scribblelark

[scribblelark]

The Owl in the Tree

I walk up a road that curves away to my right, enjoying the blue twilight. There’s an Oak tree on the left of the path up ahead and a Barn Owl perching in its branches. I’m aware of him long before I see the heart-shaped disc of his face, as aware as I am of the tree itself, busily living and growing still, despite being over two hundred years old. One of the benefits of being a witch that I particularly enjoy is my awareness of the Spark of Life in everything around me. I was once asked (by a non-witch friend) if it wasn’t overwhelming, but I was aware of the Spark of Life in all things even before I was born. To me it’s as normal as breathing. And wholly comforting. The Barn Owl acknowledges me as I pass under his tree. Not in words, but in a warmth toward me in his mind, and I send warmth back to him. I’ve never been on this road before, but the vast folds of the hills as the road heads towards the mountains, the warmth of the Spring evening, the sheer explosion of Life all around me is heart-lifting. I find myself relaxing in ways that I never can whenever I’m stuck in towns and cities, which is why I rarely visit them. I feel like someone half-deaf when I’m within town walls – the Spark of Life is muted by the stones surrounding me, even if there are trees and plants (and people, birds, and animals) within. Life within a city always seems constrained to me, who grew up in a timber-built cottage in the countryside, the nearest town some twenty-five miles away. Still, it’s not every day that the Queen sends for you, and since I had done her signal service some months ago, saving her from a virulent fever that could have killed her off en route to meeting her fiancé, I could hardly refuse to attend the wedding when I was politely commanded to go. As I walked under the moonlight, I felt my spirits lift and my soul expand as if I could encompass the universe. Who knows, maybe I could.

A good friend sent me a greeting card with the above painting by Angie Rooke on it and it inspired this ficlet. I am hoping to expand on the character, a non-binary Witch named Wulfrun, and the world she inhabits, but as always, it depends on the whims of my Bitch Muse!

#Original Fiction #My Writing #Fantasy #Prompt Fic

[scribblelark]

Vignette 3

As this is 3k words long, I’m putting it under a cut.

From a distance, the cottage in the woods appeared to be empty. Probably because there was thick ivy growing up the walls and what looked like a sapling growing from the roof. The garden, if the area in front of the cottage could be described as one, looked entirely overgrown. 

Nevertheless, this was where I’d been directed to come by the old man in the market of the last town. He was adamant that Mother McCracken was the only person who could help me and that I would find her “in the cottage in the woods outside of town”, so I had come because she was just about my last hope of getting help. 

I made my way down the path that led into the clearing where the cottage stood and as soon as I entered the clearing a flare of bright blue light leapt up from the woodland floor a metre in front of me. 

“Who goes there?” asked a slow, deep voice. I couldn’t help thinking it sounded like a bear would, if bears could speak and for all I knew, they could. 

“Raymond,” I said, standing stock still, unsure of whether or not I was welcome. 

“Mmm.” The slow, deep voice sounded like it was pondering something – perhaps whether or not I spoke the truth. 

I remained where I was, not fidgeting or otherwise letting on how anxious I was about the outcome of this exchange. 

“Come forth.” 

I blew out my breath in a soft sigh of relief, feeling some of the tension dropping away from my muscles, then I made my way to the front door. As I reached it, it opened, and a woman stood in the doorway. She was tall, slim, and blonde, with deep, dark eyes that seemed to peer right into my soul, but there was a friendly half smile curling the corners of her mouth. 

“Come in,” she said. Her voice was different from the one I’d heard outside, low, soft, and actually warm. 

I stepped across the threshold without hesitation, glad to be indoors and out of the bitterly cold temperatures and the strong, biting wind. 

“Leave your boots and coat by the door, will you?” Mother McCracken asked, gesturing at the coat hooks already filled with a variety of coats and cloaks, and the scatter of shoes and boots beneath the hooks. 

“Thank you,” I said, belatedly remembering that I hadn’t yet thanked her for inviting me in. 

I slipped off my coat and hung it on an empty peg, then bent down and wrestled my laces undone with numb fingers. 

“Come on,” Mother McCracken said. “Let’s go into the kitchen where it’s nice and warm. I daresay you wouldn’t say no to a nice bowl of hot stew and some fresh, crusty bread?” She looked at me, her head tilted to one side. 

“I don’t want to put you to any unnecessary trouble,” I told her, already aware that I would be putting her to some trouble on my behalf anyway.

“You won’t, child,” she said, her tone and the expression in her dark eyes full of warmth. “I was about to eat anyway and there’s plenty in the cooking pot.” 

“Then yes, please,” I said quickly. I hadn’t eaten since daybreak, it was nearing dusk now and I’d walked about twenty miles in the interim. 

I followed her down the stone flagged passage in sock clad feet and was surprised by the warmth I could feel emanating from the flagstones. I frowned, glancing down at them, and managed to bump into my hostess in the kitchen doorway. I stumbled backwards and she grabbed hold of my forearms, keeping me on my feet. I gasped, both in surprise at bumping into her and at the speed of her reflexes. I was also surprised at the strength of her grip on me. 

“Steady now,” she said softly. “You were trying to work out how the flagstones are warm?” 

I nodded. “Yes. I mean –” I licked my lips a little nervously. “I assume it’s magic.” 

She laughed at that, not in an unfriendly way – I could tell she wasn’t mocking me – but she obviously found my assumption funny, although I couldn’t think why. 

“No, child, it’s not magic. It’s science. Engineering, if you want to be really specific.” She turned, one hand still clasping my left forearm, and led me into the kitchen. “Sit down and rest your feet, and I’ll sort out our meal, then we’ll talk.” 

I complied, only too glad to sit down in the warm. The kitchen was spacious, but well equipped and it felt cosy and comfortable, though I’m no sort of cook. I watched as Mother McCracken took a loaf of bread from the oven and set it on a trivet at the end of the table, then she fetched two spoons, two knives, and a bread knife from a drawer. The bread knife was set beside the loaf, then the spoons and knives were set either side of the wooden placemats, one in front of my spot and the other diagonally across from me. Next she took out two deep bowls and two tea plates and set them onto the placemats. 

“What would you like to drink?” she asked. “Something hot or something cold?” 

“Something cold with the meal, please,” I said. 

She nodded, gave me another half smile, then went to fetch a pitcher of something golden from a cupboard at the end of the room, although it was a cupboard like no other I had seen as a curl of white air spilled from it when she opened the door. She set the pitcher and two glasses down on a separate placemat, then poured the golden liquid, which gave off the scent of apricots and honey, into the two glasses. She held one out to me. 

“Try it,” she said. “I call it apricot wine and it’s very popular with visitors and my neighbours.” 

“Thank you,” I said and reached for the glass. I was surprised to discover that the glass felt quite cold to the touch and when I took an initial sip of the apricot wine, it was also cold.

“You have a cold cupboard?” I asked in surprise. 

She chuckled. “I do. Saves having to drag everything into the kitchen from the ice house.” 

I nodded. “Good point.” 

“How’s the wine?” 

“Delicious,” I assured her. It tasted like what I imagined the nectar of the gods would taste like: utterly exquisite. 

“Good.” 

She smiled her half smile, then took our bowls over to the cooking pot that was hanging above the fire and began ladling the promised stew into them. Both bowls were set back on the placemats, then she cut some thick slices of the bread and put it onto a platter, before fetching a rectangular pot of creamy butter from the cold cupboard.

“Let’s eat,” she said, taking the seat across from me.

“Thank you,” I said gratefully. 

She nodded at the stew. “Don’t let it go cold.” 

“I won’t,” I assured her, and I grabbed a slice of bread from the platter, spread it with butter, then picked up my spoon and dug in. The stew was delicious. I had no idea what the meat in it was, but I could taste potatoes, carrots, and turnips in it, too, and several different herbs: rosemary, thyme, parsley, and sage. It was, without doubt, the best stew I’d ever eaten. 

We ate in silence, both too busy enjoying the food to make conversation, but it was a companionable silence such as I had never experienced before with someone who was essentially a stranger to me. 

Finally replete, I mopped the last of the stew from my bowl with an unbuttered slice of bread, then sat back in my chair. “Thank you, Mother McCracken,” I said. “That was an absolute feast.” 

She smiled at me. “Call me Bernie,” she said. “It’s less of a mouthful.” 

I frowned. “Bernie,” I repeated, wondering if that meant that she was like me. 

“It’s the shortened version of my full name,” she said. “I prefer it because it, too, is less of a mouthful.” 

“Oh.” 

“Tea?” 

I nodded, then started to get up to help her clear the table, but she waved me back into my chair, a slight scowl on her face. I obediently stayed where I was, though it went against the grain not to assist. 

After a few minutes she brought two mugs of tea over to the table, then said, “Let’s go and sit in the other room. The chairs are more comfortable.” 

“Alright.” I accepted one of the mugs and the scent of Chamomile, Spearmint, and something else I couldn’t identify, wafted from the mug. 

The sitting room was as large as the kitchen, but equally as cosy and comfortable as the kitchen. There was a fire burning at one end of the room and two chairs and a two seater sofa were grouped around it. At the other end of the room was a large bay window, with thick, heavy curtains on either side of it. 

“Take a pew,” Bernie said, setting down her mug on the arm of one of the chairs before crossing the room to close the curtains. 

I sat on the end of the sofa nearest to the chair where Bernie had set her mug and gratefully sank into the comfortable cushions. I took a sip of the tea and after a moment I identified the other ingredient as Lemongrass. 

“Alright?” Bernie asked, squeezing my shoulder as she passed between the armchair and the sofa. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

“Good.” She settled down herself, stretching out her long legs towards the fire and wiggling her socked toes in front of it. Then she picked up her mug and swallowed a mouthful. “Now that you’re fed and watered and out of the weather, why don’t you tell me your troubles?” 

I heaved a sigh, nodded, then began the tale that had led me halfway across the country to this cottage in the woods and ‘Old’ Mother McCracken, who I had heard was the most powerful witch in the entire Southern Kingdom and therefore the person most likely to be able to assist me in my troubles. 

