Showing posts with label young adult fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label young adult fiction. Show all posts
Saturday, July 30, 2022
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Watchers, Part Seven
Another entry in the story started last year: Let me know if you want more.
“Titus, poor Titus! What has this place done to you?” Benjamin sighed before bending over once more to fasten the strap on his other sandal. Should he have left two days ago? He had secured a seat; he had gone to the aeroport. Why had he come back? It could not have been the warmth of his hosts. They had been but strangers. He took a deep breath. “It’s the girl.” There, he had spoken truth at last. He had been plagued with mysteries from the moment he had left his own country, but none were vexing him as much as that child with her sweet voice, big eyes and impossible hand. She had saved his life … and threatened it as well. What was she? For the eighth time, Benjamin ran what he knew to be truth back through his mind. She was a worship house child, she was an adolescent scholar, she was a rich family’s second daughter, she was a ninja warrior. She had two hands, or one, or many? She wore a simple shift or silken gowns, or black tights. She spoke of the “watchers;” she agreed that this was an evil place. What was she? Very smart and much too wise for her physical age, that he knew to be true. Otherwise?
The Wall. She had mentioned a “wall.” She said it had answers. “Hmm.” Benjamin opened the paperback novel and his compupad. He began leafing through the book’s off-white pages, occasionally pausing and noting a word or letter. He typed these characters into a fresh document on his compupad. When he had two lines of text, he hit return, entered a password, confirmed and began to page through the screens that the compupad provided. He took no notes and when he was done, he did not save anything. Instead he ran a second program that deep-erased any record that he had ever accessed any outside source.
__________________________
“I don’t like this.”
Why? the thought passed through Beriana’s mind.
“I am too old, too tall. I am growing up.”
Does that matter?
“You know it does. I used to be a little beggar girl. Now …” Briana made a sour face. “The last time I went out with the bowl, a man offered to take me to a place where they make love. He thought I was trying to sell my body. I don’t like that.”
We have only a few left. We need someone to see for us.
“I don’t want to do this.”
Remember your promise?
“I remember.” Beriana rubbed her right hand, then folded her arms and hugged herself. “This is the last time, for sure.” She began changing.
Nineteen beggars squatted in a line against the north wall of the square. Some were missing limbs. Two appeared to be blind. Beriana seated herself close enough to the group so that she was clearly one of them but not too near. Her business today did not involve coins. She hunched down, trying to make herself appear as small and short as possible before setting down her bowl in front of herself. The sun felt good, and Beriana turned her smudged face toward it, gathering in its heat, then she shielded her brow with her left hand and began watching. She did not have long to wait. The paster arrived within three tick-tocks of her own arrival. He was trying to appear casual, as if he were a simple visitor from the south lands, or some other closer country. He studied the brass bracelets in Uncle Ollie’s stand, spoke briefly with a horse vendor, even looked her way briefly, but gave no sign that he recognized her. Then he approached the older part of a stone-rubble wall that closed in the south side of the market.
“If you know so much about this man that you can predict exactly when he will show up where, why do you need me?”
You know the answer already to that question.
“Humph.” The girl made no further sound but concentrated on watching the pastor’s every move.
Benjamin certainly did not know what he was looking for. He traced the lines and cuts of the wall’s massive boulders, occasionally touching projections or nobules. This had to be the wall the girl had referred to. No other wall was so old or more storied. Here the first humans had overcome the first demons, hurling them from the wall’s heights to destruction on sharp rocks below. Here had once been the altar of love and hate where the first judges had granted marriages and cast evil humans to their deaths. Dark red stains, some washed by rain and scoured by winds back to a limestone white, hinted at ancient violence. Benjamin did not touch the stains. Instead he searched with his eyes, squinting and moving his head back-and-forth to catch each irregularity from as many angles as possible. When three tick-tocks has passed, he straightened and stretched his back. He tried once more, this time using the corners of his eyes as he had in the hotel room. Nothing. The wall, this wall, was supposed to have answers, yet he had found none. He sighed, failure and frustration complete, then, as he turned away, a quick breeze began to blow.
The sudden wind caused stall awnings to flap and even toppled several poles. Merchants grabbed cloth and wood and held on. Shoppers pulled hoods up to shield their faces from the stinging sands and dirt swirling through the booths. The threatening chaos caused even the girl’s companions to pull in their bowls and mute their begging chants.
Benjamin remained still as the sand grains pelted his cheeks, He listened to the sounds of wind and sand squeezing through the crevices and grooves of the wall. The wall was speaking. When the dervish column of air had run its course, he smiled and turned away. He came quite close to the girl as he left, close enough to easily drop a coin in her bowl. The clink of metal against fired clay like a clap of thunder, caused all but the girl to stiffen, but the pastor did not look back as he continued on his way.
“You heard?”
Yes, we heard. We do not need eyes to know that he has caught the first message.
“Am I done then?”
Yes. For now.
The girl retrieved the bowl and its offering with her left hand and got to her feet. For a moment her eyes appeared to see nothing while her left hand rubbed the fingerless knuckles of her right. Then she swallowed a faint sob and followed the same route out of the market that the pastor had just taken. [To be continued.]
“Titus, poor Titus! What has this place done to you?” Benjamin sighed before bending over once more to fasten the strap on his other sandal. Should he have left two days ago? He had secured a seat; he had gone to the aeroport. Why had he come back? It could not have been the warmth of his hosts. They had been but strangers. He took a deep breath. “It’s the girl.” There, he had spoken truth at last. He had been plagued with mysteries from the moment he had left his own country, but none were vexing him as much as that child with her sweet voice, big eyes and impossible hand. She had saved his life … and threatened it as well. What was she? For the eighth time, Benjamin ran what he knew to be truth back through his mind. She was a worship house child, she was an adolescent scholar, she was a rich family’s second daughter, she was a ninja warrior. She had two hands, or one, or many? She wore a simple shift or silken gowns, or black tights. She spoke of the “watchers;” she agreed that this was an evil place. What was she? Very smart and much too wise for her physical age, that he knew to be true. Otherwise?
The Wall. She had mentioned a “wall.” She said it had answers. “Hmm.” Benjamin opened the paperback novel and his compupad. He began leafing through the book’s off-white pages, occasionally pausing and noting a word or letter. He typed these characters into a fresh document on his compupad. When he had two lines of text, he hit return, entered a password, confirmed and began to page through the screens that the compupad provided. He took no notes and when he was done, he did not save anything. Instead he ran a second program that deep-erased any record that he had ever accessed any outside source.
__________________________
“I don’t like this.”
Why? the thought passed through Beriana’s mind.
“I am too old, too tall. I am growing up.”
