Pathways part 2

More of the Maria story.

There was one long winter night, when I was twelve, Josef eleven, and the little boys nine and seven, when we were all gathered close around the hearth, a fire blazing in the fireplace and our bodies wrapped in wool blankets. Josef was staring out the window, looking longingly out at the woods. There had been a frightful snowstorm the day before, and he was aching to go out and run through the deep, untouched snow that covered everything. The day had turned out to be far too cold, though, with everything freezing and the air taking on a deathly touch. No, there was no chance my mother or father was going to let any child of theirs out of doors on this day. So thus, he had been caged for the time being.

I was sitting beside him, watching him sleepily. The little boys were sitting closest to the fireplace, clustering around the huge nature book that was their latest read. I had seen that book gathering dust on our shelf for years – to my young eyes, it had seemed nothing but a dreadfully boring drawl about trees and other plants with no pictures. And what sort of use is that, I ask you? How can you know what something is with only words and nothing to show you?

Well, they seemed to find it interesting enough. They hardly seemed aware of anything else, not even noticing the little trail of smoke that drifted from Martin’s backside as they drew close to the fire for more light.

“Martin!” my mother said sharply, leaping forward. “The fire!”

He looked back, saw the singed spot, and yelped, backing away quickly and nearly knocking over Tomas. I knew I shouldn’t have felt like laughing, but it was funny to see. Josef, in his shut-in state, had no trouble with letting out a loud burst of laughter.

“Josef!” My mother barked. He coughed, and leaned back, subdued. Mother was busy seeing to Martin’s trousers. “Oh, dear, I’ll have to patch it again.” she sighed, brushing it off. “Thank heavens you’re not burnt.”

“Why don’t you two boys sit next to me? The light’s still good over here.” Father said, gesturing at the space next to his chair. Chagrined by the painful learning experience, they agreed, crawling over to sit in the empty spot. Mother resettled herself in her chair, and after a few moments all was quiet again.

Then Josef spoke.

“Papa, I saw something strange in the woods yesterday.”

“Did you now?” Father said, puffing on his pipe.

“Yes - I saw a man. He was walking through the trees. His clothes were ragged, and he…..was singing.”

Father raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Yes. I thought he might be a minstrel, but he wasn’t walking on the path, and his clothes weren’t the right kind.” Josef said. “He was singing strange words, too – I couldn’t understand any of them.”

“What did they sound like to you?”

Father sounded calm, but I could see that he was very alert. Papa was always suspicious of anyone who walked through his woods, on or off the path.

“Well, sort of like….um….” Josef licked his lips, looking awkward. “Well, like….”

He made a string of slurred, guttural sounds, and stopped when Mother began laughing.

“What?” he demanded, face going red.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Mother said, calming herself. “It’s just….you have never heard anyone speak French, have you?”

“N…no.” Josef muttered.

“Well, if those sounds are anything to go by, then that was what he was speaking. Though what a Frenchman would be doing in our part of the world….”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t stay.” Father said grimly. “I’m willing to tolerate his sort, but the townsmen are not.”

“He was just going through the forest, Papa.” Josef said. He sounded awfully defensive of this ragged Frenchman of his, I thought. “He wasn’t going to stay. He just kept moving.”

“Is that so?” Father settled back in his chair. “Well, good, then. Let’s hope so.”

Later that night, when we were all settled in for the night, I leaned over from my bed (we children all shared a room) and poked Josef in the shoulder.

“Go away, Maria.” Josef growled.

“You talked to him, didn’t you?” I hissed.

“I said, go away, Maria.”

“Josef, you know what Father said –“

“I don’t care what Papa – I mean, Father says!” Josef said angrily.

“You did talk to him, then.”

He turned to glare at me.

“Josef,” I said, “You can’t just walk up to strangers in the forest and-“

“He didn’t look like he could hurt me.” Josef said. “He had holes in his clothes, and he looked starved. He told me he’s been walking for good long time from his country. He didn’t tell me where, though…”

“Josef…..” I tried to think of something to say. Something to shame him, perhaps….make him see why Father had told us not to speak to the strangers that sometimes walk through our forest.

But looking at him again told me that nothing I could say would curb him, for he was asleep. And upon waking the next morning, none of us remembered what had been said the night before.

Over the next few days after hearing Josef’s story of the ragged Frenchman wandering through the forest, Father went out into the woods to find him. Mother told him that he had most likely moved on by now, but Father said that with a foreigner, there was no telling. “He doesn’t know the terrain,” he said. “This forest isn’t small – he’s likely to get lost.”

Getting lost in our forest isn’t like getting lost anywhere else. There was no other place that had our legends. Among outsiders, there had long been stories of evil spirits haunting the woods, frightening creatures that lived in its dark deepness and ate anything that crossed their path – even the flesh of man.

And living in the forest….well, I’m sure you could imagine very well what the townspeople must have thought of us.

After spending a week searching the forest while on his woodsman’s duties, Father finally conceded that the Frenchman had found his way out of the forest. “Although how he managed without the road is…..odd.” he said, sitting at dinner that night and frowning down at his stew.

“Well, perhaps he knew the terrain better than we thought.” Mother said lightly. The whole thing with this wandering Frenchman had her rolling her eyes at Father whenever he made mention of it – to her, it was just a curiosity. Nothing to chase down and question, like Father was doing.

But that’s our family, I suppose. And they are, by law and right, our woods.

Over time, everyone forgot about it, even Josef. He never told me what exactly he said to the foreigner, but I don’t think it was really anything worth bothering about. Knowing Josef, he probably talked the poor man’s ear off, asking question after question and only leaving him alone when the man looked close to violence. Even after getting a lecture from Father, he still talked to anyone who happened across his way. I’m not sure how he managed to get away with it, but I suppose that by then, he had learned how to keep secrets.

While the matter had left everyone else’s mind, though, it was still in mine. I think that was the first time I ever really gave any thought to the world outside of our woods. I had heard of France before, and other names of other places that I had never really known were our neighbors. After giving a great many days to thinking, I asked my mother about it.

The question, as I remember it, was something like, “Mother, where do we live?” I don’t recall the question so well as the answer she gave me: “Nowhere, my darling. We are our own people.”

This, as you might expect, only made me very confused. So much so that I didn’t press her to give me a better answer.

Chapter 2

The life we lived in the forest was one of strict routine – or rather, we would have liked for it to have been that way. But life does not agree with going along with strict routine, as I’m sure you know.

Every morning, my father got up and left the house before the rest of us were awake. He would attend to the chores that needed doing outside, and go hunting when he was able. Mother rose not long after, and started on breakfast. We children rose last – of course – and, after breakfast, went about the house doing our own chores.

Living in the woods, and as far north as we were, there wasn’t much you could do in the way of farming. Many times, men approached Father asking to clear the trees so that at least some of the land could be used for that purpose, but they were always refused (tarnishing our reputation even further). We did have a little garden out back – a few hardy vegetables and herbs, nothing much to boast about. The plants sprouted in the seasons right up to winter, and we saved what we could. My mother had a fine stock of homemade herbal medicines kept safely in one of the cupboards, and we lived on squash and turnips and other tiring garden food when it turned cold. Tending the garden was mostly mine and Josef’s job – Tomas and Martin did more the cleaning up and helping Mother around the house. It wasn’t until later that I was told just how odd this arrangement was – that I was doing the outside jobs when I should have been inside helping my mother. I had been tending the garden as long as I had been able to hold a spade, and so it did not seem to so odd to me. Anyway, I much preferred being outside in the fresh, open air digging in the dirt than being indoors sweeping the floor and sewing up my brother’s torn britches.