She listened attentively with no sign of judgement or condemnation in her eyes, and I felt as if my spirit was uncoiling from its usual defensive state in her presence. Odd to think that a woman whom I knew only by reputation, and that a most fearsome reputation, should make me feel so utterly safe. 

“I can teach you some tricks to help you,” she said when I had finished my recitation of my woes. “I cannot magically change your body, though. That kind of transformative magic doesn’t exist.”

I felt my heart sink and my mouth opened to argue with her, then closed again. After all, she knew better than I did what it was or wasn’t possible to do as a powerful witch.

“Ask me,” she said. 

I gave her a confused look. “You were about to ask me something,” she said, her tone mild, her half smile encouraging. 

I swallowed. “Well, I’ve heard the tales of powerful sorcerers who can change into animals or birds, so –” I waved a hand, leaving the rest unsaid. 

She nodded. “True, but those changes are temporary and the magic to achieve it is taught from a very young age. I, for instance, can transform into a white wolf. But my mentor began teaching me that magic when I was six years old. It took me until I was sixteen before I managed my first transformation because it’s incredibly complex magic. And the longest that I’ve ever managed to hold a wolf’s shape for is six hours. The kind of transformation that you’re looking for is permanent, is it not?” I nodded and she nodded, too. “Such magic does not exist. Besides, I’ve never heard of anyone transforming their human body into a different kind of human body. Those of us who Shift do so into animal or bird forms.” 

I nodded again, feeling a lump of misery in my throat and a ball of anger and despair in the pit of my stomach. 

Bernie reached out and patted my arm. “Let’s go and get some sleep,” she suggested, her tone kindly. “Then, in the morning, I’ll teach you those tricks.” 

I nodded a third time, unable to speak without bursting into tears. She seemed to understand this because she didn’t press me to talk, she simply helped me up from my seat, then tucked my hand into the crook of her elbow and led me upstairs. 

She showed me into a guest bedroom and provided me with some clothes to sleep in, then pointed out the bathing room opposite. “If you want to have a good hot soak, feel free.” 

I’d never heard of a bathing room, and I frowned. “Won’t that require bringing up buckets of hot water?” 

She outright grinned at me. “No, thanks to a similar kind of engineering to the underfloor heating downstairs, I have hot water in the bathing room and an indoor latrine.” 

I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “That’s amazing,” I said, genuinely impressed. 

Bernie smiled at me. “So, if you want to have that bath, go ahead. I’m going to quickly use the bathing room first, then it’s all yours.” 

“Thank you.” 

She gave my arm a squeeze, then left me to look around the room I was in. It contained a large sized wooden bed frame with a large, plump feather mattress, several pillows at the head of the bed, a surprisingly comfortable sheet, and a pile of blankets as well as a brightly woven coverlet. I didn’t think I had ever seen a more comfortable looking bed and I was strongly tempted to climb straight into it, but I was also aware that I was grubby from my travelling, although I’d done my best to wash as often as I could find an inn to stay in. 

There was a tap at my door, and I opened it to find Bernie, who had shed her earlier layers of clothing and was now clad in soft looking trews and an equally soft looking shirt. 

“I thought it might be a good idea to show you how to use the bathing system,” she said with her trademark half smile. “Wouldn’t want you to cause a flood as happened to me the first time I used it!” 

“Thanks,” I said. I grabbed the trews and shirt that she’d given to me to change into, then stepped across the landing into the bathing room where she showed me the taps as she called them, which controlled the flow of hot and cold water into the bath, which was by far the fanciest one I’d ever seen. It appeared to be made out of marble and looked big enough to comfortably hold someone even taller than Bernie. 

“Enjoy the bath,” she said, giving my arm a quick squeeze before leaving me to it. 

“Thank you, I’m sure I will.” 

When I finally put myself to bed I felt cleaner than I could ever remember feeling and I was also feeling very sleepy. I was certain the luxurious warmth of the bath, in addition to the day’s walking, were likely to send me to sleep fairly quickly. 

                                                    --- * ---

 The next day, as promised, Bernie showed me several tricks to make me appear less feminine, from changing the way I walked, to binding my chest to make it appear flatter, and wearing a false phallus, which she explained would change the way I walked or rode a horse. 

I stayed with her for a week as she helped me to adjust, and I was gratified that whenever we went into the nearby hamlet to trade for supplies the locals all treated me as if I were a man. 

One day Bernie even borrowed a couple of horses and we went for a ride so that I could discover for myself how it felt to ride astride. 

By the end of the week I felt quite liberated and less weighed down than when I’d arrived at her door. She seemed very pleased by how pleased I was, and I felt a strange sort of pang in my chest at the thought of leaving because she was the first person who’d ever treated me exactly as I wanted to be treated. She saw me as Raymond and no one else, and that was as great a help to me as the various tricks she had shown me. 

I gave her the gold pieces I’d saved from the carpentry jobs I’d done for people while crossing the country, but she immediately gave most of them back to me. 

“Why won’t you take the full payment?” I asked, confused. 

“Because having your company this past week was payment enough. Besides, you did several carpentry jobs for me around the cottage, as well as helping me to put the garden into better shape. Oh, and chopped me enough firewood to last through the winter.” 

She gave me a quick hug, then kissed me full on the mouth. “Any time you’re in the neighbourhood please come and visit me,” she said. 

I swallowed, aware that my cheeks were flushed with heat. “I will,” I said firmly. “Thank you for everything.” 

“You’re welcome, Raymond. Go well and be at peace.” 

“Be at peace,” I replied, then set off up the path, through the clearing and into the woods. I strode back towards the town, feeling empowered. 

I was determined to set up my own workshop, then I hoped to go back to Mother McCracken’s cottage and to eventually woo her for my wife. I’d been constantly aware of the spark between us while I was staying with her, and I wanted to make good on that parting kiss.

Prompt

#Original Fiction #My Writing #Prompt Fic #The Cottage in the Woods

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Vignette 2

I carefully made my way down the lane, almost wading through the deep snow that had drifted there over the last few days. At times I worried that my wellington boots would be filled by the snow, but so far that hadn’t happened. 

I was about two thirds of the way down to the main road from my cottage when I saw the car. It was almost buried in the snow, but a sliver of its windscreen and the roof above was clear, presumably because the weight of the snow above had slithered down, leaving this portion bare. I couldn’t help worrying about what I’d find inside. Was there someone trapped, or more likely dead given the low temperatures we’d been experiencing during the blizzard. 

I let go of the traces of my sledge, then moved closer to the car. Taking a deep breath of the sharply cold air, I swept the snow clear of the driver’s window and ducked my head to peer inside. A rush of breath left me, formed a cloud in front of my face, as I realised that the car was empty. I could only hope the driver had made it safely to the main road. 

I grabbed the traces of my sledge and began to move past the car, but as I passed it I noticed that the boot wasn’t quite shut. My rampant curiosity – which my friends called my besetting sin – refused to ignore it and I let go of the ropes of my sledge once again, then moved across to the rear end of the car and lifted up the boot.

A gasp escaped me as I saw the contents of the boot: a shivering, bedraggled dog. A Border Collie from the looks of it. It was curled into as tight a ball as it could manage and I was surprised that it was still alive, even with the boot open for air. 

Shaking my head in despair at whoever had abandoned this dog, which looked like quite a young dog, I spoke softly to it, reaching a hand in for it to sniff. The sniff was perfunctory at best, but I hoped that it meant that it wouldn’t object to me lifting it out of the car. I grabbed my sledge first, turning it to face back up the lane, then carefully reached into the boot and scooped the dog out, before lowering it onto the sledge. It whimpered a little but was alarmingly passive. I grabbed the blankets that the dog had been lying on, then wrapped them around it, before closing the boot again. Then I took a photo of the licence plate so I could report it to the local police station before I grabbed the traces of my sledge and began to make my way back up the lane. 

As soon as I reached my cottage I left the sledge where it was, for the moment at least, and bent down to scoop up the dog and its blankets, then carried it inside. I’d left the wood burner on before I went out, so the sitting room was reasonably warm. I set the dog down on the rug in front of the wood burner, leaving it bundled in the blankets for now, then made my way into the kitchen which opened off the sitting room. 

I grabbed a bowl and ran some lukewarm water from the hot tap into it, then grabbed a plate and chopped some of the cooked chicken left over from yesterday’s Sunday roast onto the plate. Then I carried both over to where the dog was waiting, its head lifted to watch me as I approached. I couldn’t help hoping that was a good sign. I set the plate and the bowl down in front of it, watching as it began lapping at the water. Then it began to eat the chicken. Surprisingly, it didn’t gobble it down, but rather ate at a steady pace. 

I left it to its meal and went to get myself a cup of tea to warm myself through before I phoned the police to report the abandoned car (and dog) and the vet to get some advice from Jemima. 

An hour later the dog was sound asleep, and my calls had been made. I breathed a sigh of relief, then considered what to do now. I really needed to go out and get some supplies as I was getting low on a good many essentials. I just wasn’t sure about leaving the dog in my cottage. Since she was fairly young, so far as I could tell, I wasn’t sure if she’d wreak havoc by chewing on things. 

I filled up her water bowl again, then put some more chicken on the plate, then wrapped myself back up again in coat, scarf, hat, gloves, and wellingtons. I would just have to hope the dog would do nothing more than sleep and eat while I was gone. 

I glanced back at her for a moment before letting myself out of the cottage and locking the door behind me. Jemima had promised to come out tomorrow to see her, providing we didn’t have any more heavy snow overnight. None was forecast, but you never can tell where the British weather is concerned.

Prompt 

(I didn’t check back for the exact wording of the prompt before I started writing, so the lane is snowy rather than muddy!)

#Original Fiction #My Writing #Prompt Fic #The Abandoned Car

[scribblelark]

Vignette 1

I look up as you set a mug down on the coaster on my desk. “What’s this?” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s a mug of tea.” 

I scowl. “I don’t drink tea, as well you know.” 

“You should try this,” you say. “I’m fairly sure you’ll like it.” 