Does that matter?
“You know it does. I used to be a little beggar girl. Now …” Briana made a sour face. “The last time I went out with the bowl, a man offered to take me to a place where they make love. He thought I was trying to sell my body. I don’t like that.”
We have only a few left. We need someone to see for us.
“I don’t want to do this.”
Remember your promise?
“I remember.” Beriana rubbed her right hand, then folded her arms and hugged herself. “This is the last time, for sure.” She began changing.
Nineteen beggars squatted in a line against the north wall of the square. Some were missing limbs. Two appeared to be blind. Beriana seated herself close enough to the group so that she was clearly one of them but not too near. Her business today did not involve coins. She hunched down, trying to make herself appear as small and short as possible before setting down her bowl in front of herself. The sun felt good, and Beriana turned her smudged face toward it, gathering in its heat, then she shielded her brow with her left hand and began watching. She did not have long to wait. The paster arrived within three tick-tocks of her own arrival. He was trying to appear casual, as if he were a simple visitor from the south lands, or some other closer country. He studied the brass bracelets in Uncle Ollie’s stand, spoke briefly with a horse vendor, even looked her way briefly, but gave no sign that he recognized her. Then he approached the older part of a stone-rubble wall that closed in the south side of the market.
“If you know so much about this man that you can predict exactly when he will show up where, why do you need me?”
You know the answer already to that question.
“Humph.” The girl made no further sound but concentrated on watching the pastor’s every move.
Benjamin certainly did not know what he was looking for. He traced the lines and cuts of the wall’s massive boulders, occasionally touching projections or nobules. This had to be the wall the girl had referred to. No other wall was so old or more storied. Here the first humans had overcome the first demons, hurling them from the wall’s heights to destruction on sharp rocks below. Here had once been the altar of love and hate where the first judges had granted marriages and cast evil humans to their deaths. Dark red stains, some washed by rain and scoured by winds back to a limestone white, hinted at ancient violence. Benjamin did not touch the stains. Instead he searched with his eyes, squinting and moving his head back-and-forth to catch each irregularity from as many angles as possible. When three tick-tocks has passed, he straightened and stretched his back. He tried once more, this time using the corners of his eyes as he had in the hotel room. Nothing. The wall, this wall, was supposed to have answers, yet he had found none. He sighed, failure and frustration complete, then, as he turned away, a quick breeze began to blow.
The sudden wind caused stall awnings to flap and even toppled several poles. Merchants grabbed cloth and wood and held on. Shoppers pulled hoods up to shield their faces from the stinging sands and dirt swirling through the booths. The threatening chaos caused even the girl’s companions to pull in their bowls and mute their begging chants.
Benjamin remained still as the sand grains pelted his cheeks, He listened to the sounds of wind and sand squeezing through the crevices and grooves of the wall. The wall was speaking. When the dervish column of air had run its course, he smiled and turned away. He came quite close to the girl as he left, close enough to easily drop a coin in her bowl. The clink of metal against fired clay like a clap of thunder, caused all but the girl to stiffen, but the pastor did not look back as he continued on his way.
“You heard?”
Yes, we heard. We do not need eyes to know that he has caught the first message.
“Am I done then?”
Yes. For now.
The girl retrieved the bowl and its offering with her left hand and got to her feet. For a moment her eyes appeared to see nothing while her left hand rubbed the fingerless knuckles of her right. Then she swallowed a faint sob and followed the same route out of the market that the pastor had just taken. [To be continued.]
Monday, May 11, 2009
The Watchers: Part Six.
A continuation of The Watchers. Copyright, Michael Wescott Loder 2009.
First Day, and all breeched and cloaked children as yet unmarried must be in school. Week-in and week-out, summer or winter, that was truth. It mattered not that Beriana shared a private tutor with her sisters and only brother four days a week. On First Day, she must be in the town school from sunup until sundown—a long day for anyone at high summer. Louisa-Bin might still have to suffer on a backless bench, holding tablets and codexes in her hands, but Beriana got an individual seat with a work surface in front. This added little to her comfort, for the seat’s smooth flatness meant that the slightest leaning back would promise a quick slide to the floor. All the students sat up straight and kept their feet firmly on the frayed rugs under their sandals.
“Beriana, did you hear about the hotel fire,” her neighbor whispered.
“Yes. We could see the smoke from the house.”
“We could hear the sirens up on the hill. How many died? What number have you heard?” Another girl added.
Beriana shrugged. “I heard over thirty, but …”
“Class, attention to the front—now! Beriana Krinklesdau,” Madam Teacher glared her. “What answer do you have to the fifth problem?”
“Arrival time of twelve and one quarter turns, plus or minus one tick-tock,” Beriana answered.
“Ah… That is correct. Thank you. Class, please now turn to the second set of problems that are on your screens.”
Beriana ignored the awed stares coming from her classmates and began tapping her way through the new set of problems starting to display themselves on her computablet. She had solved seven out of the eight when her eyes briefly widened. “Ah-oh’” she breathed. “Madam Teacher, please. I need a moment in the hall room?”
Madam Teacher frowned and looked at Beriana. “Yes, you may go.” She nodded to the floor guard.
Beriana stood, curtsied and left the room. The floor guard straightened and followed her out. A half tick-tock later, safely hidden from the attendent’s view in the farthest stall, Beriana opened her right hand and slowly flexed it six times, then laid the palm against her ear. For a several moments she stood still, listening, eyes closed, mind concentrated. Then she shifted her hand away, took a slightly longer breath and rubbed her right palm with her left before flushing the toilet. She remembered to give the guard a nod and smile on her way back to the classroom, even if her deeper thoughts were far away.
First Day, and all breeched and cloaked children as yet unmarried must be in school. Week-in and week-out, summer or winter, that was truth. It mattered not that Beriana shared a private tutor with her sisters and only brother four days a week. On First Day, she must be in the town school from sunup until sundown—a long day for anyone at high summer. Louisa-Bin might still have to suffer on a backless bench, holding tablets and codexes in her hands, but Beriana got an individual seat with a work surface in front. This added little to her comfort, for the seat’s smooth flatness meant that the slightest leaning back would promise a quick slide to the floor. All the students sat up straight and kept their feet firmly on the frayed rugs under their sandals.
“Beriana, did you hear about the hotel fire,” her neighbor whispered.
“Yes. We could see the smoke from the house.”
“We could hear the sirens up on the hill. How many died? What number have you heard?” Another girl added.
Beriana shrugged. “I heard over thirty, but …”
“Class, attention to the front—now! Beriana Krinklesdau,” Madam Teacher glared her. “What answer do you have to the fifth problem?”