Maggie, part something

After they had been there about an hour, Henry popped his head in. Maggie happened to look up and catch the grimace he aimed in her direction, and chuckled in spite of herself.
At this Sister Clegg looked up, glanced over at Henry where he dawdled in the open doorway, and sighed.
“Go get me a nice string of trout, you two,” she said.
Maggie stared at Sister Clegg, then slowly rose from her chair.
“Take off my nice clean apron first. And no catfish. No suckerfish. I said trout, and I mean trout.” She shook a stern finger at her son, who shrugged.
“I reckon there’s a few bass waiting for us. Water’s shallow, but we can find ourselves a nice deep pool, right Maggie?”
Maggie felt almost as if she could cry with relief as she walked out the door. She skipped a little, then ran for the shed where she knew her fishing pole, and Henry’s, had waited, neglected, for weeks on end.
“Hey,” A voice called out as they came in. “You fixing on heading upriver and get a few trout?”
Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. It was Hyrum. When was the last time she’d thought of him? Her mind had been occupied by much more unpleasant things lately.
“Nah. We figured we’d stick around and muck out the stable.”
“Pole’s not much use for that. I’m coming. I’ve got to get out of town… feeling a little crowded, and muffled in all this dust.” Hyrum came out from behind a large pile of baling string and burlap sacks, and Maggie thought her heart would like to fly out of her chest and land, thud, she thought, in the sawdust at his feet.
“You have looked a little crowded lately. Though it didn’t seem to me you minded all that much.” Henry’s tone had a bit of a barb to it.
“Yeah, well. A fellow’s got to get out sometimes. How are you doing, Maggie?” He came up beside her and patted her shoulder.
“Fine,” Maggie said, and smiled up at him. “Your Ma asked us to bring home a string of trout; only trout. So we could use your pole, that’s for sure.”
“I’ll get the mule hitched. Coming down from drills I saw a likely looking pool up in the canyon.”
“Drills?” Maggie grabbed her pole and walked quickly so that she could keep up.
“Nauvoo legion,” Henry cut in. “Didn’t you hear? Hyrum’s joined up. Talk is, he’s trying to impress some of the local girls—“
“Shut it, Hen. Don’t worry about me honing in on your territory.”
Maggie felt a little odd at this response, but the talk soon returned to the sort of funning and friendly chatter she had grown accustomed to with Henry and Hyrum. As they passed the town square, her heart sank as she suddenly remembered Mother Holden.
“I can’t stay too long. Three hours, I’ve got to be back at Holdens,” she called out.
Henry turned and frowned at her. “You sure? Like as not she can find some other girl to help her out this one afternoon?”
Maggie shook her head. Mother Holden had been all manner of kindness with her; it was, she thought, too much kindness to cast away simply because something she fancied more had come along. “No, I’ve got to be back,” she said.
Henry whipped the mule to a faster trot. “Reckon there’s a pool lower down we could try this time?”
Hyrum shrugged. “Sure. There’s a spot or two just below deer creek that might do.”
They made a fine afternoon of it, sitting on the banks and talking and laughing. Hyrum related a few of his brother Samuel’s exploits in the Drama Association. Henry tried to press him for details about his drilling with the Nauvoo Legion, but Hyrum remained fairly evasive on that front. “We’re just doing exercises. Getting used to positions, weapons… learning maneuvers and going on patrols. Nothing to get worked up much about.”
“Reckon they’d let me join? I’ve got a bit of time on my hands these days.”
“What about Turners’ wheat harvest?”
“That’s near on finished.”
“There’s corn. Pa’s set up for us to trade with Walls; they’re going to help us with apples and peaches and cherries.”
“Consarn it. Why do you get to go off in the canyons, Hy, and I’m still tripping along behind people picking up corncobs like I’m still in skirts? You’re only two years older’n me, after all. Maybe I ought to get myself a straw hat and some slicking grease.”
Maggie couldn’t help a chuckle at the thought of Henry combing oil through his hair, wearing a straw hat and trying to look charming and grown up. This was the boy, after all, who still flung mud on young ladies and had to be reminded by his mother not to swear.
He turned and gave her a baleful glance, then tossed a pebble at her.
She ducked.
“That all the answer you’re going to give me, then? Just duck and cover, is it? I think I like that. You’ve gotten right docile, Maggie. Downright ladylike, in point of fact.” Henry reached for a handful of mud.
“Holdens!” Maggie screeched. “I can’t show up covered in mud, Henry.”
Henry wiped his palm on his pants and sighed. He cast his line again, and watched the current, a brooding expression on his face.
The ride back was quiet, restful. An hour of sun and the sounds of the river had nearly erased all the panic from Maggie’s thoughts. She felt more able to separate them out—the good from the bad, the probable from the unlikely.
Uncle Forth. Maggie nodded to herself, and rested her back in the corner of the wagon. The scenery went by lazily, and as they descended back into the valley, Maggie was amazed at the sudden feeling of tenderness she felt for the little collection of buildings and streets that ran, criss-crossed and neatly squared off, against the dusty brown of the desert. She saw the Cleggs’ orchards, green in contrast to the brown, as they blanketed several blocks east of town, and the tall, waving fields of wheat and corn.
Uncle Forth liked to be stirred up. He listened to those who would give him what he wished—a scandal. Ma Alden had never been very keen on her situation, either; Pa Alden was the one who had the faith. But he also tended to step back and let others take charge.
It could be true, Maggie thought. What Uncle Forth was saying could be true in some ways. People taking the law into their own hands; it happened. She knew of several examples; selfishness and fear and greed existed and in a place like this, there was less consequence for such things because people thought they were less likely to be found out. Some people, Maggie thought, live the gospel because they believe it. Others come along because it would mean abandoning the people one loved, if one left it. And still others could get het up in their mind as to their own importance; they could make things up in their head and take more on themselves than they ought. Killing was no small thing. It made her sick to think something like that might have been done in the name of anything brother Brigham preached.
And that was the sticking point for Maggie’s thoughts. Uncle Forth had said Brother Brigham preached something called Blood Murder, and Ma Alden had said she remembered it, too. It wasn’t just a fancy for Ma Alden, either… there had been real fear in her voice.
Maggie reckoned she ought to ask. Someone safe to ask… that was the thing of it. Who could she talk to about this and not have it spread all over town that she was coming to a bad end, or have it ricochet back onto Pa Alden and make people speculate?
That evening, as she rocked the littlest Holden to sleep, and watched as Sister Holden began tidying up the dishes left behind by the Literary Society, the thought came to her that she could perhaps ask this woman, this redheaded woman who seemed not to shock easily when she asked frank questions about love poetry and who seemed to take life honestly as it came, might be the one to ask. Surely she wasn’t a gossip; she wasn’t someone who was weak-minded enough to need to spread things about others. And she was intelligent enough… she was perceptive and curious enough that she had to have heard something about Blood Murder, if it ever had been preached.
There was no real easy way to get into it, Maggie thought to herself. Best just ask. She swallowed, then cleared her throat.