I scrunch my nose. “It stinks of cinnamon,” I point out. “Why on Earth would I like that?” 

“It’s apple and cinnamon, actually. It’s a perfect Autumn or Winter tea.” 

“It’s tea. Which I do not drink. So why would you imagine I’ll drink this, never mind like it?” 

“Please just try it. Just a sip. And if you really don’t like it, I won’t make it for you again.” 

I sigh heavily. “I still don’t know why you made it for me in the first place, given that you know that I don’t drink tea. The two things should be mutually exclusive in your mind.” 

You give me a pleading look and I scowl. “I’ll try it,” I say with finality. “Now go away and let me work.” 

“Of course!” You scurry out, trying to look contrite, but failing miserably since you’ve won your point. 

I shake my head in annoyance, then return my attention to my work. 

Five minutes later the stink of cinnamon seems to have permeated every corner of my workshop and I growl in frustration, pick up the mug, sip, choke, then pour the remainder of the liquid down the sink before rinsing out the mug to ensure no scent lingers. The taste of the cinnamon had overwhelmed the taste of the apple, assuming there truly was any apple in that tea to begin with, and rendered it quite undrinkable for more reasons than the fact it was tea and not coffee. 

When you come into my workshop a couple of hours later to see if there’s anything else I need before you retire for the night your eyes light up at the sight of the empty mug. 

“I didn’t drink it. I took one sip, choked, then poured it away. If there was any apple in that tea I couldn’t tell because the cinnamon taste overwhelmed it. In future, kindly remember that I do not like tea and refrain from bringing me some, however exotically flavoured it might be. Understood?” 

“Of course.” You take the mug and leave, your head hanging, but I simply shake my head again, then turn my attention back to my work. 

I can see I’m going to have to do some more work on reprogramming if I’m to get the bloody AI to stop being spontaneous about such things.

#Original Fiction #My Writing #The Grumpy Programmer and their AI Servant

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A Fragment of Fic

that I might take further if my Muse cooperates. Written for a writing prompt:

The hawk circled the camp, spiralling across the sky. Everyone watched with bated breath until it landed in a tree near the outer perimeter of the camp. Moments later an indistinct figure could be seen climbing down the tree. It disappeared behind the tree for a few minutes, then reappeared and crossed the open space between the tree and the camp gate. Once inside the gate, they strode across the camp to where the Elders sat. 

"What news, Astor?" asked the Eldest. 

"The enemy is about 5 miles north, heading east."

Watching, I noted that Astor was long and lean, with powerful arms, and that, grounded, they looked slightly uneasy, as if they much preferred to be in the air. 

"We are spared, today," said the Eldest, and everyone in earshot murmured with relief at the news. 

(The prompt was write a very short story or poem in which a human character metamorphoses into an animal.)

#Writing #original fiction #My writing #fantasy #shapeshifter

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I thought I’d have a go at the 50-Word Fiction Competition run by the Scottish Book Trust, and ended up writing rather more than 50 words, so I’m posting it here since I cannot enter it there:

My father stared in disbelief as he took in the Master Mage’s robes that I wore.

“How?”

I put back my hood, revealing my shorn hair, and his shock left him gaping. “Since no one would believe that a woman could learn magic, it didn't occur to anyone that I wasn't a man,” I told him.

He shook his head. “How could you disobey me like this?”

“I was never good enough for you. You were so sure your firstborn was going to be a son, and you've never forgiven me for being born a woman. As I saw it, I had nothing to lose by going to train as a mage.” I lifted a hand to the amulet around my neck (magic forged steel – a skill I had taught to myself since none other knew how to do it), and as I touched it, I said, “Goodbye father, I doubt we'll meet again.” The amulet released the magic I'd stored within it, and I was carried far away from my former home.

#Flash Fiction #My writing #Original Fiction #Scottish Book Trust #Fantasy

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Saturday Night at the Edge of the World

I wrote this flash fic 5 years ago, inspired by this prompt on io9. It’s under 1k words of SF with a hint of romance. I pictured Freema Agyeman as Telar and Ben Daniels as Aleppo when I wrote it. 

Aleppo and I climbed up to the Overhang, as we did every Saturday night, and settled ourselves on the sofa up there so that we might look over at the BioDome and all we had chosen to leave behind when we came Outside, a rotation and a half ago.

"It will serve to remind us of why we've chosen to live Outside rather than remain in the Dome," I'd told Aleppo when I'd suggested this ritual a few weeks after our departure from the Dome.

"Why we're forcing ourselves to live with erratic power supplies, limited provisions, and insufficient manpower, you mean," Aleppo had answered.

I'd raised an eyebrow at the sour note in his voice, and he'd apologised immediately.

"I'm sorry, Telar. Truly, I don't regret moving Outside, but it gets so frustrating when everything takes three times as long on the Outside than it did in the Dome."

I remembered now that I'd caressed his cheek, then kissed him before reassuring him that more people would join us in time. Fortunately I'd been proved right. We now had a thriving community which included a school for the youngsters, though what they learned Outside differed quite a bit from what they'd been taught in the Dome: lessons here dealt with crop management; animal husbandry; building, carpentry and engineering; how to harness the solar energy with which Earth-Now was blessed; and so on. Hardly anyone ever mentioned Earth-Past, the planet our forebears had left behind a century and a half ago.

I thought back to what I'd been taught as a child in the Dome: how Earth-Past had endured natural disasters of increasing magnitude throughout the twenty-first to twenty-third centuries: earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunami, not to mention the never-ending civil wars and bloody political revolutions. Then small groups of men and women across the globe had put forward the idea that humanity needed to learn from its past mistakes (there had been a Doomsday cult which blamed all the ecological disasters, as well as the wars, on humanity's mismanagement of the Earth's natural resources) and leave the Earth. Scientists and engineers had banded together, ignoring their nationalistic impulses and their national governments, and after a century they'd solved the problem of how to build a starship capable of carrying humanity to another planet. Astronomers, biologists and others had worked out how to locate a habitable planet, or to make a less hospitable one more habitable. The terraforming machines had been designed and tested in the desert areas of Earth-Past, and then, one day, the ship had been ready to leave. Not everyone had chosen to board the Endeavour – many had remained on Earth-Past for religious reasons, or because they'd been too scared to leave what they knew – but several thousands had set off for the stars.

The BioDome had been set up to house everyone while the planet was terraformed, but somewhere along the way the settlers had decided to remain in the Dome, even after the Outside had become habitable. Of course, the BioDome hadn't been designed for continual use for one hundred and fifty years, nor had it been built to house the ever-expanding population of settlers, so the infrastructures had begun breaking down, and that was when I, Aleppo, and a couple of dozen others had all decided that it really was time to  live Outside, as had been originally planned.

Over the past rotation and a half our numbers had been swelled considerably. We'd managed to recruit two dozen or so people during each lunar cycle: our energy supplies were no longer erratic, our provisions were ample, and we had enough people to get tasks carried out in a timely manner. I was convinced that by the end of the next rotation and a half, there would be more people living Outside than in the Dome, and that would be a good thing.

"Is it me, or are there fewer lights in the Dome this week?" asked Aleppo, bringing me back to the present.

I screwed up my eyes a little. "I think you might be right," I told him.

He nodded. "I think you've done a good job, Telar," he said after a moment's silence as we stared across at the orange-lit Dome, and the white stars above.

"Me?" I asked, wondering to which job he was referring.

"You," he confirmed, snaking an arm around my shoulders and pulling me closer. "You've persuaded so many people to come and live Outside. You've been unfailingly patient, determined, and committed. We wouldn't have come this far if it hadn't been for you."

"You're just saying that because you want sex," I teased.

"No I'm not," he said quietly insistent. "I mean, yes, I do want sex, now you mention it." He smirked. "But I do mean it – if it hadn't been for you, I don't think this community would've survived, let alone thrived."

I flushed. "I just did what I thought was right, what would be best for everyone," I told him. Then I shifted and kissed him deeply so that he wouldn't be thinking about offering me further compliments.

He sighed my name in pleasure as he surrendered to me, "Telar."

Saturday night at the edge of the world was always a good time.

#Original Fiction #My Writing #Fiction Under 1k Words #Science Fiction

[scribblelark]

The Summoning

I wrote this story for submission to the Death of All Things anthology that Zombies Need Brains is producing, but it wasn’t accepted, so I post it here instead. It’s nearly 5k words of mythology-inspired fantasy told from a Second Person PoV.

The summons has a distinctive drumbeat, like a steady heartbeat beneath the ritual chanting, and you shudder when the chant calls on your name, compelling you to manifest from Doaht, realm of the dead and the gods, to the upper world realm of the living. It's been at least a couple of hundred years by the count of mortals since last you were called and you would ignore them if you could, but they have every word of the chant exactly as it should be and to ignore the summons is impossible.

The rhythms of the chant and drum speed up, imparting a need for urgency to the summons, which you bitterly resent, but since you cannot ignore it, you manifest yourself where the blood has been spilled, where the chant names and binds you, where the drumbeats match your own heartbeat.

You look down from your perch atop a tree and see that there's only a small crowd of forty or so people awaiting you, and you spring lithely down from the tree to land with an earth-shaking thump that has nothing to do with the weight of your physical form. Most of the supplicants cower, then prostrate themselves on the ground, as they should. But one does not: a middle aged (insofar as you can discern ages on these mortals) man who reeks of borrowed power, stands firm in front of the others.

"Who dares summon me, Tethu, Guardian of the Dead?" you demand – you don't shout, your voice isn't even audible – it simply echoes in their minds. You regard the group before you – you have the ability to read and understand all language, whether written, spoken, or thought, and you can read the fear – abject terror in fact – that all but the man at the front, is subject to at your appearance, and you smile. Of course, a hawk's head doesn't really lend itself to smiling so the feelings of fear from the people in front of you increases.

"I summon you, Tethu, Guardian of the Dead," says the ringleader. "We demand – "

"Demand?" you say, in a tone of mild astonishment which nevertheless induces more dread in the group – one or two have involuntarily pissed themselves, you can smell it on them; three or four more have passed out in sheer fright.