“Arrival time of twelve and one quarter turns, plus or minus one tick-tock,” Beriana answered.
“Ah… That is correct. Thank you. Class, please now turn to the second set of problems that are on your screens.”
Beriana ignored the awed stares coming from her classmates and began tapping her way through the new set of problems starting to display themselves on her computablet. She had solved seven out of the eight when her eyes briefly widened. “Ah-oh’” she breathed. “Madam Teacher, please. I need a moment in the hall room?”
Madam Teacher frowned and looked at Beriana. “Yes, you may go.” She nodded to the floor guard.
Beriana stood, curtsied and left the room. The floor guard straightened and followed her out. A half tick-tock later, safely hidden from the attendent’s view in the farthest stall, Beriana opened her right hand and slowly flexed it six times, then laid the palm against her ear. For a several moments she stood still, listening, eyes closed, mind concentrated. Then she shifted her hand away, took a slightly longer breath and rubbed her right palm with her left before flushing the toilet. She remembered to give the guard a nod and smile on her way back to the classroom, even if her deeper thoughts were far away.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
The Watchers: Part Five
A continuation of The Watchers. Copyright, Michael Wescott Loder 2009.
Pastor Benjamin had said good-night to his new hosts and was standing in the bedroom they had provided. He was just saying his last prayers of the day, when he felt a cold hand grasp his neck. The thumb settled just left of his windpipe, the slender fingers easily working their way into the muscles by the back of his neck. He stiffened. “What? Who is this? Ah …?” The finger tips now had blades with sharp tips that already were settling under his skin.
“Do not move, Cleric,” a young voice hissed. “I saved you once. Now your life belongs to me. No! Do not move anything! You asked about my right hand. Do you understand what it can do? A little tightening, just a little, and its fingers will find your spinal cord. It will part easily. Then you will not be able to move even if you want to. A strange life that will be.”
“What do you want, Child?”
“What do you want? Why are you here? The Watchers are curious.”
“The Watchers? I do not know them.” Benjamin found that he was breathing slowly and carefully. It was easy not to want to move at all.
“You don’t have to.”
Benjamin took a deep breath. “My people have heard little from our own kind who live here. I persuaded our Council of Elders to send me here to speak with your elders. They … they wish to know that all is well. I am afraid it is not.”
“You’re pretty smart, Benjamin. No. This place is a mess. Tell me more.”
“My … my eldest disciple was a young man who came from Tartuff. When he spoke of this land, he spoke of wild apples, sweet wines and bold women who dared to show both their hands and faces. He spoke of how your people were hospitable to all, kind and generous in goods and spirit. He said you loved to tell stories and celebrated those who spoke and wrote the best.
“A turning of the seasons ago, he went home. When he returned to my place, he was changed.” Benjamin swallowed and closed his eyes. Even moving his lips was bringing pain to his neck.
The hand settled its grip and Benjamin found he could breathe easier. “What was his name?” the girl asked.
“Titus. Titus Adornett. He was no longer happy. He was with me, you understand, but his spirit remained back here. One morning he was gone. He left a message on his computer, apologizing for taking my time. He said he had to go home. I assumed he meant here; I assumed he returned here”
“Hmm. You came here to look for Titus?” she asked.
“Yes. I had searched the web. Many sites spoke of the bad things happening here. I contacted others of my faith, as I said.”
“I believe you. Come, I will release you now, if you promise not to ask me any more questions about myself, or seek me out again.”
“You fill me with curiosity, but, yes, I will be silent and circumspect.”
“Swear on all you hold holy and sacred.”
“I … I swear.”
“Cross you heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” The hand slipped away from Benjamin’s neck. He sighed, took another deep breath and sighed again before carefully touching his wounds. He glanced at the girl. She was in front of him now, clothed completely in black—including a hood that hid all but her face—the cheeks and nose which bore streaks of black. As he stared at her, trying to see both the beggar of half a day ago and the rich child of supper, she brought up her hands so that to see her eyes, he had to look through ten fingers.
“Do not always believe what you see,” she whispered. “This is a plagued land with many sick people. Be careful. The wall holds many answers; the watchers seek answers.” She lowered her hands, nodded briefly and disappeared into the shadows. By the time Benjamin located the window she had used, she was more than a quarter dial turn gone.
Pastor Benjamin had said good-night to his new hosts and was standing in the bedroom they had provided. He was just saying his last prayers of the day, when he felt a cold hand grasp his neck. The thumb settled just left of his windpipe, the slender fingers easily working their way into the muscles by the back of his neck. He stiffened. “What? Who is this? Ah …?” The finger tips now had blades with sharp tips that already were settling under his skin.
“Do not move, Cleric,” a young voice hissed. “I saved you once. Now your life belongs to me. No! Do not move anything! You asked about my right hand. Do you understand what it can do? A little tightening, just a little, and its fingers will find your spinal cord. It will part easily. Then you will not be able to move even if you want to. A strange life that will be.”
“What do you want, Child?”
“What do you want? Why are you here? The Watchers are curious.”
“The Watchers? I do not know them.” Benjamin found that he was breathing slowly and carefully. It was easy not to want to move at all.
“You don’t have to.”
Benjamin took a deep breath. “My people have heard little from our own kind who live here. I persuaded our Council of Elders to send me here to speak with your elders. They … they wish to know that all is well. I am afraid it is not.”
“You’re pretty smart, Benjamin. No. This place is a mess. Tell me more.”
“My … my eldest disciple was a young man who came from Tartuff. When he spoke of this land, he spoke of wild apples, sweet wines and bold women who dared to show both their hands and faces. He spoke of how your people were hospitable to all, kind and generous in goods and spirit. He said you loved to tell stories and celebrated those who spoke and wrote the best.
“A turning of the seasons ago, he went home. When he returned to my place, he was changed.” Benjamin swallowed and closed his eyes. Even moving his lips was bringing pain to his neck.
The hand settled its grip and Benjamin found he could breathe easier. “What was his name?” the girl asked.
“Titus. Titus Adornett. He was no longer happy. He was with me, you understand, but his spirit remained back here. One morning he was gone. He left a message on his computer, apologizing for taking my time. He said he had to go home. I assumed he meant here; I assumed he returned here”
“Hmm. You came here to look for Titus?” she asked.
“Yes. I had searched the web. Many sites spoke of the bad things happening here. I contacted others of my faith, as I said.”
“I believe you. Come, I will release you now, if you promise not to ask me any more questions about myself, or seek me out again.”
“You fill me with curiosity, but, yes, I will be silent and circumspect.”
“Swear on all you hold holy and sacred.”
“I … I swear.”