Continuing Aelwys' journey...

Disclaimer: so far I'm just sort of world-building and developing the prose I'm going to use. This is building up to something that I promise will be interesting (I've got such an epic idea in mind, with lots of suspense and action and maybe Sean Connery, if we're lucky)... this served more to test descriptions of things and people, trying out interactions, and introducing a very unlikable character at the end there. Also eking out basics with an invented language (getting some tenses down, idiomatic phrases, pronunciation, etc.). Trying to decide how I can shift perspectives. I'm still not sure how old Aelwys is. I'm going to write the scene I started at the end... later. I'm getting close to including my pride-and-glory creepy monster beings! So... bear with me. I tried not to make it dull! So... given that this is sort of a literary sandbox, please let me know what I should change/fix/emphasize/etc.! Now that break is on, I can finally get around to commenting on everyone else's stuff, too!!!!


Oh, and (I had to look this one up, so just in case y'all didn't know either) a caparison is the cloak-like coverings draped over medieval horses. They are used to keep the horses warmer in the really quite cold temperatures here...

The next morning was bitterly cold and icy outside the cave, the air so frigid and gusty it felt like a solid substance oppressing those unfortunate enough to be caught in it. Aelwys, however, awoke quite warm and dry inside the cavern, and saw to her astonishment the fire still burning, and the kindling Mother had placed there in the night seemed to be entirely unconsumed. Her nostrils filled with the smell of the fish stew in the kettle Mother was holding over the fire. Now that she felt rested, warm, and safe, an overwhelming hunger seemed to gnaw at her, as Mother had correctly guessed it would.

“We must empty this kettle,” said Mother, “Because I do not think we will be able to risk another fire until we arrive on the island.”

“How will we get there?” Aelwys asked, eagerly reaching for one of the vessels in Mother's bag to fill with stew, “And how far away is it?”

“The island itself is a few miles by sea,” she said, “But we must be careful not to be recognized in the port, for it is still within the chieftains' land. We will be safe only after we cast off. However, Winter is coming fast, and we shall have to find quarters on the island or else find the money for passage on a winter vessel. Now, eat; we must be make ready for the journey. We cannot travel any more by night, so we must prepare to travel by day.”

After the kettle had been cleaned and the fire put out, they set about disguising themselves. They had already come dressed in the rough woolen coats about the inner linen robes of the Veagars, and so Mother and Aelwys began to braid one another's hair into dreadlocks and darken their eyes after the manner of their cousin clan. They covered their heads in thick woolen shawls with beaded fringes, and donned hoods and cloaks of crimson-dyed skins to repel the rain, and after a minute or two basking in the warmth of the cave, they set out into the blasting wind and rain, which though drizzling only was made a hail by the gusts of wind.

Eking out their way through the warring wind, they followed an old dirt path through the seaside crags, weaving through and over the smoothed black stones that crowned the shoreline, broken incrementally by a wide beach. They were not the only travelers, they soon discovered, for they saw several signs of encampments in amongst other caves and rocks. Here and there a thick tent of skins squatted in the more sheltered nooks in the rocks, which yet formed smooth, black cliffs that towered overhead. They received short respites from the brunt of the weather when a pillar or a wall of rock blocked the eastern side, from whence came the sea-breeze, though such moments were so short-lived that Aelwys could little enjoy them. Truthfully, she thought, it would be better if the barrage of wind and rain were entirely unabated, rather than be given periodic false hopes of relief.

After a few hours' walking, very much to their relief, the rain abated entirely, though the cold, dry wind yet buffeting and shoving the two of them as they slung each stride ahead of the last. Aelwy's heavy mantle served to warm her chest and her back well enough, but her limbs soon grew weary with cold. The wind readily pierced the skirts of her garments, and it soon seemed that her legs could not carry her quickly enough toward the promise of warmth and rest. Distant yet seemed such a promise, she bemoaned to herself, though her mouth stayed shut fast. She knew she could not burden Mother's ears with her complaints, exhausted though she was. In the face of the numbing wind and frigid ground, however, she couldn't help but look anxiously to Mother.

Mother's face was set and determined. Unflinchingly she pressed forward, standing erect with a sort of defiant majesty. She seemed to convey a feeling of strength and endurance to Aelwys with her unflinching posture and tirelessness. Facing the buffeting winds and deafened by its gustling, Aelwys squinted her eyes and clenched her jaw resolutely. She would not be bested by the elements that beset them.

* * *

They first became alarmed when the din of approaching hoofbeats began to be audible above the wind and the distant crashing of waves. They turned to see, and their hearts sank as they beheld the three men riding on the backs of caparisoned horses, galloping towards them with great haste. In a few moments, they overtook and surrounded them. The men wore masks and cassocks, white and unemblazoned, as were the caparisons that hung like cloaks about their horses, easily identifying them as soldier-priests of royal employ. Their pale lances pointed skyward, flying the red herald of the chieftains' coat-of-arms. Aelwys' heart was pounding: someone must have told the chieftains of their flight. They had been caught.

One handed his lance to one of the others, and dismounted with an unruffled grace, as if he could not feel the blasting winds that dashed his cassock about his thin form. He politely removed his mask to address the two women, and the face he revealed seemed one of refined manners. As had become the fashion of the chieftains in recent years, his face was clean-shaven, all the better to see that it was pressed in an expression of seemingly permanent displeasure.

“Wynclaetyrch!” he said loudly to be heard over the wind. Aelwys was offended for a moment that he should greet them in the Veagars' tongue, and had half a mind to answer him in Common before she remembered that they had dressed as Veagars.

“Wyndaecht,” Mother quickly answered, “What brings two humble maidens to your attention today, sirs?”

Senioritis And Why High School does NOT Make Up The Best Years of Your Life

In other silliness, this was originally posted on my personal blog. Looking at it, I decided that it qualified for being posted here. Just flow with it.

Been thinking about a few things recently.

You know, it's only the beginning of the year and I've already got what is called "senioritis". For those few weird people who don't know, "senioritis" is this condition that high school seniors develop, usually towards the end of the year, where they just stop caring about EVERYTHING and ANYTHING. Basically, you just want the school year to end so that you can grab your high school diploma and get on with your life. You're sick and tired of sitting in the classroom counting the minutes until the class is over, you're sick and tired of looking at colleges and getting good grades (or not, in some cases), you're sick and tired of worrying about everything from where you're going to live next year to how you did on that stupid English test - after four years you just want it to END.

Sound familiar? No? Oh, you poor, sorry excuse for a human being.

As you might imagine, this is a very unhealthy condition to be developing this early in the year. But the thing is, I don't care about anything anymore, so I can't really bring myself to be concerned about it.

However, in the attempt to make myself concerned about it, I did a lot of thinking. You know, about the future. And stuff.

And I realized....

This is a very....trying step in my life, to say in the least. This is practically my last year living at home.

But....to tell the truth? I'm not entirely unhappy about it.