The ringleader, Ahriman, swallows audibly. "We request – " he begins, moderating his tone, although his entire body is bristling with suppressed rage, which you quickly realise is his way of dealing with being frightened.

"What do you request?" you ask, your voice reverberating around the clearing, although a hawk has no vocal chords with which to speak.

Two more of the group pass out with quiet moans of despair.

"Power to destroy our enemies," says Ahriman. His mind is filled with images of a tribe that lives not too far away, a tribe which has richer, fatter lands for raising their herds and crops, and you discern that the other tribe are peaceful and wish only to coexist in harmony – the ringleader of this tribe, however, wants to destroy the other tribe in order to take over their lands in order to escape his tribe's hardscrabble life. He's riddled with jealousy, rage, fear, desire, and bloodlust.

If you had eyebrows, you'd raise them, but the hawk manifestation is working so well to terrify this group that you don't bother to change your appearance. You're still scanning the group and you notice, with some surprise, that there's a young woman at the back who, although scared, is less terrified than the others and, more importantly, is kneeling in a properly submissive pose, her palms flat on the ground before her, and her forehead touching a spot between her palms. You switch from the hawk-form to a human-form in a blink of an eye. This one intrigues you. Ahriman does not.

"No," you tell him, and with a flick of your fingers, you stop his heart in his chest. His body collapses to the ground, a look of pure astonishment on his face before it splats into the ordure on the forest floor.

You stalk across the clearing, and the supplicants moan and scuttle out of the way, those who are unconscious being dragged aside by those who are still awake.

You stop in front of the suppliant girl. "You interest me," you tell her, and draw her carefully to her feet. She keeps her head lowered, her gaze on your legs, or possibly something a little higher than your legs. You know how these mortals are led by their base instincts, and when you manifested, you didn't bother with clothing, so your interest in her is now quite obvious.

"Who are you?" you ask her.

"Seshet, Master Tethu."  

"And why are you here, Seshet? Do you seek the power to destroy your enemies?"

"No, Master Tethu." She whispers the words, but you can sense the truth of them. You can see into her mind, too, and know that Ahriman, the man you've just killed, had made this one his personal slave, doing things to her, or making her do things to him, that she found repugnant. You change your young male aspect to that of an older woman, dark-skinned like this one, and fully clothed; she gasps, startled, and her body trembles at the suddenness of the change.

"Show me to your friend," you command, but softly. "The one who is sick."

She doesn't speak, but you sense her fear that you will take her sick friend away to Doaht – you don't offer her false hope, but it's not your intention to take him to the realm of the dead unless you absolutely must, and that you won't know until you see him.

"Yes, Master Tethu." She turns swiftly and leads the way through the trees until the two of you reach a hut at the edge of the forest. Within the hut there is only one room, and on a pallet near the central fire pit, where a poor sort of fire is burning, lies a man about two decades older than the young woman. He is sick, burning with fever from a knife wound that's going bad, and it could easily be a mortal wound, but it doesn't have to be, not now you're here.

"You need to put more fuel on that fire," you tell the girl, Seshet.

She nods, then goes back outside, and you turn your attention back to the man. A bard, you discover when you look into his feverish mind. Corbenic. He'd taken the knife wound in his arm trying to protect Seshet from the late Ahriman, even though he knew he was no warrior like the dead man. You find yourself admiring Corbenic, though he was foolish to pit himself against the warrior. And you like Seshet – she has great strength of mind, great courage, and great compassion. She, not the dead man, would make a very suitable leader for her small tribe.

And you know just how to make sure that happens.

When Seshet returns with her arms full of twigs and small branches she glances fearfully at you, then at Corbenic's face, and you see the love she has for him in her mind – she has never mentioned it to him, believing the older man only sees her like a daughter, not as a potential lover, and you mentally shake your head at this foolishness since, below the fever and pain, you can sense his desire for her in his mind.

Once the fire is blazing, you make Seshet sit crosslegged in front of you at Corbenic's side, and she places her hands over the wound, then you place your hands over hers, your breasts pressing against her back as your arms encircle her body. You sense a spark of interest in her mind, and it intrigues you – you have had few dealings with mortals over the millennia, but you are aware that they tend to pair up male and female. This one, though, would mate with you as happily as with Corbenic.

You put those thoughts aside, and make Seshet repeat a low-voiced chant over and over as you draw the putrefaction from the wound and disperse it into the ether, casting it onto a breeze that takes it far away. You instruct Seshet on how to make a paste of herbs that will help the wound to heal more quickly, and also on how to bind Corbenic's wound more effectively. By the time the two of you have finished, the man's fever is already cooling, and she carefully trickles honey mead into his mouth, drop by slow drop, from a simple clay vessel.

She gives you a grateful smile once the last drop has gone, then shyly asks, "Master Tethu, will you dine with me?"

"I will," you say graciously; you have things to discuss with her.

The two of you eat a simple meal of pottage sprinkled with tiny shreds of meat and spicy seedpods that set your mouth aflame in a very pleasant manner. There are cups of honey mead to drink as well, and when you judge that Seshet is finally relaxed enough to be attentive, you suggest to her that she would make a far better leader of her tribe than the man you killed earlier.

"But I'm a woman," she says, clearly puzzled by the suggestion.

You frown at her. "Being a woman doesn't preclude you being a leader," you tell her.

She shakes her head. "No one would listen to me. I'm too young as well as being a woman. Why would the tribe's elders take me seriously? They are old men, considered wise by the rest of the tribe."

You smile wolfishly. "Why wouldn't they, when you're backed up by me?"

She gulps audibly, swallowing hard, and you sense a spark of hope in amongst the doubts and fears that crowd her mind. "Why would you support me?" she asks. "You are Tethu, Guardian of the Dead, a god. I am no one important. My people are unimportant."

"You're not important yet," you observe, and she shakes her head again. "How would it be if you became All-Mother, not only of your tribe, but of all the tribes around you? You could bring peace and prosperity to this whole region."

"How?" she whispers, half eager, half disbelieving.

"I will teach you what you need to know," you say, and you sense she needs time to think it over. You're not interested in making her your puppet, so forcing her into the role of All-Mother is not an option. You know that other Doaht dwellers enjoy controlling the mortals who summon them to manifest among them, but that's never been your style. As an occupation for a millennia-old immortal that sort of thing palls pretty quickly.

"You should sleep," you tell Seshet. "I will keep watch over Corbenic."

"Thank you," she says softly, and curls up on her pallet on the other side of the central fire pit. Within moments she's fast asleep and you understand this is the first opportunity for proper sleep that she's had since Corbenic was wounded.

As she sleeps you send dreams into her mind – thoughts and ideas about being the All-Mother, and what it would mean not only to her and Corbenic, but to her small tribe which is barely surviving. That bare survival is a part of the reason that Ahriman wanted power from you – but you saw no reason to help him start a war when his tribe's status is a reflection on his poor leadership skills. Guardian of the Dead you may be, but you see no reason to precipitate deaths needlessly.

# # # #

When Seshet awakens in the morning she looks thoroughly rested, yet also guilty, and you realise that her guilt comes from not having watched over Corbenic. That guilt vanishes speedily, however, when he awakes and looks up at her with a loving smile.

"Seshet," he says softly, and she sits down beside him with a thump; you're amused that she's completely forgotten about your presence for the moment, and you watch with interest as the pair talk in low voices, Seshet's hands are gentle and her expression tender as she checks the knife wound on Corbenic's arm, and it's after she's done that that she remembers you're there. She introduces you to Corbenic formally, and he looks startled by the presence of Tethu, Guardian of the Dead, in his hut, but he is properly grateful when Seshet tells him how you helped her deal with his wound.

"How can we repay you, Master Tethu?" he asks.

"By teaching your children, and your tribe's children to worship me," you say.

They both look bewildered by your words – unsurprisingly since the tribe has no children.

"Our children?" Corbenic asks, glancing sideways at Seshet, who immediately casts her eyes down, a blush just visible on her dark skin.

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Your children," you say firmly.

He reaches for Seshet's hand and she curls her fingers around his. "I didn't know," he whispers, and she shakes her head. "I thought you saw me as a father."

"And I thought you saw me as a daughter," she replies.

You clear your throat, and they startle, tearing their eyes from each other's faces, and give you their full attention again, though their hands remain joined.

"You need to broker a deal with the neighbouring tribe," you tell them. "The ones Ahriman wanted to make war on. You need to join the remnants of your tribe with theirs"

"But what can we offer them?" asks Corbenic doubtfully. "We are barely surviving. We have no skills to offer them that they do not themselves possess."

"At the moment, no, you don't. But soon you will." For a moment you enjoy the look of bewilderment on their faces at your enigmatic words, then you relent and explain. "You will share with them knowledge that I will give to you, and in that way, your tribe will enrich theirs."

"Knowledge?" Seshet asks, that spark in her mind again.

You nod. "Knowledge of medicine – herbs and healing lore," you elaborate when you realise that neither of them is familiar with the word 'medicine'. "Also writing."

"Writing?" Corbenic tries out the unfamiliar word and you smile, knowing that as a Bard he, in particular, is going to love the concept of writing.

"Writing," you say. "It's a means of recording the tales you sing and recite so that they can be passed on to others and need not be lost at the death of a Bard. I know many more tales than you, so I will share new ones with you, which you can write down, and share with other Bards from other tribes."

He looks positively stunned by the concept, as you knew he would be. "That – that sounds amazing," he whispers. "But why are you helping us? I thought Tethu, Guardian of the Dead, would care little or nothing for the living." He swallows hard, looking panic-stricken. "I mean no disrespect, Master Tethu. I fear my understanding of you is imperfect."

"Yes it is," you say, but gently, because it's not Corbenic's fault. You've left these mortals alone for a couple of centuries, it's not surprising that their knowledge of you has grown patchy and been corrupted during the passage of time.