“Cross you heart and hope to die?”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” The hand slipped away from Benjamin’s neck. He sighed, took another deep breath and sighed again before carefully touching his wounds. He glanced at the girl. She was in front of him now, clothed completely in black—including a hood that hid all but her face—the cheeks and nose which bore streaks of black. As he stared at her, trying to see both the beggar of half a day ago and the rich child of supper, she brought up her hands so that to see her eyes, he had to look through ten fingers.
“Do not always believe what you see,” she whispered. “This is a plagued land with many sick people. Be careful. The wall holds many answers; the watchers seek answers.” She lowered her hands, nodded briefly and disappeared into the shadows. By the time Benjamin located the window she had used, she was more than a quarter dial turn gone.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Golden Horn Reviews
What the reviewers have said about the Golden Horn:
"Alternating between Jim's and Jonnie's point of view, this fast-moving tale blends romance, mystery and adventure as the couple fights against long-standing prejudices and a culture in which the right to revenge is unquestioned. The breathtaking climax holds more than a few surprises. Jim and Jonnie may be able to set the record straight about a pivotal event in Starnovia's history, but will they escape the turmoil they've created? The unique setting, appealing characters and plot twists make this an enjoyable read." Chesakis on Amazon.
"This book is a must-read for fans of Indiana Jones and for those who love stories about ancient myths and legends. Set in the present day, the story centers around an archaeology student who seems to find danger, and love, in the most unexpected places. Two-thumbs up." Archaeologist on Amazon.
"The author does a good job in creating characters and atmosphere. The two main characters (Jonneanna and Jim) alternately tell the story. This is a little bit different - but works well in creating empathy with the characters and showing the different worlds they're coming from."
Avery on Amazon.
"This author has accomplished what this reviewer would confidently call a literary tour de force, in creating out of whole cloth a sovereign nation, presumably part of what we once knew as Yugoslavia, and telling a thoroughly engrossing tale about that nation against a backdrop of history both modern and ancient."
"The author's knowledge of Eastern European history, archaeological theory and practice, and his skill in creating a plausible vignette of life in the years following the recent conflict in the Balkans, together with his craftsmanship in creating characters and putting them into action, all combine to make a stunningly workmanlike debut novel." Clempage on Amazon.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The Watchers: Part Four.
A continuation of the Watchers. Copyright, Michael Wescott Loder 2009.
“Be sure the cucumber slices are not too thin.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“You said that last time, but they were so thin, the plate held nothing but a slimey mess. Our guests could pick up nothing.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“Beriana Beth, are you listening?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” Beriana emphasized her answer with an extra-loud chop of her paring knife, then waited until her mother had moved on to the meat trays Madam Cook was assembling. Her hands remained motionless as she let her gaze drift away from the chopping table, taking in shining pots and pans hanging from hooks near the stoves and the hung strings of dried apples, tomatoes, red peppers and—her favorite—klemfruits gathered among the overhead beams. She wondered for a moment if she could break off one or two from the one string that might be a bit longer than the others. Her mouth and tongue reminded her of the tangy snap mixed with sweetness that klemfruit always delivered. “Mmm.” If Madam Cook and Ma-Ma and Madam Assistant and Master Souper all left the kitchen for at least half a dial … She wrinkled her perfectly-complexioned, delicate nose with its slight bump right in the middle. She might as well hope for an elder’s blessing. Not today, anyway … Beriana’s gaze moved from the fruit to nearest west-facing window. The sun was still too high in the sky for her to see it, and no one would eat until a dial-turn after it had set. Why did Solstice Day promise such marvelous foods, yet make everyone wait so long to enjoy them?
Fiona, Beriana’s sister, opened the swinging door and leaned in. “Ma-Ma, the Fletchers just called. They won’t be coming. They said something about their dog being sick?”
“Oh, dear. I was going to seat them next to our off-land visitors.” Ma-Ma sighed. “This always happens. I will think of something.”
“That dog of theirs is always getting sick,” Fiona agreed.
“That’s because they don’t have any children to get sick when they don’t want to come here. Bappsie is their baby,” Beriana pointed out. “Besides, they’re always feeding her sweet breads and biscuits,”
“Beriana Beth Krinklesdau, mind your tongue and your manners … and get back to your task.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” She glanced in her sister’s direction and was rewarded with a return wink. Chop-slice, chop-slice: Beriana was back at her task.
The guests began arriving shortly after the last sunrays faded from Krinkles’ upturned eaves. The women all wore shawls woven from the finest, thinnest wools and covered with floral and leaf motifs over their light-weight summer dresses. They greeted their lady host warmly, pressing covered dishes into her hands and often kissing both cheeks as well. The men wore somber black jackets ornamented with many pockets underneath pale robes. They nodded to the lady and bowed to her husband but did not kiss. “Betty, Rauldo, oh, so glad you are here! We had thought you might be in Tartuff.”
“And miss any of Madam Theresa’s cooking? Shame on you, Margareta,” Betty answered with mock horror. “Come, we have brought you a special guest.” She gestured that the stranger dressed in clerical grey and blue should step forward. “This is Shepherd Benjamin. We met him this morning in the aeroport. He was going; we were coming. Oh, but he did not want to leave. It was just that he had no longer any place to stay. You know the Avon Hotel burned at lunch time? Yes, the news is everywhere. So we invited him to stay with us while he completes his research. And, of course, we had to ask him to share Solstice with you!”
Margareta smiled and nodded as Benjamin gave her his best clerical smile and bow. “I hope this does not mean you will have to look for another plate?”
“No, certainly not. I shall just tell Madam Cook to add more water to the soup,” Margareta replied. Everyone laughed except for Beriana, standing unseen behind the foyer’s curtain. Instead, she squinted and glared at the cleric who stood grasping his staff, smiling and gripping her father’s hand.
“This is our eldest daughter, Fiona-Bel. This is our middle daughter, Beriana-Beth and here is our youngest, Louisa-Bin.” Margareta pointed each of her three youngest standing in line, feet carefully alined and heads slightly bowed.
“Pleased, I’m sure,” the uninvited guest replied. Benjamin’s smile froze then faded as he took in the middle daughter. Thrusting his head forward he studied Beriana. “We have met before?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered indifferently, then with a slight nod turned and followed her sisters.
A solstice even’ meal should have forty-two in attendance: thirty for the days of the month and another twelve for the months of a year. The Krinkles often did manage that many, but tonight they were still one short—the unexpected Shepherd Benjamin making up for only one of the missing Fletchers.
“Beriana?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma?” Beriana stood still, waiting.
“Would you sit by our newest guest, the cleric? I know you can sparkle in conversation when you put your mind to it.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“He did specifically ask for your company. What do you think of that?”