It's not that I won't miss my parents, or living at home. When I leave this house, I am going to be shouldering the responsibilities of being independent - I will be, in essence, an adult. Well, sort of. My parents will help pay for my tuition and stuff, but that's beside the point.

What I mean is, I am moving on with my life. Which is both absolutely terrifying and quite possibly the most exciting thing I have ever done. Sort of a conflicting that way. So I am both terrified and excited.

When I went into high school, and while I was IN high school, I have had people tell me:

"You know, these are the best years of your life. High school is the best time you'll ever have. It doesn't get much better than that."

Well, I thought reflectively to myself, if this is as good as my life will ever get, my life is totally going to suck.

My entire life, school and I have had something of a hate/hate relationship. I hated it, It (in all its sentient glory) hated me. And despite many attempts (and believe me, there were many), there was no reconciling this. I tried having a positive attitude, smiling at everything (didn't work - only increased my reputation as some sort of crazy hermit person, only in the form of a teenage girl), trying to get good grades (I am such a skillful procrastinator that this never worked), trying to take an interest in my subjects, etc. Nothing worked. And so, somewhere in my elementary school years, I gave up. And so when people told me that these are the best years of my life (they STILL tell me this - they actually seem to tell me a lot more often, now that I'm a senior), I felt a deep pit of depression sink through my chest and give me a horrible stomachache.

In the middle of my junior year, though, I decided something: that whole 'high school is the best' thing is crap. Maybe they're the best times for the popular kids who've got it made in high school, but let's face it - that's just sad. I've known people who just never got their heads out of their high school years, and look back on them with wistful regret, never getting on with their lives because they're convinced that the climax of their lives has already passed. That's not going to be me, no sir. As far as I'm concerned, the day I finally take that high school diploma and do a little victory dance on the stage (probably involving the worm), my life will finally BEGIN. I mean, not that my life isn't going on right now, but that's when I'll be OUT and into THE WORLD.

My lands, what a frightening thought.

Recently, one of my teachers made a surprisingly wise statement: "Here's the facts, kids: high school is weird. It's full of all this stupid drama and adjustment and all this other crap. Life outside of high school is not like that. High school isn't what life really is. Life is different, and it's a whole lot better, if you ask me."

Well said.

That's not a word-for-word quote, of course, but that's the gist of it. And it's true. High school IS weird. It's full of a bunch of kids who are doing a lot of growing in a very short amount of time. They aren't adults, they aren't children, they're somewhere in between. And it's a tough adjustment, one that is full of, yes, drama and all this other crap. So it really isn't logical to assume that life in the outside world is like that, too.

I like that. If there is one thing that I have absolutely no qualms about, it's leaving high school behind me. And you can be sure that I will only look back when I'm having troubles with my life, and need to remember that although my life isn't easy, it could be a heckuva lot worse.

Because the truth is, life gets better after high school. And that's a fact.

Rien

Breaking up my writer's block a bit here....

He told me to write this story. I argued that I’m no scribe, I barely know my letters, but he keeps telling me that this story deserves to be told, and he is even less a scribe than I am.

“That’s poor excuse,” I say.

He simply grins in that odd way he has, and I know I’m at a dead end. I have yet to figure out what goes on in that head of his, but I am in no hurry – no doubt much of it is addled nonsense.

The truth is, I do not know how to write an epic as the monks and scholars in Lunden do . But I do remember, and so I will write it as I remember it.

*

My name is Maria.

I was born and raised in the Lakus Forest, which stands a little ways from a small town known as Laktown. How and why the town came into existence is something only the scholars in the City know, but I do know that throughout its long history, our family had always lived separate from it. It is said that when we first came to the forest, it reminded them so much of their old country that they built a cottage and settled down right there and then. The men have always been woodsmen or carpenters, going into the town only occasionally to trade their goods or talk with friends. Any sons born in our family, with a few exceptions, have stayed in the forest, while most of the daughters left when they reached adulthood, to go find husbands and make their way in the world. I can understand - the cottage is small, and (according to my father’s philosophy, which my mother never liked hearing) women have ‘wandering hearts’. They grow restless, and go where their heart says to go – which, more often than not, lies beyond our forest.

My mother herself left a long family tradition – she used to always tell of how her family lived in a big, ancient house that stood on top of the hill, and there was a magnificent dog kennel that she always loved to visit when she was little. My mother adores dogs, and we always had at least one sleeping in front of the fire in our home.

When she was old enough, she visited the nearby city with her mother, and there she met my father. He was a very young man at the time, and very handsome, from my mother’s description. Father was in the city because he had grown restless of life in his family home, and decided to see what else the world had to offer. “I was homesick the first week out,” he told us. “A year later, I wanted nothing more than to return home.”

As a matter of fact, he was only a week away from leaving when he met Mother. They only caught a glimpse of each other in the street that first time, but Father was immediately entranced. Truth be told, my mother is no beauty – her looks are plain, with thin red hair and many, many freckles, but my father always said that it was her smile that caught him. My mother has the loveliest smile – it makes her face shine with her happiness, and she looks like a goddess.

My mother, on the other hand, did not think too much of the poor boy in a patched shirt and trousers standing in the street in the thick crowd, and did not think of him again until weeks later, when she was walking through the city with her mother and she saw him once again. He recognized her and, thinking quickly, bought a flower from a nearby stand, and stepped out in front of her. “Penny for a poppy, miss?” he asked.

Startled, Mother could do nothing but stand there, staring at him in bewilderment. Then, coming to her senses, she pulled a penny out of her purse and bought the poppy.

After that, they saw more and more of each other, and my mother found more and more excuses to go out with her mother. Oddly enough, her mother never suspected them, which was probably God working in their favor. The night before they were supposed to return to the big house on the hill, my mother and father ran away, and were wed in a quiet little church on the fringes of the city before traveling to Lakus Forest

My parents loved to tell this story. I, being a terribly practical child, found it somewhat unnerving. “How long did you know each other?” I would always ask.

“Three months,” they would always answer.

“Why only three months? Why didn’t you wait, to see if one of was mean or lazy?” I would ask next.

They always laughed at this point. “We were little idiots, right enough,” Father said. “I suppose there would’ve been a way…..but we were too impatient. We wanted what we wanted, and we wanted it right then.”

“What if Father hit you? What if Mother was of bad temper?”

Mother would smile. “Truly, we should have thought of that. Bern,” she turned to Father, “I would assume you will never hit me?”

“And Selene, I certainly hope you will never develop bad temper.” My father said, quite seriously.

I would give up when we came to this – there was no point in continuing. My parents teased their children mercilessly, and I hated to be teased.

The story I most liked to hear was about myself. What child doesn’t like to hear good things about themselves? My mother would always start with the weather – “It was a heavy snowstorm, and your father was worried about food. We had plenty of wood – we’d chopped half the forest down to fill our winter pile. The fire was going in the fireplace, and it was very warm. The wind was howling at the window as though it were determined to tear our house down, but this house has seen so many snowstorms that it barely squeaked.”

There is another of my parents’ odder traits – they always talked about the cottage as though it were a living thing.

“I was in the bedroom, pushing and heaving for all I was worth,” Mother went on ( I grimaced when she talked of this) -“Your father was pacing, trying to think of what to do. Poor boy – he had no idea what to about babies. We had called for the midwife, but that was before the storm came. We were sure that she would not be able to make it through the snow.”