"I care for the dead after they pass into the realm of Doaht," you tell them. "I help them on their journey to meet with Yneput, where their souls and hearts and deeds are weighed before the goddess of Justice and Truth. But I do not care to see people die. I am Tethu, Guardian of the Dead, not Tethu God of the Dead. I am not a bringer of Death, I am the caretaker of the dead."

They nod at you, and you smile, pleased that they understand.

# # # #

Over the next few weeks you remain among Seshet's people, teaching them. Being a god, you could, of course, just dump the new knowledge into their heads, but you resist that temptation, no matter how much some of the older ones struggle with the alien concept of writing. You know they will understand these new concepts better if they learn them rather than merely acquiring them, and understanding the concepts will allow them to teach them to others. If Seshet's tribe is to be worthy of joining the Hotephi, the neighbouring tribe, then they have to be able to teach others what they know. You are determined to see Seshet as All-Mother throughout this whole region of Aegypt – she will lead not only her own people, but all the other  tribes, into a golden age of peace and prosperity.

Seshet and Corbenic take to their new roles as leaders of the tribe with only a little opposition – the elders argue that Ahriman, for all his faults, was a mighty warrior, whereas Seshet is a woman and Corbenic a Bard, but you're on hand to ensure the opposition quickly sees the wisdom of allowing Seshet to become the tribe's Chief, despite the lack of precedent: it only takes one appearance of you in your powerful hawk form, and a reminder that the mighty warrior Ahriman had left them in the pitiful state in which the tribe currently finds itself – willing to make war on a peaceful neighbouring tribe in the hopes of stealing their lands, for the elders to agree to install Seshet as Chief.

As you live among them, teaching them, you learn more about Seshet and Corbenic. She's an orphan whose parents died of fever when she was a young child. She lived with one of the elders until she was 16, and deemed old enough to determine her own path. For the last five years she's looked after the tribe's bee hives, making honey – and honey mead – for the Basiri tribe.

As the tribe's Bard, Corbenic has spent most of the last few years travelling the length and breadth of the Black Lands, the fertile river on either side of the river, sharing his songs and poetry, and learning new songs and poems from other Bards he met in his journeying. His skin is much lighter than Seshet's and you learn that his mother comes from lands far to the north of Aegypt. He only returned to the Basiri from his most recent travels a couple of weeks ago, and had immediately seen that Ahriman was treating Seshet badly. He'd appealed to the elders to intervene, but they'd refused, so he'd confronted Ahriman himself, and suffered the consequences for his attempt to help Seshet.

It's perfectly obvious, not only to you, but to the rest of the tribe, how devoted to each other they are.

"Master Tethu?"

"Yes Seshet?" You're lounging near the fire pit one afternoon a few weeks after you first manifested, a goblet of honey mead in your hand, when Seshet comes in with Corbenic at her back.

"Corbenic and I have decided to wed, and we would like you to lead the ceremony."

You raise your eyebrows at them. "Not really my area," you say. "But I will ask Oohsaht, goddess of marriage and fertility to officiate. It's been a while since she attended a mortal wedding ceremony, I'm sure she'd be happy to help you out."

Seshet and Corbenic exchange a glance, and his arm wraps around her shoulders. "We'd be honoured, Master Tethu," he says.

You nod, swallow down the last of your honey mead, then get to your feet. "When do you want to be wed? Today?"

Seshet looks shocked, and Corbenic gives her a squeeze. "Three days?" he suggests.

"Three days it is, then," you say, and with only a brief flash of light to mark your passage, you leave them and return to Doaht.

You arrive in your own comfortable home, but without even a glance around, you head out in search of Oohsaht. You find her in her own home, lying in a huge tub of hot water. She flicks her eyebrows at the sight of you, and you realise that you're still in your older woman form. A blink of an eye later, you're in your young masculine form. Oohsaht looks you up and down in an obviously approving manner, then beckons.

"You can scrub my back, Tethu."

It's less a request than a command, but you don't mind that. You step over to the bathtub and reach for the soap and loofah. You're fairly sure that she has minions or acolytes - devotees, certainly - to do this sort of thing for her, but if pandering to her wishes in this regard is the way to persuade her to accede to the request you bring her, then you do not mind. Besides, it's a very nice back. And a very nice body that it's attached to. This is the first time you've seen Oohsaht completely naked and you find your own body reacting in a predictable manner as you rub soap into the ebony-dark skin beneath your hands.

"I haven't seen you for some time," she says once you've finished her back.

"I've been in the mortal realm," you tell her, and when she looks interested rather than bored, you proceed to tell her of the summoning, and its outcome.

"So what brings you to me?" she asks. "Did you get bored with the mortals?

You chuckle. Oohsaht has never had much interest in mortals, except in a few very specific instances where some exceptionally good looking man or gorgeous woman has caught her eye, and she has coupled with them, before she grew bored - though not without leaving them a reminder of their union: there are a double handful of demi-gods roaming the mortal realm thanks to Oohsaht.

"You enjoy mortal weddings, don’t you, 'Saht?" you ask.

"Of course," she says instantly.

"Come and preside over one in Aegypt for me?"

"Who is it? A mighty King? A beautiful Queen?"

"A Bard and his sweetheart," you say, and she flicks up her eyebrows again, lips pursing.

"Tell me."

You smirk and begin washing the rest of her as you detail the story of Seshet and Corbenic. She listens courteously as your hands work the soapy lather over her limbs and torso.

"Very well," she says as you finish your ministrations. "I'll come and preside over the mortals' wedding – as a special favour to you because you've been so good to me today."

"I'm always good to you, 'Saht," you assert.

She chuckles. "Yes you are, you're a very good boy in that regard."

"Boy," you groan. Of course, compared to her, you are a boy as she's at least a couple of millennia older than you.

Eventually she climbs out of the tub, and you help her to dry off, then wrap her in a magnificent golden robe, then she takes your hand and leads you through to a magnificent dining chamber where you feast and talk for hours. At her invitation, you stay the night with her. She's right that it's been a long time since you've been among your own kind, and you're quite sure that 'Saht has all manner of tricks to teach you - and you've always been a willing pupil.

# # # #

Three days later you and Oohsaht attend the wedding of Seshet and Corbenic, which isn't a grand affair compared to some mortal weddings, but is nevertheless an enjoyable occasion. Seshet looks nearly as magnificent as Oohsaht in an outfit supplied by the goddess for the purpose. Of course, Oohsaht is a good deal taller than Seshet (Oohsaht manifests as a very tall woman built on magnificent lines, and her ebony skin is so dark it shines in the candlelight), but that's a small matter to a goddess, and the cream and gold dress looks stunning on Seshet, whose skin is a few shades lighter than Oohsaht's. Corbenic looks smart in an outfit of cream trews and tunic which you'd provided for him, and the bridal pair are practically glowing with happiness.

Four days after their wedding Seshet and Corbenic travel to the Hotephi territory, in order to broker their deal. You accompany them, wearing your male aspect, but an older man this time because at this stage you don't want to antagonise the Hotephi: for your plan to work, everything has to be done in a peaceful and orderly fashion.

The meeting goes well, despite the Hotephi elders' initial surprise and confusion on learning that Seshet, not Corbenic, is the Chief of the Basiri tribe. Once that is out of the way, however, the negotiations progress in a very satisfactory fashion – the Hotephi are amazed and impressed at Corbenic's demonstration of writing and reading, and equally impressed with Seshet's recipes for a couple of new medicinal salves. The Hotephi are also suitably awed by the revelation of your identity – the idea that a god has been behind this scheme is startling, but they do not voice (or even think about) any objections to the proposed merging of the Hotephi and Basiri tribes, and they even agree that when the current Hotephi Chief, who is an old man, dies, Seshet will become Chief of the conjoined tribes.

As Seshet and Corbenic return to their people to break the good news, you can't help thinking that this a far more desirable outcome of being summoned by the late, unlamented Ahriman than the war he'd wanted. You can leave Seshet and Corbenic to get on with their lives secure in the knowledge that you won't be escorting dozens of dead Hotephi and Basiri through Doaht any time soon.

You do have a few qualms about whether the power will go to their heads, as it's apt to do with even the best of mortals, but you feel reasonably confident that you've chosen the new leaders of the Basiri tribe wisely. Only time will tell whether you made the right choice, and entertaining though this interlude has been, you're ready to return to your own home now.

# # # #

Twenty five years pass before you see Seshet and Corbenic again – you'd occasionally overflown (in the guise of a mighty hawk) the Black Lands, the region in which the Basiri-Hotephi tribe has been flourishing and expanding for a generation – just to see how everything was going, but you hadn't manifested there in a form they would recognise.

You're a little startled to see them both here in Doaht simultaneously – and you don't hesitate to greet them and find out how it is they've died together. You learn that the river had flooded, as it regularly did (which was what made that region so fertile), but this flood had been unexpectedly powerful, and the pair had been attempting to rescue some stranded people when their boat had been swept away, causing them to drown.

"I'm glad that you have thrived and lived happily since I saw you last," you tell them. "Four children, and a dozen grandchildren is a good legacy, quite apart from the expansion of the Basiri-Hotephi's lands. You have done excellent work and I am certain Yneput will judge your souls and hearts and deeds favourably. You may rest here and prepare yourselves for your journey through Doaht, and your meeting with Yneput. I will personally accompany you on that journey since you have fulfilled every hope that I entertained about you."

"Thank you, Master Tethu." You sense their gratitude and relief at your promise, and you lead them to your house intending to do your utmost to help them prepare. Yneput is mighty yet merciful, and you cannot doubt for one moment that she will not judge them favourably for all that they've done in the last quarter century. (Ahriman's heart and soul and deeds were, unsurprisingly, found wanting, and he did not survive his encounter with a demon, the Blood-drinker who comes from the slaughterhouse.) The fact that Seshet and Corbenic died trying to save lives will weigh favourably on Yneput's scales.

Your only regret, as you get Seshet and Corbenic settled for the evening, is that they are here so soon – you would have been happier to have waited quite a few years more before seeing them in Doaht. But done is done, and dead is dead. At least they have the favour of Tethu, Guardian of the Dead.