“Humph. Yes, Ma-Ma.” She bowed and walked slowly over to station herself by the tall-backed chair next to where the cleric already stood, staff still in hand. The prayers and holiday salutes went on and on. Beriana thought about how empty her insides felt, and how she longed to sit and eat. But an end did come at last, and the assembly eased into their seats, Beriana waiting until Benjamin had settled into his before taking her own. Soups and cheeses started their rounds. Except for a few courteous remarks and nods her way, Benjamin spent most of his supper responding to questions from the woman to his left. Beriana was halfway through her roast mutton when he politely freed himself from the woman’s curiosity and concentrated on his own food. Three bites into his main course, he paused and, without looking her way, spoke softly. “You have an unusual ability to leave sunburns behind quickly.”
Beriana did not answer but continued to cut and eat, carefully chewing each bite.
“Come, child. I know you can say more than ‘Yes, Ma-Ma.’ I heard you say more than that in the dawn turnings.”
“Sir?”
“Ah. Now I have this strange curiosity that must be satisfied. How is it that a beggar girl wearing little more than one, threadbare gown and missing most of her right hand should now find herself seated beside me an a dinner fit for a ruler, dressed in silk and with both hands intact?”
“Tsk. It is a puzzle,” Beriana allowed. She helped herself to a soft roll, broke it in two and began to mop up some of the gravy.
“May I see your right hand?”
“No.” Beriana continued to eat. If she was offended by this direct demand, her voice did not show it.
“You’re strange one, Child.”
“And you also, Shepherd. What flocks are they that you tend?”
He grinned. “Ones that walk on two legs. I am a shepherd of men and women, a pastor, as they say in my own land.”
“And that gives you a staff that is not a crook, but a versatile and even deadly weapon?”
“You spar well for one so young,” he admitted.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Beriana rejoined, ending the conversation.
“Be sure the cucumber slices are not too thin.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“You said that last time, but they were so thin, the plate held nothing but a slimey mess. Our guests could pick up nothing.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“Beriana Beth, are you listening?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” Beriana emphasized her answer with an extra-loud chop of her paring knife, then waited until her mother had moved on to the meat trays Madam Cook was assembling. Her hands remained motionless as she let her gaze drift away from the chopping table, taking in shining pots and pans hanging from hooks near the stoves and the hung strings of dried apples, tomatoes, red peppers and—her favorite—klemfruits gathered among the overhead beams. She wondered for a moment if she could break off one or two from the one string that might be a bit longer than the others. Her mouth and tongue reminded her of the tangy snap mixed with sweetness that klemfruit always delivered. “Mmm.” If Madam Cook and Ma-Ma and Madam Assistant and Master Souper all left the kitchen for at least half a dial … She wrinkled her perfectly-complexioned, delicate nose with its slight bump right in the middle. She might as well hope for an elder’s blessing. Not today, anyway … Beriana’s gaze moved from the fruit to nearest west-facing window. The sun was still too high in the sky for her to see it, and no one would eat until a dial-turn after it had set. Why did Solstice Day promise such marvelous foods, yet make everyone wait so long to enjoy them?
Fiona, Beriana’s sister, opened the swinging door and leaned in. “Ma-Ma, the Fletchers just called. They won’t be coming. They said something about their dog being sick?”
“Oh, dear. I was going to seat them next to our off-land visitors.” Ma-Ma sighed. “This always happens. I will think of something.”
“That dog of theirs is always getting sick,” Fiona agreed.
“That’s because they don’t have any children to get sick when they don’t want to come here. Bappsie is their baby,” Beriana pointed out. “Besides, they’re always feeding her sweet breads and biscuits,”
“Beriana Beth Krinklesdau, mind your tongue and your manners … and get back to your task.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.” She glanced in her sister’s direction and was rewarded with a return wink. Chop-slice, chop-slice: Beriana was back at her task.
The guests began arriving shortly after the last sunrays faded from Krinkles’ upturned eaves. The women all wore shawls woven from the finest, thinnest wools and covered with floral and leaf motifs over their light-weight summer dresses. They greeted their lady host warmly, pressing covered dishes into her hands and often kissing both cheeks as well. The men wore somber black jackets ornamented with many pockets underneath pale robes. They nodded to the lady and bowed to her husband but did not kiss. “Betty, Rauldo, oh, so glad you are here! We had thought you might be in Tartuff.”
“And miss any of Madam Theresa’s cooking? Shame on you, Margareta,” Betty answered with mock horror. “Come, we have brought you a special guest.” She gestured that the stranger dressed in clerical grey and blue should step forward. “This is Shepherd Benjamin. We met him this morning in the aeroport. He was going; we were coming. Oh, but he did not want to leave. It was just that he had no longer any place to stay. You know the Avon Hotel burned at lunch time? Yes, the news is everywhere. So we invited him to stay with us while he completes his research. And, of course, we had to ask him to share Solstice with you!”
Margareta smiled and nodded as Benjamin gave her his best clerical smile and bow. “I hope this does not mean you will have to look for another plate?”
“No, certainly not. I shall just tell Madam Cook to add more water to the soup,” Margareta replied. Everyone laughed except for Beriana, standing unseen behind the foyer’s curtain. Instead, she squinted and glared at the cleric who stood grasping his staff, smiling and gripping her father’s hand.
“This is our eldest daughter, Fiona-Bel. This is our middle daughter, Beriana-Beth and here is our youngest, Louisa-Bin.” Margareta pointed each of her three youngest standing in line, feet carefully alined and heads slightly bowed.
“Pleased, I’m sure,” the uninvited guest replied. Benjamin’s smile froze then faded as he took in the middle daughter. Thrusting his head forward he studied Beriana. “We have met before?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered indifferently, then with a slight nod turned and followed her sisters.
A solstice even’ meal should have forty-two in attendance: thirty for the days of the month and another twelve for the months of a year. The Krinkles often did manage that many, but tonight they were still one short—the unexpected Shepherd Benjamin making up for only one of the missing Fletchers.
“Beriana?”
“Yes, Ma-Ma?” Beriana stood still, waiting.
“Would you sit by our newest guest, the cleric? I know you can sparkle in conversation when you put your mind to it.”
“Yes, Ma-Ma.”
“He did specifically ask for your company. What do you think of that?”
“Humph. Yes, Ma-Ma.” She bowed and walked slowly over to station herself by the tall-backed chair next to where the cleric already stood, staff still in hand. The prayers and holiday salutes went on and on. Beriana thought about how empty her insides felt, and how she longed to sit and eat. But an end did come at last, and the assembly eased into their seats, Beriana waiting until Benjamin had settled into his before taking her own. Soups and cheeses started their rounds. Except for a few courteous remarks and nods her way, Benjamin spent most of his supper responding to questions from the woman to his left. Beriana was halfway through her roast mutton when he politely freed himself from the woman’s curiosity and concentrated on his own food. Three bites into his main course, he paused and, without looking her way, spoke softly. “You have an unusual ability to leave sunburns behind quickly.”