“But she did.” I interjected.

“Yes, indeed she did.” Mother said, grinning. “There came a loud knocking at the door, and your poor father, thinking it was the wolves come to eat us, went to see who it was. And there, blessed be her name, was midwife Vaina, with her long curls all a-tumbling about her face and her eyes like fire.” Mother’s face would light up at this memory. Vaina had died of sickness when I was three years old, but she had been very close with Mother – she had been the only townsmen who came to welcome her when Mother arrived with my father at the cottage.

“She came in, and suddenly everything was under her command,” Mother said. “I swear, she could order the fire to light itself, and it would do it. She came into the bedroom, and before I knew it, I was holding you in my arms.”

Her grey eyes became misty, and she absently reached out to clasp my hand. “You were so beautiful. Vaina, she looked at you and said that you were for certain a winter child – the way your skin was so pale and hair so black and curly. And you had the bluest eyes – they looked up at me, all big and round and curious about what was going on. Only an hour old, and you were up and awake. I’ve heard tell that most babes don’t do much seeing in their first months, but you were different – you looked at everything, and I swear you wanted to touch everything. You would always reach out your fat little hands to brush against my hair, or the bedcovers, or the floor.…..”

I sighed. My eyes were no longer blue, but boring brown – a loss that I always grieved deeply as a child. It was my firm belief that blue eyes were the most beautiful sort of eyes you could have.

My curiosity, though, did not go away. When I could walk, I would follow my mother around the house, watching her cook and clean and asking questions about everything little thing she did. Fortunately, she liked answering questions, and I was never so curious as to do anything dangerous, such as sticking my hand in the fire to see how it felt.

No, that was what my brothers did. After me, there came three boys – Josef, one year younger, and then Tomas and Martin, who were three years younger than me and two years apart from each other, but who spent so much time together that they might as well have been twins.

Josef had the same curiosity, but was far more restless, driving my mother mad with his ventures through the chimney and in the cellar and (when he was older) out in the woods. He could never sit still, and was always annoying me with his prodding and teasing.

The two younger boys were the opposite of what you might expect. They were both very quiet and shy, and liked to help Mother with the housework. They were eager to learn their letters and sums (which Mother insisted on teaching us), and did very well at it. They invented games with the numbers, and would make up words and letters and write notes in the dirt outside. We had very few books in our house – I believe there was only three – but they would read them all the time, going over them again when they were finished and never tiring of reading the same story.

Sestina

How long, I wondered, will I wait
for broods to gather round my legs
and I’ll have feed. Every dry mouth
will fill for ripening cheeks. I glean
from spare fields, following, with two
shallow baskets. My hands are old.

At ten I fancied to be old
enough to take my own train, wait
by myself on benches. With two
more years to run on young spring legs
I fished like mad and scrapped to glean
sweet, white flakes for my greedy mouth.

When I first shut my parching mouth
against the dust that made me old
I watched a grey crow scratch and glean
for moldy bread. I thought to wait
to see if it would beak my legs
and try to find a crumb or two.

Then ants came marching two by two
across my prickling, salty mouth.
I swallowed, tried to bend my legs
and run to catch up with the old
-est, brownest boy. He couldn’t wait
for me to bend my back and glean.

When Marchest days brought winds that gleaned
a tree branch of its pear or two,
I thought to ask my love to wait
while I found seeds and crammed my mouth
and prayed for fruit before I’m old
enough to trip on tottering legs.

The grass still cut my blue-skinned legs
before I knelt with shears to glean
as stars crept out. The moon was old
and almost full. I wished for two
more pomegranates. Watch this mouth
shake, catching flakes. And still I wait.

The wheat grows old as I try two
crumbs and cross my legs. The crows glean
for worms. I press my mouth and wait.

The Long Journey (more or less), Part 2

I've decided to go with the Nancy Farmer Method of Writing: just keep writing the story until you get to the end, and THEN go back and fix things. I will be taking notes as I go along, of course, so suggestions would be appreciated.

The loading took a few hours – Gehnn’s arms ached badly by the time they were done. It wasn’t a bad sort of ache, though, she decided. It was rather refreshing, doing some heavy work after all that time she had spent doing nothing but walking.

During the loading, Gehnn found out that, besides herself, there were only five other workers – three men and two women. Out of everyone, she was the only one working for passage rather than pay. There wasn’t much chance for formal introductions while they worked, passing each other on the way to and from the caravan. Some glanced at her, maybe handed her another crate, but for the most part, they paid her no attention.

When the sun was starting to set, the last crate was put into the cart, and Mr. Tummett set up the camp stove beside the caravan. “We’ll be leaving tomorrow,” he informed them, hauling out a couple of empty barrels to serve as seats around the stove. “A little after dawn, I’d say.”

“That’s over schedule, isn’t it?” one of the men said, seating himself on one of the barrels.”You said early on that it would be this evening.” He was about Mr. Tummett’s age (perhaps in his mid thirties), and he gave the impression of being more familiar with the caravan than the rest of the hired workers.

“Well, they can have speed or they can have whole goods.” Mr. Tummett said, sitting on the barrel beside him. “They can whine all they want about it, they’ll still pay for it.”

He turned to the rest of them, all standing silent at the edge of the camp. “We didn’t make a stove fire for gawking. Pull yourselves a seat, for Lord’s sake, we gotta get to know each other better if we’re going to be traveling all that way.”

Awkwardly, they seated themselves on the remaining barrels or sat on the ground. Gehnn sat a little away from the others, legs curled up and head bowed. Mr. Tummett raised his voice.

“All righty, then, since I hired all o’ you separate, we’ll have to go ‘round and tell our names. Just to get familiar with faces, you understand – gotta know names and faces if you’re going to work together over this week.”

Some of them rolled their eyes at this – they just came for work, not to make friends – but since there was some logic to this, and because he was the caravan master who determined their pay, they grudgingly complied.

They started with the man next to Mr. Tummett. “I’m Logan Flatts.” he said. “Come from Port Poskall. That’s about it.”

They all nodded, and went to the man next to him. He was younger than him, sort of short and weedy looking, with a surly sort of expression that didn’t look like it ever came off his face. “Hyram Felps.” he said shortly. “Port Poskall.”

Next - a stocky woman with dark hair and skin, who looked like she could take the head off of a boar without blinking. “My name is Lissan Zzirrissk,” she said, with a trilling, slithery accent. “I come from Samare.”

Gehnn stiffened, fingers closing protectively over her shoulders.

They went on to the last man – a middle-aged, burly sort with a thick mustache that he stroked as he talked. “Stephan Smith. I’m from Port Corsellis.”

“Oh, that’s me as well!” the woman sitting next exclaimed.

They all turned to her.

She was the youngest of the group, besides Gehnn, who thought that she was maybe only a few years older than herself. She was very tall, with long arms and legs that had muscles that rivaled Lissan Zzirrissk’s, and wore a sleeveless shirt that displayed the swirling black and blue tattoos that covered her arms and shoulders. It was hard to tell in the stove’s light, but they looked like designs of oceans and fish, the sort of which Gehnn had seen pictures. Her hair was dark blonde, and cut at neck-length, mostly covered with a striped maroon-and-navy kerchief. She wore dirt-stained pants and worn, heavy boots, and the way she held herself spoke of someone who did not care how people looked at her. Most noticeable, at least to Gehnn, were her piercings – thin silver rings spiraling through her ears, studs running down her earlobes, three rings in one eyebrow. Just seeing them made Gehnn’s face hurt.