#Original Fiction #My Writing #Fiction Under 5k Words #Mythology

[scribblelark]

I was inspired by this photoset to write a story featuring a small boy and his ‘magic dog’. I submitted the story for publication, but it was rejected, so I’m sharing it here:

The Rite of Spring

The dog, if dog it was, since it looked rather as if someone had animated a huge mop head made of string, bounded around the corner and almost bowled Barnaby off his feet.

'Hey,' he called, his boyish voice high in the cold air. 'Mind out!'

'Sorry,' called back the dog and Barnaby stood stock still in the middle of the pavement, staring after the dog, if dog it was, since everyone knew dogs could not talk.

He was still staring at the string mop dog when he was almost knocked over a second time – this figure, however, was definitely human: a tall, black-skinned woman clad in flowing robes of white and gold and a shade of green which made him think of young Spring leaves.

'Hey,' he called again, this time in a tone of mild annoyance. 'Can't you people look where you're going?'

The woman spun about, her silk robes flaring out around her body as she turned so swiftly, and gave him an apologetic smile, her white teeth startling in that ebony face.

'My apologies, young Master – ' Her voice was melodious in his mind.

'Barnaby,' he said automatically, then registered that the woman, like the dog, had spoken directly into his mind, and not aloud. He frowned up at her, puzzled but unafraid. 'How did you do that?' he asked curiously.

She smiled again, and he found himself smiling back. 'Master Barnaby, you look like a lively sort of young man.' He liked the "young man" – it made him feel very mature for a 9 year old. 'Can you jump? Clap? Stamp?' At each successive question he gave a quick nod, now fully curious. 'Ah, but can you dance?' she asked finally.

'Like a Kossakian,' he said, a little proudly, for Kossakian dancers were the very best in Old Russika.

The tall woman positively grinned now. 'Good. Come.'

She turned and swept away down the snowy street, and Barnaby found himself swept along in her wake: he was aware that he wasn't running, but neither was he walking. He looked down, but couldn't figure out how it was done. 'Is it magic?' he asked in an awed voice.

She chuckled, a rich, warm sound that made him think of drinking hot chocolate and eating his Granma's rich cinnamon buns, still warm from the oven in the days before his Ma died. 'It is,' she said cheerfully. 'And we shall do even more, and far greater magic, shortly.'

'But I don't know how,' he whispered, disappointed.

'You shall know,' she said, and said it in such a definite way that he felt he couldn't disagree, even though he felt sure that learning to do magic must take years and years of study – it always did in the old tales that Granma liked to tell on a dark Winter night when the two of them were tucked up against the cold in her old attic room.

They swept through the city, towards the Old Quarter as it was called, which he knew from his Granma's stories was the part of the city that had stood the longest – there were still a handful of the old wooden buildings down there, or so Granma had said – but most were built from quarried stone (buildings in the New Quarter, by contrast, were built of red brick, or shining marble, or steel and glass).

'We'll begin here,' the woman told him, stopping in an empty square that was surrounded on all sides by old, crumbling buildings. Barnaby, the woman, and Dog were the only ones present.

'My name is Vesna, and you, Barnaby, together with Dog, are going to dance the Rite of Spring to ensure that Spring comes and Winter goes.'

He cocked his head, looking up at the woman who was so much taller than him. 'How?' he asked simply.

She smiled, then began clapping her hands and stamping her feet in the rhythm of a dance that reminded him of one of the oldest Kossakian dances – though it wasn't quite the same.

'Your feet will know,' she called over the sound of her clapping and stamping.

He gave her a puzzled look, but then, unbidden, his feet began to move in time with the "music" she made: he stamped and jumped, leapt and turned, Dog leaping and spinning beside him – sometimes Dog leapt higher than Barnaby's head, and that was a fine thing to see; he found himself laughing, breathlessly, in pure delight at the sight of this string mop of a Dog pirouetting as skilfully as any dancer from the old Marensky ballet company.

After that, Vesna led him backwards and forwards, criss-crossing the city, and in every open space where she stopped, Barnaby and Dog danced, leapt, spun, stomped, clapped, and cavorted together.

As the morning wore on, the streets and squares became busier, and after each dance, Barnaby and Dog went among their audience collecting tips: mostly they collected 10 or 20 pence coins, but occasionally Barnaby saw the glint of gold as a dollar coin dropped into his cap. He wondered whether he would be allowed to keep any of the tips for himself: even a relatively small sum would make a big difference to himself and Granma: fuel for their meagre fire; something more than oats for the kasha porridge for their supper; another blanket for Granma's knees, since she felt the cold dreadfully in her arthritic joints. Vesna emptied the coins from his cap into a leather money sack once they were ready to depart, and she must have seen his wistful look as she tipped the latest offerings in, because she cinched the neck of the sack closed, popped his cap back on his dishevelled blond hair, then clasped his shoulder.

'Two thirds of this money is yours, Barnaby,' she said in a low voice. 'You've earned it. The rest I will use to feed Dog.'

'T-t-two thirds,' he stuttered, startled.

'Of course,' she said, as if it was obvious.

'That's a lot of money,' he whispered.

'It's a lot of dancing,' she pointed out, smiling. 'And talking of food, I think it's time you had something to eat – you will be dancing until dusk, and that is still some hours away.'

She led him across the busy square where he and Dog had just been dancing, and into an eating house – it was the kind of place he'd only seen in passing: far too expensive for him ever to have eaten in before his Ma died, and too far from home for him to scavenge from at the end of the day.

Dog settled in front of the fire, a bowl of water and a second one of meaty chunks of dog food in front of him, while Barnaby and Vesna sat at a table to the side of the fireplace, and ate knish and pelmeni – it was the nicest food he'd eaten in years.  Granma could usually only afford to give him kasha if he couldn't scrounge anything nicer from the nearby eating houses.

'When we finish dancing, will you come back to Granma's with me?' he asked as they stepped back out of the eating house after their meal. He felt awkward for asking, but also compelled to do so. 'I don't want Granma to think I did anything I oughtn't to get so much money.'

'She doesn't trust your honesty?' Vesna asked.

'She will wonder,' he said.

'Very well.'

'Thank you.'

She nodded, then led him off to yet another square, and he and Dog performed once more. As he went around the ring of people, of whom there were many more this time: shoppers pausing on their way to or from one of the nearby emporiums (they were too grand to be mere shops), and workers slipping out for some fresh air (for it was a beautiful day despite the cold), Barnaby saw a tall white woman with iron grey hair in a severe bun talking to Vesna, and he wondered, suddenly, if she was Taynaya, the secret police – she didn't appear to be in uniform, but that didn't prove anything.

Vesna beckoned Barnaby over, and he gulped, then walked across to where the two women stood.

'Barnaby, this is Miss Petrova, she is a teacher at the Marensky ballet school, and would like to talk to you. Miss Petrova, this is Barnaby.'

'How do you do, Master Barnaby,' said Miss Petrova, and held out her hand.

He passed Vesna the cap full of coins, then rubbed his palm surreptitiously on his scarf, before carefully shaking hands. 'How do you do, ma'am,' he said, looking up into her face and trying to judge what sort of person she was.

'I just watched your very fine display of dancing,' she told him, with a genuine smile of pleasure that helped him feel a bit more relaxed. 'You're very good.'

'Thank you,' he said quietly.

'I'd like to offer you a place at the Marensky school,' she said, and he did his best not to gape rudely.

'You – you would?' he asked, doubtful and breathless all at once.

She nodded. 'Will your mother be at home this evening? I would like to call on her to discuss this offer with her – assuming you do want to come to my school?' she asked, her head tilted interrogatively at him.

'Oh, yes, please!' he said eagerly, thrilled by the idea.

'Good. Then I will come and speak to your mother.'

'You can't,' Barnaby told her sadly, thinking about how proud his Ma would've been had she still been alive. 'She died. I live with my Granma.'

'Very well. Will you tell her to expect me at eight o'clock, then?'

He nodded, then gave her his Granma's address. He wasn't sure quite how Granma would react to an unexpected visitor, but at least he'd have a few hours to prepare her if he was only going to dance until dusk.

# # # #

At dusk Vesna and Dog escorted Barnaby back to his Granma's house. He felt a bit awkward about taking her there since Granma wasn't expecting a visitor, and he wasn't sure she'd even have got up today since it was so cold. But he couldn't find the words to articulate this worry to Vesna – all he could do was ask her to wait a few minutes before she came upstairs to the attic room so that he could prepare Granma to receive a visitor. To his gratitude Vesna didn't seem to mind and told him she'd be upstairs in 15 minutes. He nodded his thanks, then raced up the four flights of stairs; it was only when he reached the top that he realised he was actually tired from his day of dancing.

He pulled the key on its string around his neck out from under his clothes and unlocked the door, then went inside. To his relief Granma was sitting in her armchair, bundled up in all their blankets, with their usual meagre fire lit in the fireplace.

'Barnaby! There you are, boy. Where have you been all day?'

'Hello, Granma,' he said quickly, hurrying across the room to hug her carefully, mindful of her 'old lady bones' as she called them. 'I've been dancing – with a magic Dog. We've been dancing The Rite of Spring, and I earned lots and lots of tips.'

His Granma held him out from her, looking at his no-doubt flushed face and dishevelled appearance. 'The Rite of Spring, eh?' she said, and he was surprised that she wasn't more surprised. 'And a magic Dog.'

'Yes, ma'am,' he said eagerly. 'They're downstairs, but they'll be coming up to see you soon.'

'They?' she said sharply. 'Who's they?'

'Oh. Vesna – she owns Dog, and she was the one who asked me to dance the Rite.'

'You'd better put the rest of the wood on the fire, then, if we're having visitors,' Granma said.

Barnaby nodded. 'And I can buy some more. I earned a lot today.'

Granma just nodded, then watched as Barnaby hastily put the rest of their small cache of wood onto the fire. He began unwinding his striped scarf – one of the few things he had left to remind him of his mother as she'd knitted it for him two years ago, finishing it just a few weeks before she died. Then he pulled off his overcoat too, since the room was already growing warmer.