Beriana did not answer but continued to cut and eat, carefully chewing each bite.
“Come, child. I know you can say more than ‘Yes, Ma-Ma.’ I heard you say more than that in the dawn turnings.”
“Sir?”
“Ah. Now I have this strange curiosity that must be satisfied. How is it that a beggar girl wearing little more than one, threadbare gown and missing most of her right hand should now find herself seated beside me an a dinner fit for a ruler, dressed in silk and with both hands intact?”
“Tsk. It is a puzzle,” Beriana allowed. She helped herself to a soft roll, broke it in two and began to mop up some of the gravy.
“May I see your right hand?”
“No.” Beriana continued to eat. If she was offended by this direct demand, her voice did not show it.
“You’re strange one, Child.”
“And you also, Shepherd. What flocks are they that you tend?”
He grinned. “Ones that walk on two legs. I am a shepherd of men and women, a pastor, as they say in my own land.”
“And that gives you a staff that is not a crook, but a versatile and even deadly weapon?”
“You spar well for one so young,” he admitted.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Beriana rejoined, ending the conversation.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
The Watchers, The Holy Man is watched.
Another entry in the continuing saga of Shepherd Benjamin and the watchers. All copyright 2009, Michael W. Loder
“There he goes.” Several pairs of eyes watched as the holy man left the hotel and started down the street, his crook-staff in one hand, a fawn-colored dufflebag slung over his opposite shoulder. Even at two rods’ distance, the watchers could mark the look of fear and anger on his face
The girl nodded and chewed on her lower lip. “Puffy-filled pants,” she whispered.
“He does not wear trews, just his robe, tunic and jack.”
“You know what I mean!” She had been forced to use one of her flash bombs to save him. Three of her friends had risked their lives to obtain those bombs. “He has power enough. Why did he not use it to check, instead of doubt’n my word.” Holy man—silly outlander, she added in her mind.
“Perhaps not so foolish if the Elders brought him here?”
“Humph.” She watched until the cleric had turned the next corner and disappeared into the market crowds. It was disgusting in that old building.It stank horribly—like burnt sausage.
“Is he headed for the aeroport?”
The girl stood, leaned left and shaded her eyes. “He has crossed the street.”
“Then Rasstut will pick up. We can do nothing more here.”
“I know.” She shook herself and sighed, then grasped the roof’s soffit and, using its support, swung down easily to the ground. She immediately slipped behind a bulky pillar that was part of the roof’s support.
“Later?”
“Yes. Little-later.” The girl straightened a long, cream-colored, cotton dress with many opaque folds and her grey wool shaw and waited. Half a dial-turn later, when a young couple wearing custom-fitted and matching great clothes striped with gold and silver ribbon walked by, she left the pillar’s shelter and fell in behind them.
She matched her pace to the couples’, keeping a careful three yards back. The two were both nineteen; both thought they were in love and had eyes only for each other. It was easy for the girl to suddenly appear as if from nowhere.
“Beriana, where have you been?” Her sister, blurted out in surprise.
“Nowheres, but I’ve been good, I promise,” Beriana answered, tossing her loosened. now-wavy hair—held only by a silken ribbon that matched the color of her dress.
“Good for whom?” the boy asked with a thread of irony.
“What mean you by that tone?” Beriana pouted.
The boy and her sister stopped and turned around. He leaned over so his eyes were level with Beriana’s and she could not miss their twinkle. “What I mean is, if you do good, why does trouble always seem to follow in your wake? Aye?”
Beriana looked away and sniffed. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oooh, I sense a nose too long for a face,” the boy laughed. “But come, we will speak no more.” He grabbed the other girl around her waist and squeezed. She returned it with a crooked smile and shrug.
“There he goes.” Several pairs of eyes watched as the holy man left the hotel and started down the street, his crook-staff in one hand, a fawn-colored dufflebag slung over his opposite shoulder. Even at two rods’ distance, the watchers could mark the look of fear and anger on his face
The girl nodded and chewed on her lower lip. “Puffy-filled pants,” she whispered.
“He does not wear trews, just his robe, tunic and jack.”
“You know what I mean!” She had been forced to use one of her flash bombs to save him. Three of her friends had risked their lives to obtain those bombs. “He has power enough. Why did he not use it to check, instead of doubt’n my word.” Holy man—silly outlander, she added in her mind.
“Perhaps not so foolish if the Elders brought him here?”
“Humph.” She watched until the cleric had turned the next corner and disappeared into the market crowds. It was disgusting in that old building.It stank horribly—like burnt sausage.
“Is he headed for the aeroport?”
The girl stood, leaned left and shaded her eyes. “He has crossed the street.”
“Then Rasstut will pick up. We can do nothing more here.”
“I know.” She shook herself and sighed, then grasped the roof’s soffit and, using its support, swung down easily to the ground. She immediately slipped behind a bulky pillar that was part of the roof’s support.
“Later?”
“Yes. Little-later.” The girl straightened a long, cream-colored, cotton dress with many opaque folds and her grey wool shaw and waited. Half a dial-turn later, when a young couple wearing custom-fitted and matching great clothes striped with gold and silver ribbon walked by, she left the pillar’s shelter and fell in behind them.
She matched her pace to the couples’, keeping a careful three yards back. The two were both nineteen; both thought they were in love and had eyes only for each other. It was easy for the girl to suddenly appear as if from nowhere.
“Beriana, where have you been?” Her sister, blurted out in surprise.
“Nowheres, but I’ve been good, I promise,” Beriana answered, tossing her loosened. now-wavy hair—held only by a silken ribbon that matched the color of her dress.
“Good for whom?” the boy asked with a thread of irony.
“What mean you by that tone?” Beriana pouted.
The boy and her sister stopped and turned around. He leaned over so his eyes were level with Beriana’s and she could not miss their twinkle. “What I mean is, if you do good, why does trouble always seem to follow in your wake? Aye?”
Beriana looked away and sniffed. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oooh, I sense a nose too long for a face,” the boy laughed. “But come, we will speak no more.” He grabbed the other girl around her waist and squeezed. She returned it with a crooked smile and shrug.
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Watchers: a story in progress
Here is the first chapter from a story in progress. Let me know what you think and whether you would like to read more. Happy Holidays.
