enough for her to see that most of John
was still missing, that the only part of him that had returned, fingers still
gripping the shaft of the light, flesh ragged where it had been torn away, a
mist of red drops trailing behind it, was his arm.
Her new dance.
The air was balmy, no
surprise; the park was always pleasantly warm, a nice summer afternoon, a deep
blue sky above, just warm enough to make swimming sound like a good idea, but
not so hot that running around was too much trouble, A nice breeze, the smell of
freshly mown grass, the laughter of children, and the beautiful blue empty sky.
The vacancy of the firmament was no cause for concern; it had always been that
way, no bright glowing ball that could hurt your eyes to look at, no light that
could burn you if you spent too long outside, nothing but a friendly lambency,
pleasant warmth, and the beautiful blue sky.
Across the rolling hills of
the park, the older children strolled in couples and small groups, chatting
amongst themselves, casually heading to the carefully tended bushes and trees
that defined the maze, twisting paths that could, if one knew the trick of it,
lead you almost anywhere. Crawling, padding, slinking, hopping, flying,
slithering, and in one notable case, even digging around them, the Familiars quested with the
strange senses they’d gained from bonding with the people, ready to warn if the
path chosen would head to somewhere best let be, somewhere unfit for life, or
too dangerous for their youthful charges.
She wasn’t playing with the
older children, of course. She was far too young to go into the maze, too young
even to have found her animal. Her father was sitting on the blanket they’d
brought with them, berried in the pages of the thick book that he was reading
and writing, flipping back and forth, muttering to himself, glancing up
intermittently to check on the most beautiful thing in the universe. For her
part, the most beautiful thing in the universe was far too busy to notice
whether or not daddy was paying attention.
Her father looked up as she
used a grownup word, “Hey little flame,” he said, gently chiding, “You
shouldn’t use language like that.”
Her hands tugged on some of
the many colored tassels along the fringe of her vest while she looked down at
the large flat paved circle she was playing on, scuffing the ground with one of
her dancing shoes, “I’m sorry dad,” she muttered, “but this is so hard. Why did
they make it so hard?”
Her father shook his head
at her, “I know it’s tough little one, but if you don’t learn...”
She looked up to the empty
blue sky and rolled her eyes, “If I don’t learn then I’ll never be able to find
my way on my own,” she said, her tone making it clear that she had heard this
before, “What ever will I do if I get lost?”
Her dad gave her an
encouraging little smile, “that’s right. Still, if it’s too hard for you, you
could always quit. Maybe you’d like to go for a swim, or play with the babies
at the farm.”
It was a bit of
manipulation; he knew she would rather die than be seen playing with the
youngest children, chasing the goats and ducks and other animals that hadn’t
chosen their charge yet, something that she’d been perfectly happy to do just
last year.
Her little face took on a
look of determination, and she hopped and glided through the reset moves,
something she’d had to learn before she could even step on the circle. She
stood on the shapeless patch of white where the children’s dance began, her
lips moving as she mentally reviewed the steps, her green-eyes following the
twisting lines that connected the little labels and pictures spread across the
surface, making them look like they’d been caught in some deranged spider’s
web.
“Thirteen, twenty-seven,
forty-three, and eleven,” she began in a sing song voice, hopping from one
number to another, “if triangle is red, go to seven, if square turns green,
glide to eight, if not these beets to wait.”
He looked back down at the
book and sighed, feeling a strange mix of pride and sadness. She’d gotten so
big, so smart. It seemed to have happened when he wasn’t looking. One morning
she’d still been speaking in baby talk, half formed words strung together, the
sort of speech that only her parents and teachers could be bothered to
interpret, and the next, she was speaking in whole sentences, whole paragraphs.
Her little mind had sharpened itself without bothering to ask her father about
it. A few more years, that was all before she hit adolescence, the stormy and
slippery slope that would lead her to adulthood, to her own life, to a time
when she probably would be embarrassed by her family.
When the sing song voice of
the most beautiful thing in the universe stopped again, her father looked up.
She was standing there, hands on hips, head shaking in vigorous disgust, the
tail she’d pulled her bluish black-hair into whipping back and forth.
“What’s the matter?” he
called, though he already knew the answer.
“Three steps!” she said as
she turned toward her father, “Three more steps!”
He repressed a chuckle and
answered, “Well, you know how to get back, if you get stuck, go to three four
one...”
She was waving off what he
was saying even as he began the little rhyme, “I know, I know dad. But three
more steps, if I can just remember...”
“Meeka, it’s too late now;
you’ve lost the rhythm. Besides,” he looked down at his book to check the time,
“We should get back home anyway.”
Her lower lip came out, her
arms folded across her chest, and she looked down, peering back at her father
through her eyelashes, the pouty face that worked all too often.
“Please daddy?” she said,
the very picture of youthful hope and sadness, “I got so close.”
From the corner of her eye,
a tiny drop of water trickled artfully down her cheek.
”don’t give me that look.
You can come back tomorrow, and besides, I’ll bet your friend Charles is
missing you.”
“Mister Charles,” she
corrected absently.
“Alright,” her father said,
“If you come home now, we might be able to call Mister Charles.”
She clapped her hands
together, all traces of sadness and rebellion gone.
“Ok!” she cried and began
her own little impromptu dance, hopping
from one number to another, gliding her feet along the curving lines incised on
the children’s circle.
Her father opened his mouth
to protest. The child’s dance was made to be safe, of course, but avoiding the
reset ritual was a bad habit to get into. Before he could speak, his little
girl did a twist, a hop, a gliding step, and vanished.
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