“I’m Yul Blunt,” the young woman said, raising an arm. “I’m also from Port Corsellis. Born and raised. Unlike you, I’d say.” she eyed the man sitting next to her. “Where’re your silvers, man? Where’s your marks? Were you too wuss to get them or what?”

Stephan Smith looked quite startled by this affront, and no less angry. “What-“

“Moving on!” Mr. Tummett interjected. He looked at Gehnn. “All right, what’s your name, then?”

Feeling all eyes on her, Gehnn shifted uncomfortably. “Um….I’m Gehnn.” she said, quavering. “And…and I’m f-from….down south.”

There was a little silence after this, as they all looked at her curiously. She shrank back, pulling her hood lower over her face and staring at her legs.

“Well!” Mr. Tummett clapped his hands, making them all jump. “That’s all settled, then! So now - DINNER!”

And just like that, he whipped out a burlap sack and handed out bowls and spoons, which they took with some bemusement. He then took out a large can, cut it open, and set it on the stove, shoving a dipper in as well.

“The fare’s not so good tonight, I’m afraid, just some preserves, but that’s all I got time to feed you.” He said, spoon some of the now- steaming stew into his bowl.

Magdalena

sorry about the weird formatting. My word processor doesn't translate very well to blogger. This is the first few pages of a novel I'm several chapters into rewriting. Any input/ripping apart/bashing repeatedly with a red pencil tip would be very welcome.


Prologue


The line of men stood at attention with muskets tucked up against their bodies. Mud and red paint dripped off of their faces and onto their bare chests like dark blood.

“Ready,” A resonant voice called out.
“Aim!” Suddenly all the men moved in unison. The stocks of their guns foreshortened in Maggie’s vision, and became small blotches against the pale shoulders.
They didn’t wait for the next order. It came unexpectedly—a giant explosion, filling Maggie’s skull with ricochet noises of screeching metal and painful gunpowder.

She yelled and flew into a sitting position. She whipped her head around, confused.
All of a sudden, it was dark. And instead of powdery earth and prickly weeds, she was sitting on a soft, lumpy surface--

Maggie’s heart slowed as she felt the straw poking into the back of her legs. She reached over and found the warm head of her sister on the pillow beside her.

“Maggie,” Giovanna muttered. “It was just a dream. Go to sleep.”


1

It could be said of Magdalena Chabert (and many in Provo did say it) that she was an old woman in a fourteen-year-old’s body. She moved if she had rheumatic limbs and brittle bones. She looked at you as sharply and un-apologetically as a woman who had lived through three or four generations. She didn’t say much and when she did, you got the feeling that she didn’t mean it. Sarcasm, she saved for those she knew well enough, and these chosen few got far more of it than they could have any use for.
On this morning, Maggie did not feel especially sarcastic. She stood in the crowd that spilled over the edges of the carefully-laid block of town square, careful to touch as few people as possible. It was a fine morning; refreshing and cool, though later in the day it would blaze high in the sky and scorch through calicos and flannels. For now, the jagged shape of Squaw Peak loomed above the crowd, hiding the sun and providing welcome shade.
Maggie glanced up at it and thought what it would be like to stand at the tip. She could spread her arms and maybe even lean out over the thousand-foot fall, held back from the edge by wind alone.
“I reckon Brother Brigham’s gotten long-winded over something,” Henry’s twangy voice cut into her awareness.
She turned and squinted at him. “Reckon that’s not unusual.”
Henry chuckled and edged into her space. “Like as not he’s gone on about the proper thickness of bread crusts again.”
Maggie nodded. She rose onto her toes and craned her neck, but it was useless as she had known it would be. She was at least two heads shorter than everyone in front of her.
“You want a lift? I could get you up on my shoulders.”
Maggie offered Henry a freezing smile—the sort that often sent people far older than her away without further comment.
He grinned back at her, unfazed. “Fine, then. Can’t say I didn’t try to be a gentleman.”
Maggie snorted appreciatively. “Very fine manners—hoisting a young lady of fourteen up t’your shoulders so a hundred people can count out the holes in her stockings.”
The crowd around them was growing restless. With the buzz of muttering, Maggie couldn’t even hear a dim echo of what the prophet was saying.
“Where’s Mariah?” Henry asked suddenly.
Maggie shrugged. “Likely had to stay home and mind babes. Her ma likes to come to these.”
Suddenly the whispers increased in volume, all around them, and along with it a sudden intensity. Maggie stood straighter and craned her neck; it was like the air was charged, the feeling of thunderclouds full of rain about to burst.
“What’s he sayin?” She whispered to Henry.
“Back North, then.” It was Cindy Holdaway’s voice, to her right. “Just as you thought, Shedrick.”
Shedrick Holdaway stroked his pointed beard, his face unusually solemn. He didn’t glance at his wife, but squinted through the crowd as if it would make him hear better.
“I admit I’m feeling relief,” Betsy Cluff said, leaning behind Henry and Maggie so that she could see her friend. “It’s been exciting, but it’ll be good to have our east pastures back again for grazing. David’s been worrying lately how to get the sheep fattened with wagons camped out on his best pasture.”
“It’ll be sad to see some go,” Cindy replied.
Shedrick made a hushing noise, and put a hand on his wife’s shoulder.
Maggie felt something like an iron band, tightening around her heart.
Mariah was going home. Likely, that was what kept her this morning. Likely she already knew and was spending the morning packing. There were privileges that came from having the prophet as a stepfather.
The corwd began to break up and disperse, bodies pressing through and against each other as everyone found their direction.
“Brother Brigham says he’s packing up and going today,” Brother Cluff said, coming through the crowd. “Johnston’s got his thousand men across the lake on the other side of the mountains.”
“Doesn’t mean they’ll stay there,” Brother Holdaway remarked.
“Buchanan made it pretty clear he wasn’t to stir up trouble. And Governor Cummings is on our side, President Young is fair certain. I’ve already seen some wagons start down main street toward the canyon way.”
Maggie felt her heart sink still further. She stepped quickly through the crowd, leaving Henry with his mother and father. When she got enough space, she began to run toward town square, but soon had to slow again, waiting for animals and carts to pass. Center Street was already busier than she could ever remember it being; people running and walking, shouting out orders, saddling animals as they stood by the side of the road, loading up wagons.
They’re ready to shake the dust of this place clear off their feet, she thought.
She made her way through the square until she came to one of the long, narrow-lean-tos where the Prophet and his family had lived these last few months. She knocked on the door and immediately it opened.
“Mariah around?” Maggie asked the harried-looking woman who stood in the doorway.
“They’ve cleared their things out already. They were one of the first ones out—likely you’ll find them east of town headed for the benches.”
Maggie turned tail and ran, her heart pounding in her temples. She felt moisture start at the corner of her eyes.
Mariah hadn’t even planned to say goodbye to her?
It hurt.
She thought it had been something special, what she and Mariah had. Or at least, it had been infinitely special to Maggie, who had never had a bosom friend before. Not a girl friend at least.
Henry doesn’t count, Maggie though savagely. He’s a boy. And besides, going fishing for suckers wasn’t the same as talking your heart out until you felt full and sure that someone knew you, and liked you.
It had been odd—threatening, even—at least at first. Maggie had thought that girlish friendships were not meant for her, or that there was something about her that just made it impossible. She thought it was because she wasn’t refined enough, or her funny foreign way of speaking.
In truth, it was Maggie’s solemn countenance and unnerving way of studying people that kept the fourth-ward girls at a distance. Which was why it was such a miracle that Mariah came and sat next to her during Nancy Wall’s quilting party that Saturday in March. And it was also a miracle that, in spite of Maggie’s silence and one-word answers, the girl stayed next to her and continued to talk for three long hours instead of changing seats to go be next to Julia Huntington, for instance. Instead, Mariah weathered the long silences, waiting for Maggie’s answers and talking as if the conversation was proceeding at quite the normal pace.
The third miracle happened the next day, when there was a knock on Maggie’s door. There stood Mariah, with one of her mother’s aprons folded over her bodice and tied around her waist. Her dimples framed her grin like parenthases, and her eyes glittered as if she knew a joke. Maggie couldn’t help but let her in, couldn’t help but offer her a place by the fire, couldn’t help the fact that her emotional dam began to crack and the words started to pour out slowly, like molasses from a pitcher.