The Watchers
The girl stood by the stile of the worship house, her dark hair neatly parted and pulled back close to her skull. In her left hand—the soiled one, the evil one—she held a colorless, unglazed bowl. The thin material of her simple, almost seamless, muslin tunic could not conceal either her frailty or undergown nakedness.
The pale-faced cleric turned away, embarrassed by his own observing eyes. She was, after all, a child of God, set here by their holy ones, regardless of which hand she used. Her sex, age or name—if she still had one—no longer mattered. He firmly set his gaze straight ahead, his eyes boring into the dark, shadowless interior of the building which he intended to enter. His vision, adapted to the white-hot sunlight he was about to leave, gave him no objective or dimensional clue as to what it was he was moving into. He paused and blinked, briefly taking in the entry’s carved stone archway with its three-dimensional relief of gargoyles and demons. Cool, hardened clay brushed his left arm. “Please, Sir. A coin, one coin before you die?”
“Bless you, child,” the man answered, but neither reached for his purse, nor shifted his gaze. This child was already in their Supreme One’s hands. He would not be the reshaper of her fate. He habbened his staff and stepped toward the darkness.
“Aaah!” The cleric spun around, pulling his left leg back. “Blessed book! Dare you kick me?” Raising his free hand, he glared at the girl. She stared back, her light-blue eyes steady and bright. She was taller than he had first thought. His gaze shifted to her still out-stretched hand. Hand? She had only one. Where her right should be was only a leather-covered stump the size of a thumb and half a palm. “Ouch,” he whispered.
“A coin, Sir?” she repeated. Her voice was as level as her fearless gaze.
“… and if I don’t, you will kick me again?”
“No, Sir. You will die.”
The man’s appointment in the worship house seemed far away now. “We all shall die, eventually.” He still did not reach for his purse. Not yet, but this child was already proving more interesting than anything he could have planned for this hot, solstice day. “That is the safest prediction anyone can make.”
The child set her chin on the covered stump of her right hand. A smile flickered across her thin, sunburned face. “You speak great truth, Sir. But what is your life worth if you could extend it one more day?”
“A coin in your bowl will do that?”
“No.” She straightened up so that her eyes were almost level with the visitor’s shoulders. “But what I will tell you in exchange for your coin will.”
“Mmm. You know something that, if I know it, will safeguard me for one extra day of my allotted time?”
She nodded. “Something like that.”
“Well, I am late for my appointment. If you be here when I leave, I will look for you. Perhaps then I may find a coin that is worth a day of my life.” The man turned to go.
“Perhaps if I told you that one day was today …”
The cleric stared at the interior darkness. His eyes had adjusted and he now could see shapes: more archways, chairs and large creatures waiting—more than he had been led to expect. A metal blade caught an unseen light and glittered briefly. He took a deep breath and opened his purse without moving his eyes. “Here is your coin, child.”
“Thank you,” she said. He could hear the coin clink in the bowl, its sound harsh against this house’s swelling silence. “The holy ones that you are appointed to meet today are dead. Those who wait for you inside wait only to enjoy your blood.”
“Where am I safe?”
“Outside, in the sun.”
A chillness moved across his chest and down his arms. “Vampires?” he whispered.
“I do not know that term. They are not human—although once they might have been.”
The cleric stepped back out of the doorway and onto the street. “Child, how do you know these things?”
She shrugged and rubbed her left wrist with her right stump before dropping the bowl and coin into the pocket hanging on her left hip. “The watchers know. They told me to stop you.”
“Watchers?” The visitor moved away from the doorway so that he was no longer in the line-of-sight of whoever was waiting inside.
“Watchers: because they watch everything and everyone. Thanks for the coin.” The girl skipped several feet away, circled around a dry, ancient bronze fountain, swung around a lamp post using her good hand, waved once, ducked into an alley and was gone.
“Wait!” A pause and he was snapping fingers in frustration. Now what? He gripped the rim of the fountain’s bowl. It, at least, was real. But what now was truth? He had an appointment—an appointment he was now a day and two dial turns late for. Was that truth? Or was the word of one strange, adolescent girl? If her missing hand was any indication, she was a thief, or a former one who got caught.
He patted the pockets of his under jack, pulled out a small, green tablet, regarded it briefly and popped it into his mouth. As the cool, fresh limey favor began to fill his taste buds, he contemplated his next move. The interior of the holy house had felt evil; it had smelled of mold and old rat poison. It had not been what he had expected. But a thief? He sighed and walked over to the quiet, waiting opening. First tapping the dust from his shoes, he stepped just inside the entry way.
“Good day, kind sir. You are?”
“Huh?” He had been squeezing and blinking his eyes, trying to adjust to the breeze-cooled passage and its dim lighting. But how had he missed this creature, or thing, that now hovered a yard from his right elbow. How indeed, for it stank worse than gutted roadkill under a noonday sun. Involuntarily, he stepped back, pausing at the edge of the light.
“You are?” the creature prompted him again.
“I am Shepherd Benjamin,” the man replied formally.
“Shepherd? A shepherd. Hmm …” The doorkeeper pulled long yellow locks of matted hair away from its grey-furred face and began sniffing at a digital tablet it held in its third hand. “”Mmm. Ah, yes. Here. They are no longer here to meet you. So sorry.” The creature folded its lower arms, causing the tablet to disappear.
“Did the elders leave a message or location where they might be reached?” The sunlight touching Benjamin’s heels and calves was like a safety line holding him to the real, saner world of the outside. Ahead, he could now see and count at least seven other creatures standing in the vestibule fewer than a dozen paces away. Most appeared humanoid, but only in the sense that they stood erect on two limbs and were using their forelimbs to hold and carry tools.
The doorkeeper shook its head. “Would you come farther inside? One of our caretakers might know … I believe a message might be waiting …”
Caretakers? A strange word choice, Benjamin told myself. Time to trust a young thief over the word of a something that used its nose rather then its eyes to read a computablet. “Thank you. I will try to reconnect with the elders from my lodgings.”
“Please come in,” a new voice called, honey-trimmed like a girl-child’s at first commitment. Three of the creatures began moving toward Benjamin. Others shifted left and right. Again he caught the faint reflections of dull, unpolished metal just edging the light behind him. “Do, do come in.” The voice was soft and insistent, but Benjamin felt his stomach rebelling against the rank odor still smashing against his nostrils.
“Wogard!” a deep-throated creature called.
Benjamin tightened his grip on his staff and turned it crosswise, moving it to guard position. As he did, a shining disk flashed by his head and into the interior. “Run,” the child’s voice screamed from behind him. Benjamin leaped back to one side of the entry as silvery, searching tendrils and spinning stars launched themselves toward where he had stood.