A few minutes later there was a knock at the door, and his Granma gestured for him to open it for their visitors. He hurried across the room and let them in.

'Granma, this is – '

'Vesna, the Goddess of Spring,' said his Granma, and he gaped at her, then looked up, a little fearfully, into the face of the woman who'd kept him company all day.

'G-Goddess?' he whispered, then dropped to his knees.

Vesna chuckled, then put a hand under his arm and lifted him back up to his feet. 'Now then, Master Barnaby, none of that.'

'B-but you didn't say,' he said, stricken.

'It wasn't important,' she told him. She looked at Granma. 'You know who I am?'

Granma nodded, her expression stern. '69 years ago, you asked my little brother to dance The Rite of Spring,' she said.

Vesna's expression grew thoughtful, inward-looking even, then she smiled and nodded. 'So I did.' She looked from Granma to Barnaby, then back to Granma's still stern expression. 'Your grandson dances as well as your brother did.'

'You're not having him,' Granma said.

'Granma!' protested Barnaby, not quite sure what she meant, but hearing an unusual sharpness in her tone.

Vesna shook her head. 'I didn't take your brother away, Mrs Nureyev.'

Granma snorted in the rudest fashion, and Barnaby felt alarmed. He didn't understand what was going on, but he felt all his joy and pleasure in the day's dancing draining away in the face of Granma's rising anger.

'Granma,' he whispered. She flicked him a glance, one that he was familiar with, that told him to keep his silence.

Suddenly Dog barked, startling them all, and Granma's anger seemed to vanish as she stared at Dog, then began chuckling.

'He hasn't changed any more than you,' she said to Vesna, who gave a half bow. 'Still looks like an old string mop head.'

Dog pushed forward and put his head in Granma's lap, and she chuckled again, fondling Dog's ears and head.

'You're a ridiculous creature,' she told him, but her tone was fond, and a lot more relaxed than a few minutes ago. Dog woofed softly, then pushed his muzzle against her throat, before he licked her face, making her protest and try to push him away. 'Get out of here, you daft Dog.'

He woofed again, then moved back to Vesna's side, and Barnaby passed her his handkerchief to wipe her face.

'Thank you, Barnaby.'

Vesna placed the leather money sack on the corner table that was at Granma's elbow. 'These are Barnaby's earnings for the day, minus a small sum to cover Dog's food.'

Granma raised her eyebrows at the obvious weight of the sack, then looked at Barnaby. 'There's something else, isn't there?' she asked.

He swallowed hard, then nodded. 'I met a Miss Petrova – '

'Svetlana Petrova?' interrupted his Granma. 'The famous ballerina? That Miss Petrova?'

He looked at Vesna, and she smiled. 'Yes, that Svetlana Petrova,' she said. 'She wants to offer Barnaby a place at the Marensky school.'

Granma huffed. 'So you're going to take my boy from me as well as my brother.'

'I'm not going anywhere, Granma,' Barnaby said anxiously. He was worried because she sounded more resigned than annoyed now, and she so rarely resigned herself to anything.

'If you go to this school, you'll be clear across the other side of the city,' she pointed out. 'And in a few years time, you'll leave the school and go off with some dance company or other, and I'll be left all on my own here to wither away like a – '

'No,' said Barnaby angrily. 'I won't go.'

Dog barked again, but Granma scowled this time. 'You won't get around me like that a second time,' she told Dog, or perhaps she was talking to Vesna – Barnaby wasn't sure.

'I won't leave you alone,' Barnaby repeated emphatically.

Her expression softened, and she reached out a stick-thin arm from among her nest of blankets, drawing him close until he hung over her. 'You should go,' she told him. 'It's the best opportunity you'll ever receive.'

'I'm not leaving you alone,' he repeated stubbornly.

'You won't have to,' Vesna said.

There was something almost compelling in her tone, and Barnaby looked over his shoulder at her in curiosity. As he stared at the Goddess, Dog pushed up onto his hind legs, and then a ripple of golden light ran down the length of his body, so bright as to be blinding, and Barnaby instinctively closed his eyes against it. When the light faded, he opened his eyes again to see a girl a little taller and older than himself, with long blonde hair in ringlets down her back, standing beside Vesna.

'Hello Barnaby, Mrs Nureyev. My name is Anfisa. I will be your companion while Barnaby is at school.'

Barnaby swallowed, then straightened up. 'Granma?'

She shook her head, and his heart sank, but even as she was shaking her head she said, 'Very well, very well.'

'Thank you,' he gasped, then threw his arms around her. 'Thank you, Granma.'

'Just make sure you work hard,' Granma said gruffly. 'Don't make me regret letting you go.'

'I'll work very hard, I promise,' Barnaby said, feeling as if his heart might burst from happiness.

'I know you will,' she said, her tone still gruff, but a look of pride in her eyes.

'You could look for an apartment nearer to the school,' Vesna suggested lightly. 'The school will offer Barnaby a scholarship to pay his fees, and for books and dancing shoes and things. And there's enough money in that bag for someone who lives as frugally as you do, to keep you for at least a year.'

Granma nodded, but didn't speak, and Vesna nodded back, then held out her hand to Barnaby.

'It was a pleasure to meet you, and to see you dance, Master Barnaby – you were magnificent.'

'Thank you,' he said, his voice now as gruff as Granma's had been a moment ago.

'Don't worry about money for Anfisa,' Vesna said at the door. 'I'll take care of that.' The Goddess exchanged a warm embrace with Anfisa, then let herself out of the apartment, and Barnaby heard her steps on the stairs, then he switched his attention back to the girl.

'Are you really Dog?' he asked awkwardly.

She gave him a dazzling smile. 'Dog is one of my aspects,' she told him. 'My favourite one, but sometimes being human-shaped is more helpful.'

'Huh.'

'We'd better do something about supper,' Granma said, and he noticed she sounded much her usual self now. 'And we'll need more firewood if we're to have another visitor.'

'I'll get the firewood,' Barnaby said.

'I'll make supper,' Anfisa said. 'I'm here to help you, Mrs Nureyev.'

'You won't find a lot in the cupboard,' Granma told her.

Anfisa smiled. 'Then while Barnaby goes to get some more wood, I'll run to the market and see what bargains I can find.'

Granma nodded. She set the money sack in her lap, then opened it with a little help from Barnaby as it was very heavy. She peered in, short-sightedly, then made a strangled sort of noise. 'There's hundreds of dollars in here,' she said.

'What?' exclaimed Barnaby.

Granma dipped a hand into the sack and lifted up a heap of the shining gold dollar coins in her cupped hands. He watched as she trickled them back into the sack,  then she passed a handful to Barnaby for wood, and another handful to Anfisa for food.

'You'd both better hurry,' she told them, 'or our visitor will be here before we're ready.'

The two children nodded then, after Barnaby had hurriedly put on his coat and scarf again, then ran down the stairs together, parting at street level.

As Barnaby ran along the street towards the man who usually sold them wood for their fire, he was aware that his legs were tired now, and he was hungry and cold, but none of that mattered so much as the knowledge that he was going to go to ballet school, and train and study like a proper Kossakian dancer. And Granma wouldn't be alone or lonely while he studied, which was also important to him.

When he'd left home this morning, he had not expected his life to be turned upside down before the end of the day. Who knew what tomorrow would bring? He grinned in happy anticipation at the thought.

Little boy and his big dog. [via andyseliverstoff]

#Original Fiction #My Writing #Fiction Under 4k Words

[scribblelark]

This illustration ‘A Bit Under the Weather’ by the writer and artist Douglas Carrel was retweeted by someone I follow, and it sparked an idea for a short story - which is below the cut. (Illustration posted with permission from Douglas Carrel.)

An explosion of sound accompanied by soggy flames and a large sticky globule of green mucus rocked the forest again. It was the third time this evening and the forest’s denizens – animals and birds alike – cowered in their nests and dens and burrows, each of them almost as miserable as the cold-ridden creature up the mountain whose sneezes were wrecking the forest.

“Mama,” whispered the fawn from their sleeping spot on the ridge, “is there nothing anyone can do for the Dragon?”

“Who dares to approach him to offer their help?” answered his mother with a shiver of her flanks. She nudged at his shoulder until he moved in tight against her body, then nuzzled at the side of his neck. “If he didn’t sneeze on us, he’d probably eat us whole.”

The baby deer shivered in turn, not wanting to think about being eaten by a dragon.

The badger and her cubs in their sett, the squirrels in their drays, and the vixen and her cubs in their den were all wondering the same thing: who dared to approach the elderly and irascible dragon, even assuming they had any help to offer. Rabbits huddled close in their burrows and the hares in their forms. A murder of crows fled, shrieking their annoyance, when yet another, especially snotty, sneeze took out the tops of a dozen trees, destroying three nests in the process: they were barely able to get their fledglings to safety.

Finally the raven and the owl took counsel together. “Something must be done,” said the raven firmly. “You’re the eldest of us, after all – ”

“Oh no,” said the owl, interrupting without compunction, ruffling her feathers indignantly. “You’re not pushing this off onto me.”

“Then what do you suggest, O wise Owl?” asked the raven rather sarcastically. “A committee?”

“A witch,” answered the owl, which response struck the raven quite dumb for a few moments.

“Witches are a myth,” he said when he finally recovered his powers of speech. “Everyone knows that.”

“Everyone is ignorant,” retorted the owl sharply. “There is a witch down in the valley. She might be able to help us to ease the dragon’s cold.”

“Us?” repeated the raven suspiciously.

“You were the one who said something had to be done,” the owl said testily. “Of course, if you’re too afraid to visit a witch – ” Provocatively she left the sentence hanging.

If he could have, the raven would have scowled at the owl’s effrontery. As it was, he half-spread his wings, then asked in an icy tone, “When do we leave?”

“There’s no time like the present,” said the owl, spreading her own wings. She soared away from the tree, and the raven followed her after only a handful of wingbeats. He let her lead the way since he had no idea where, precisely, the witch lived.