The Arrival at the Port - something I've been working on....

The shopkeeper was just opening for the day, and didn’t catch sight of the small figure walking jerkily past the window. The bells over the door jingled when it opened, and when she looked up to see who it was, she stared.

“Could you give me some jerky? Bread, too? I’ve got a long ways to go.”

A young voice came out from underneath the layers of cloth draped over the head and wrapped around the face. Unmistakably a young girl’s, although it was unusually low. She was small, perhaps barely five feet tall……. cautiously, the shopkeeper leaned forward, asking, “Going far, erm….miss?”

“The next goodtown.” The girl replied blandly.

The shopkeeper blinked. “The nearest goodtown is Solstice, three hundred leagues away. That’s a good long ways, miss.”

“Not that long.” The girl adjusted one of her shawls. “Can you give me that much, for three hundred leagues?”

“You aren’t intending to walk there, are you?” the shopkeeper asked, appalled.

“Can’t think of any other way to get there.” The girl replied. “Don’t have any money or means to barter.”

“You can work, though, can’t you?” the shopkeeper asked.

“I suppose so.”

“Well, you know - there’s many a caravan that needs workers to help with the cargo and such – that’s how most pay their way, factually speaking. Though the Company overseers don’t like to hear about it.”

“Why not?” the girl asked with mild interest.

“Company wants to be modern, you know. On that ground, it wouldn’t sound too good if people found out that most of the workers on their caravans aren’t paid in money.” The storekeeper smiled, tentative. “Most folk don’t care, though. We make our living how we make it. Not much to be done about it, no use caring about it.” the shopkeeper turned, shuffling to the back of the shop, where the supplies were kept. “So, three hundred leagues, is it? If you took a job, that might take about a week or more. We’re not the fastest here, but it’s better than walking, eh?”

The girl shifted position underneath her shawls, silent.

The shopkeeper returned a few moments later, carrying a large linen-wrapped bundle in her arms. This she handed to the girl, who tucked it into her bag, and who in turn took some coins from a pouch at her side and handed them to the shopkeeper.

“Thanks,” the girl murmured.

“Anytime.” The shopkeeper nodded. “You have a safe trip.”

“I will. Thank you.”

The girl left the shop, leaving the shopkeeper peering after her curiously, feeling more than a little unnerved by the jerky motions the girl made as she stepped out the door – as though the ground stung at her feet.

On the girl’s part, she was very relieved. She had been walking for many days, cut off from any sort of contact. Her greatest fear, as she walked within the town’s borders, was of being seen.

The sun was terrible today, very hot and bright, and the wrappings the girl wore made the heat almost unbearable. At least they provided good cover - she had no need to shade her eyes when she peered through the slit in her wrappings, seeing the narrow sand-packed street stretched out before her. She regretted not asking the shopkeeper for directions to the caravan port, but she could hardly walk back in there and ask now. Well, that was not so difficult, she thought to herself. She could find her way to the port on her own – this town was small, and there were only so many places the port could be. She tried to ignore the stares of the people she passed, but it was no use – she could feel their eyes on her, curious and frightening. Despite the sun’s heat, she pulled her wrappers more tightly about her, so that there could be no mistake that they were secure.

As she walked and as she gradually became used to the stares, she became aware of a presence at her side. Looking down, she saw that it was a dog - a scrawny pup with a smattering of strawberry spots across its grey back, and a build that might have been sturdy were it not for the fact that it looked like it hadn’t eaten in a good long time. It also had terrible mange.

She stopped, and the dog stopped with her. It wasn’t very old – probably not past a year yet, she thought. There were many dogs like this in her own hometown - Pathetic little creatures who had the misfortune to be forgotten, and probably never even had owners in the first place.

“Now, what’re you doing, following me?” the girl asked the dog. “You find me attractive, do you? Think I’ll give you some food if you look at me with those big sad eyes?”

The dog did not answer, of course. Not in words. But it was the slight tilt of his head that made it look like he was listening to her talk and perhaps understanding.

The girl sighed through her nose, ruffling the cloth over her face, and took out a small strip of jerky from her bag. Tossing it to the ground, the dog wolfed it down in under a second, and then looked up at her again, an inquisitive perk to its small ears.

“That’s all. I can’t keep giving you my life rations, you know. I don’t intend to starve to death on your account.”

The dog looked at her.

“Keep following me, of course,” the girl said resignedly, continuing on her way, “Just don’t expect much – I’ll be leaving as soon as I get to the port. If I can find it.”

They went along then, the dog still trailing at her heels, and the girl found herself talking to it as she went along.

“Not much here to see, is there?” she said, glancing around at the small, square-shaped buildings, not beyond two stories high. “Smaller than my town, and that’s saying something. I guess it has a port, though – my town doesn’t have that. We have to walk everywhere. Some people have transport, but mostly it’s all on foot.”

The people stared harder at the strange, shawl-wrapped personage apparently talking to herself, but she hardly cared now that she had someone to talk to. Even if it was only a dog.

“I don’t suppose you have a name.” the girl said. The dog licked her pant-covered calf. “No eating my leg, now,” the girl said sharply. “I still need those.”

“I’ll call you Spots,” she continued, “on account of the fact that you have so many. They’re mighty pretty, I’d say. They would be, anyway, if half your fur weren’t gone.”

The dog made a low whining sound, and hurried ahead, turning its head towards an easterly direction. It paused, apparently waiting for her to catch up.

Underneath her shawls, the girl raised her eyebrows. Curious, she followed the dog down one wider street, and caught the faint scent of smoke and frying grease up ahead. That must have been what caught the dog’s attention, she thought – the promise of frying food.

There came the sound of talk and bustle, and suddenly they found themselves in a thick crowd, so busy that no one even stopped to stare.