The Watchers
The girl stood by the stile of the worship house, her dark hair neatly parted and pulled back close to her skull. In her left hand—the soiled one, the evil one—she held a colorless, unglazed bowl. The thin material of her simple, almost seamless, muslin tunic could not conceal either her frailty or undergown nakedness.
The pale-faced cleric turned away, embarrassed by his own observing eyes. She was, after all, a child of God, set here by their holy ones, regardless of which hand she used. Her sex, age or name—if she still had one—no longer mattered. He firmly set his gaze straight ahead, his eyes boring into the dark, shadowless interior of the building which he intended to enter. His vision, adapted to the white-hot sunlight he was about to leave, gave him no objective or dimensional clue as to what it was he was moving into. He paused and blinked, briefly taking in the entry’s carved stone archway with its three-dimensional relief of gargoyles and demons. Cool, hardened clay brushed his left arm. “Please, Sir. A coin, one coin before you die?”
“Bless you, child,” the man answered, but neither reached for his purse, nor shifted his gaze. This child was already in their Supreme One’s hands. He would not be the reshaper of her fate. He habbened his staff and stepped toward the darkness.
“Aaah!” The cleric spun around, pulling his left leg back. “Blessed book! Dare you kick me?” Raising his free hand, he glared at the girl. She stared back, her light-blue eyes steady and bright. She was taller than he had first thought. His gaze shifted to her still out-stretched hand. Hand? She had only one. Where her right should be was only a leather-covered stump the size of a thumb and half a palm. “Ouch,” he whispered.
“A coin, Sir?” she repeated. Her voice was as level as her fearless gaze.
“… and if I don’t, you will kick me again?”
“No, Sir. You will die.”
The man’s appointment in the worship house seemed far away now. “We all shall die, eventually.” He still did not reach for his purse. Not yet, but this child was already proving more interesting than anything he could have planned for this hot, solstice day. “That is the safest prediction anyone can make.”
The child set her chin on the covered stump of her right hand. A smile flickered across her thin, sunburned face. “You speak great truth, Sir. But what is your life worth if you could extend it one more day?”
“A coin in your bowl will do that?”
“No.” She straightened up so that her eyes were almost level with the visitor’s shoulders. “But what I will tell you in exchange for your coin will.”
“Mmm. You know something that, if I know it, will safeguard me for one extra day of my allotted time?”
She nodded. “Something like that.”
“Well, I am late for my appointment. If you be here when I leave, I will look for you. Perhaps then I may find a coin that is worth a day of my life.” The man turned to go.
“Perhaps if I told you that one day was today …”
The cleric stared at the interior darkness. His eyes had adjusted and he now could see shapes: more archways, chairs and large creatures waiting—more than he had been led to expect. A metal blade caught an unseen light and glittered briefly. He took a deep breath and opened his purse without moving his eyes. “Here is your coin, child.”
“Thank you,” she said. He could hear the coin clink in the bowl, its sound harsh against this house’s swelling silence. “The holy ones that you are appointed to meet today are dead. Those who wait for you inside wait only to enjoy your blood.”
“Where am I safe?”
“Outside, in the sun.”
A chillness moved across his chest and down his arms. “Vampires?” he whispered.
“I do not know that term. They are not human—although once they might have been.”
The cleric stepped back out of the doorway and onto the street. “Child, how do you know these things?”
She shrugged and rubbed her left wrist with her right stump before dropping the bowl and coin into the pocket hanging on her left hip. “The watchers know. They told me to stop you.”
“Watchers?” The visitor moved away from the doorway so that he was no longer in the line-of-sight of whoever was waiting inside.
“Watchers: because they watch everything and everyone. Thanks for the coin.” The girl skipped several feet away, circled around a dry, ancient bronze fountain, swung around a lamp post using her good hand, waved once, ducked into an alley and was gone.
“Wait!” A pause and he was snapping fingers in frustration. Now what? He gripped the rim of the fountain’s bowl. It, at least, was real. But what now was truth? He had an appointment—an appointment he was now a day and two dial turns late for. Was that truth? Or was the word of one strange, adolescent girl? If her missing hand was any indication, she was a thief, or a former one who got caught.
He patted the pockets of his under jack, pulled out a small, green tablet, regarded it briefly and popped it into his mouth. As the cool, fresh limey favor began to fill his taste buds, he contemplated his next move. The interior of the holy house had felt evil; it had smelled of mold and old rat poison. It had not been what he had expected. But a thief? He sighed and walked over to the quiet, waiting opening. First tapping the dust from his shoes, he stepped just inside the entry way.
“Good day, kind sir. You are?”
“Huh?” He had been squeezing and blinking his eyes, trying to adjust to the breeze-cooled passage and its dim lighting. But how had he missed this creature, or thing, that now hovered a yard from his right elbow. How indeed, for it stank worse than gutted roadkill under a noonday sun. Involuntarily, he stepped back, pausing at the edge of the light.
“You are?” the creature prompted him again.
“I am Shepherd Benjamin,” the man replied formally.
“Shepherd? A shepherd. Hmm …” The doorkeeper pulled long yellow locks of matted hair away from its grey-furred face and began sniffing at a digital tablet it held in its third hand. “”Mmm. Ah, yes. Here. They are no longer here to meet you. So sorry.” The creature folded its lower arms, causing the tablet to disappear.
“Did the elders leave a message or location where they might be reached?” The sunlight touching Benjamin’s heels and calves was like a safety line holding him to the real, saner world of the outside. Ahead, he could now see and count at least seven other creatures standing in the vestibule fewer than a dozen paces away. Most appeared humanoid, but only in the sense that they stood erect on two limbs and were using their forelimbs to hold and carry tools.
The doorkeeper shook its head. “Would you come farther inside? One of our caretakers might know … I believe a message might be waiting …”
Caretakers? A strange word choice, Benjamin told myself. Time to trust a young thief over the word of a something that used its nose rather then its eyes to read a computablet. “Thank you. I will try to reconnect with the elders from my lodgings.”
“Please come in,” a new voice called, honey-trimmed like a girl-child’s at first commitment. Three of the creatures began moving toward Benjamin. Others shifted left and right. Again he caught the faint reflections of dull, unpolished metal just edging the light behind him. “Do, do come in.” The voice was soft and insistent, but Benjamin felt his stomach rebelling against the rank odor still smashing against his nostrils.
“Wogard!” a deep-throated creature called.
Benjamin tightened his grip on his staff and turned it crosswise, moving it to guard position. As he did, a shining disk flashed by his head and into the interior. “Run,” the child’s voice screamed from behind him. Benjamin leaped back to one side of the entry as silvery, searching tendrils and spinning stars launched themselves toward where he had stood.
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