A short time later they landed on the branch of a young oak tree in the garden of an exceedingly weathered cottage at the head of the valley. Although it was dusk, a time when humans with their less well-developed eyes couldn’t see well, there was a woman sitting in a chair at the other end of the garden. She had something in her lap, and after a moment the raven identified it as a cat. He felt his feathers ruffle, but before he could ask the owl what she thought she was doing by bringing them within reach of such a creature, the owl was hooting a greeting.

The woman got up from her chair and carried the cat inside, then came unhurriedly down the garden to stand a short distance from the oak tree.

“Good evening Mistress Owl, Master Raven,” she said, with a half bow. The raven found such courtesy unexpected and it occurred to him, rather belatedly, that the owl must have conversed with the witch on other occasions.

The owl greeted the witch, calling her ‘Daisy’, which the raven found immensely baffling, then explained to her the situation they were facing in the forest.

The witch listened attentively, and when the owl had finished speaking, she said, “Well, I’ve never treated a dragon before, but I do believe I can help. Unfortunately it will take me the best part of a day to ready everything I shall need. Can one of you forest dwellers guide me to the dragon’s cave tomorrow around dusk?”

“I will do it,” said the raven, ruffling his feathers importantly.

“Very well. I am sorry that I cannot provide a solution to your problems any sooner.”

“We are truly grateful for your assistance,” the owl assured her.

The witch nodded. “I will see you at dusk tomorrow.”

The owl swooped from the branch, then turned and soared away, and the raven followed her after only a moment’s hesitation. A part of him had wanted to remain to converse with the witch.

# # # #

The following day at dusk, the raven led the witch from the valley into the forest and up the slope of the mountain to a spot a short distance from the dragon’s cave. He looked around and saw that there were no longer any whole trees anywhere with a semi-circle around the cave’s entrance – and the damaged trees that remained dripped with green mucus or were scorched with flame.

“The forest will never be the same,” he muttered, and was startled when the witch smiled up at him where he perched on a nearby rocky outcrop.

“I should be able to help with that,” she tells him. “But the dragon first.”

Before the raven could even begin to work out what she meant, the witch called out to the dragon.

“Greetings, O Wise and Mighty Master Dragon.”

There was a stirring within the cave, then the dragon poked its head out of the entrance: it looked unlike itself, somehow, the raven noticed – dispirited and miserable in a way that was different from its usual elderly irascibility.

“Who are you?” asked the dragon listlessly. “And why do you disturb my sleep?”

“My name is Daisy, and I am a witch,” she said. “Your friends the owl and the raven asked me to help you with your cold.”

“Friends?” repeated the dragon in a disbelieving tone.

“Yes, the owl and the raven.”

The witch, realised the raven, didn’t appreciate that the other forest dwellers didn’t consider themselves friends of the dragon.

“How can you help?”

“I’ve brought you some things to relieve the symptoms of your cold,” the witch said.

The dragon eased himself from his cave, then bent his head low towards the witch. “What things?”

“A scarf to keep your neck and throat warm,” she said, and the raven watched in mute astonishment as she quite fearlessly stepped in close to the dragon and wound a long length of fabric around the dragon’s neck.

“No one ever gave me things before,” the dragon said, his voice quite hoarse.

The witch patted his wing. “Perhaps they will now,” she said. “I’ve brought you ginger root to chew on, which will help with the inflammation in your mucus membranes.”

“My what?” asked the dragon.

“Your nose and throat,” the witch told him. “The inflammation is the reason why you’ve been sneezing.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the pale brown, knarly root in her hand. “Will it taste nice?”

“You may well think so, being a dragon,” she told him. “Humans tend to find raw ginger rather too spicy, so they usually prepare it with nicer tasting things to make it more palatable.”

“Thank you.”

“I also brought some eucalyptus oil.”

“What’s that?” The dragon’s tone was a lot more lively now, the raven noticed – and he didn’t sound nearly so irascible as usual.

“It’s quite pungent,” she said. “It will also help to clear your nose – but it has to be inhaled in steam.” She showed him a bottle, and the raven wondered what use there was in giving a bottle like that to a dragon, who lacked a human’s hands.

“I don’t understand,” the dragon said, sounding a little plaintive.

The witch reached behind herself and unslung a leather sack that she’d affixed to her back. “Is there a water source nearby?” she asked, taking a large copper bowl from the sack.

“There’s a spring just over there,” the raven answered, pointing it out with his wing.

“I’ll be back in a few moments,” the witch said. “Why don’t you try a piece of ginger?” She broke off a piece and held it out, resting on the flat of her hand, to the dragon. He carefully lipped it from her hand, and the raven saw the dragon’s eyes widen as the taste hit him.

“Mmm,” he said thoughtfully around his mouthful of ginger root.

The witch walked over to the spring and the raven flew after her, perching nearby and watching as she poured some of the 'eucalyptus oil’ from the bottle into the copper bowl, which she then proceeded to fill with water.

“He won’t be able to do that for himself,” the raven pointed out.

“Of course not,” the witch, Daisy, answered easily. “I will come and see him again tomorrow, and can do it for him.”

“I don’t think he’s used to people being nice to him,” the raven said frankly.

The witch looked up from the bowl she had just carefully lifted up. “Why not?” she asked. “Why aren’t you nice to him?”

“He’s a dragon,” the raven protested, thinking this ought to be obvious to anyone.

“That’s just prejudice,” Daisy said. “How would you like it if everyone held it against you because ravens eat the dead on battlefields?”

The raven was puzzled. “That’s just how we are made,” he said.

“Exactly. And a dragon cannot help the way it is made, any more than a raven can.”

The raven thought this was a quite ridiculous thing to say – after all, he didn’t go around setting fire to perfectly useful trees. Nor did he steal farmer’s cattle to eat. However, he did not know how powerful this witch was, so he decided not to argue the point with her – she might grow angry and curse him.

She carried the bowl of water back to the dragon’s cave, setting it down near the entrance, then she built up a fire, which the dragon set alight. Once the water was boiling a pungent scent came from the bowl, and the witch directed the dragon to hold his muzzle over the bowl so that the steam entered his nostrils. The raven watched this process in a kind of baffled fascination. He wasn’t sure what it was going to achieve, but if this helped to cure the dragon’s cold, it was all to the good.

It was fully dark by the time the witch said she had done all she could for the dragon for the night. She had just promised to return at the same time the following evening when the owl arrived. The raven was somewhat surprised when she greeted the dragon in a courteous manner, before she spoke to the witch.

“I have come to escort you home,” the owl told her, and the witch thanked her, then turned to the raven.

“Will I see you tomorrow?”

The raven dipped its body in the avian equivalent of a bow. “I will fly down to your cottage at dusk.”

She nodded, then collected her now-empty copper bowl and set it inside her sack before beginning to make her way back through the forest, following the clearly-visible snowy owl.

# # # #

After four days, the dragon’s cold was gone, and the witch had used her magic on the damaged trees around the dragon’s cave so that they would quickly regrow before the winter arrived.

During his visits to the witch’s cottage, the raven had discovered that she did not live alone, as he had supposed, but had an older mate who had something wrong with his legs which meant he could barely walk, even with her assistance. This was a source of great sorrow to the witch, though the raven noticed she only spoke of the matter once on her third visit to the dragon’s cave. He also noticed that the dragon seemed more kindly and less irascible as the days passed, and he wondered if the witch had used her magic on him. However, when he asked her about this, she had laughed and told him that kindness towards others encouraged kindness from others.

As the witch prepared to take her leave on the fourth evening, the dragon asked her to wait for a moment, then disappeared inside his cave. After some time he re-emerged with something held in his mouth, which he set down at the witch’s feet. The raven hopped closer, peering curiously at what appeared to be a bundle of fabric. The witch carefully untied the bundle to reveal a stoppered vial containing a pearlescent, viscous liquid.

“What is it?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“The tears of a dragon,” answered the dragon. “Those of my long-dead mate. You may not be aware of the legend – ”

“I am,” the witch said swiftly, cutting off the dragon’s explanation.

“I’m not,” the raven said a moment later.

The witch looked up at him, shook her head, then looked towards the dragon, who nodded. When she spoke, her voice was low. “As you know, dragons breathe fire, and water is quite inimical to them. It is very rare for a dragon to cry – some say it’s a myth that they even can – but legend has it that a dragon’s tears having healing properties.

"For your mate,” the dragon told her. “Three drops in warm water drunk at bedtime every night for the length of the moon’s complete cycle should cure him.”

“Thank you,” the witch whispered, water running from her own eyes as she flung her arms heedlessly around the dragon’s scaly neck.

“It’s a fair payment,” the dragon said firmly. “Not only did you help to ease my cold, you have used your magic to heal the trees damaged as a consequence of my symptoms. Dragon tears for your mate to heal his legs is a good exchange.”

“Thank you,” the witch repeated. “If you get another cold, send the owl to me.”

The dragon nodded, then turned around and ponderously made his way back into his cave.

# # # #

Slightly more than a full moon cycle later, the witch returned, guided by the owl – but this time she was not alone. The man beside her was older, the raven thought – though he found it difficult to judge human ages – but he moved easily, and the raven sensed how happy the witch was to have him presence at her side.

The dragon came out of his cave almost eagerly at the witch’s called greeting, and though he was still elderly, he was no longer irascible: slowly and warily (on their part at least) he had made friends with the other denizens of the forest, and as Daisy the witch had told the raven, kindness breeds kindness – the owl and the raven’s decision to get the dragon help for his cold had transformed the dragon’s outlook, and made the forest a more congenial place for all within it.

The raven dimly suspected that this was a greater magic than what she had performed in healing the trees that had been damaged by the dragon’s cold.

#Original Fiction #Artist: Douglas Carrel #My Writing #Fiction Under 3k Words #submission

[scribblelark]

“Word of the day: “scribble-lark” - folk-name for the yellowhammer, due to the inked-up, written-on appearance of its beautiful eggs.”

- No word of a lie, this tweet is why I decided to name this original fiction blog ‘Scribble Lark’ - I’m a lark, up ridiculously early every day, and I like to scribble stories. 

#Writing #Original Fiction #My Writing #Words #submission