They didn’t have much reason to, truth be told – there were many people here who covered themselves with scarves and shawls, although not quite so thoroughly as she did. Their unclad hands revealed the dark brown skin of the Deep Dune people, and the girl felt very small when they looked down at her from their unnatural height.

“Come on,” she muttered to the dog, who was still miraculously glued to her side.

They waded through the crowd, with the girl keeping a tight hold on her face wrappings so that they wouldn’t slip off, trying to find some sort of order that might point out the place they should go. This was unmistakably the caravan port - where else would there be such a large crowd, with so many different sorts of people? Her guess was confirmed when she saw the varied, rusted models of caravan transports, with lethargic-looking shellbacks standing beside them and anxious owners struggling to pull their business out into the open.

She had found the place, but now the question was where to go from here. The girl knew something of trade and transport, and therefore knew the dangers of being rash with who you gave your business to. Unfortunately, her experience with such things was quite limited, and so she was forced to guess on appearance.

She eyed the gathering of transports dubiously, a little afraid. She tried to calm herself, taking a deep breath.

All right, then. She observed the row of caravans once more, looking at each carefully. Each had seen much wear in their day, and looked ready to fall apart. Her heart sank a little further.

The dog, apparently uninterested in her now that she was no longer handing out food, trotted off through the crowd, leaving her alone. Noticing its absence, she felt a small pang of regret. She couldn’t have kept it, of course, but it had at least been something to keep her company. Even it was only for a short time……

“Excuse me,” a man said. Surprised at being addressed, the girl stepped back silently, allowing the man passage through to his transport, carrying a large wooden crate.

Without thinking, the girl followed him, keeping sight of his dark green uniform through the many colors and fashions blocking her path. His destination was not far – he stopped about a hundred feet away, dropping the crate next to a particularly battered-looking cart. He straightened, stretching out his back, and noticed the quiet figure standing nearby.

“Good day,” he said, not at all put off by her appearance. “How can I be of service?”

The girl took a moment to respond – carefully phrasing her words before speaking. “Are you going to the other goodtown?”

“Which one – north or further north?” the man asked wearily.

“What do you mean?” the girl asked warily.

“There are only two within six hundred leagues. I’ll help you depending on which one you’re heading to.”

The girl remembered a name the shopkeeper had mentioned – “Solstice.” she said aloud.

The man gave her a speculative look.

“You come from the Dunes?” he asked.

“No.” the girl replied.

“Heh. Didn’t think so. The coverings threw me off, but looking at them again tells me they aren’t of Dunes make.”

Underneath the cloth, the girl stiffened. The man, sensing her discomfort, turned the topic. “You’re in luck, miss – I’m short on the required worker quota this trip.” He eyed her small frame dubiously. “Are you up to much heavy lifting?”

“I’m stronger than I look.” The girl said, squaring her shoulders.

“That a fact?” the man glanced down at the heavy crate next to him, and rubbed his chin. “Well, we’ll give you a trial run, I guess – lift this crate up into the cart, and then follow me for the rest of the loading.”

The girl immediately obeyed, stepping forward and bending down in one smooth motion. She hefted the large, heavy crate into her thin arms, her knees buckling for a moment, and then straightened. The man nodded approvingly. The girl was true to her word – and she had obviously done this sort of thing many times before.

“Put it right next to that red-marked crate there,” the man said, pointing. The girl raised the crate onto the metal floor with a loud clunk, and slid it into the position the man had indicated. The long sleeves around her arms slipped, and the man caught a glimpse of dark tan skin patched with pasty pink blotches before she quickly readjusted her clothes.

“Well, then,” the man said, smiling. “Looks like you’ve got yourself a job, miss.”

Her face wrappings twitched. “Th-thank you, sir.” she said.

“As long as I’ve got hands, we’re both happy. Just don’t slack off and cheat me on our deal, and we’ll be friends.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jethras Tummett, caravan master of this sorry group. You’ll call me Mister Tummett on this trip.”

The girl gave the offered hand a wary glance before reluctantly clasping it with her own gloved one. “I’m Gehnn. From….down south.” She said.

They shook. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Jethras Tummett said. After this exchange, he gestured for her to follow him, and then made his way back into the crowd. “Keep close – it’s easy to get lost here.”

Death

The day that Ned died was the day that Suzanne was sure her life had ended.
It had been coming on for awhile. They had been expecting it for eight and a half long months—or rather, Suzanne had been expecting, dreading it since the day of their marriage.

Now, she sat in the middle of a crowded pew, deaf and numb amidst a sea of sniffling and discreet whispers. She stared up at the thick circular wreath of yellow daffodils. Thoughtful, Suzanne thought. Bonnie knows they’re Ned’s favorites

Were, Suzanne corrected herself. They were Ned’s favorites. Ned wasn’t there to enjoy them. What a ridiculous irony; why not choose someone else’s favorite flower? Ned’s body lay in the maple coffinpolished to a brilliant sheen, that stood at the front of the room. But he wasn’t there.

She sighed, feeling her frustration build. Immediately, she fel Bonnie’s hand on her arm. Bonnie: bright-eyed, ready in an instant to be the sympathetic friend she thought Suzanne needed. Bonnie, who had been, according to the church committee chair, “A Godsend to the Flewellyn family in their times of trial.”

Suzanne wanted to shake the warm, plump hand off her shoulder in the worst way—it felt as unwelcome there as a tarantula.

“How you doing, darlin’?”

“I’m fine.” Suzanne somehow managed a civil tone.

The service went slowly. People talking like they knew Ned. People saying nice things about him, joking about his little quirks. Suzanne got up and said a few words, feeling completely removed as if they were coming from someone else’s mouth.

We knew this day would happen.

Ned loved all of you.

Ned wouldn’t want people to be sad at his passing.

It was a script she was reading—words that didn’t encapsulate in any way what she felt, or what Ned had felt at the end. She saw it in her mind, Ned’s piercing, grey eyes. She heard his gruff voice—

“Suzy. You going to be all right?"

Suzanne had looked at him, the broad, jovial face she had studied every single day of their marriage, kept etched in her mind. She even thought, many times, of the time she’d have to do this, have to say goodbye and hope to God she had looked at him enough that she could remember.

“Do what you have to do, Ned,” she had said. “I’ll manage for a while.”

“I’ll be there with you.”

Suzanne had nodded, but had felt resentment well up inside of her. How did he know? He didn’t really know what would happen. Didn’t have any proof at all that he could be there for her, or even that he’d really exist. How he make such blind promises? It was cruel. For his sake, she had masked her fear and anger and sat quietly at his bedside, day after day, watching him slip further and further from his surroundings. And when he left, she had sat there, at his side, for a couple of hours, pretending she could still see his chest rise, just a little; see his breath rattle the Kleenex that emerged from the box at his bedside.

Everyone stood for the last hymn. Suzanne broke from her reverie and stood, mouthing the words. She moved her feet with the crowd to the cemetery, gazed at the wooden sheen on the curved top of the coffin as it was lowered. She crooked her neck and stared at the grass around her feet while someone prayed. She straightened and grinned, grinned, grinned and shook, shook, shook hands until she got to her car. She got in, shut the door, and drove home, leaving everyone else to celebrate.

When she got home, she lay down on the bed, setting her head in the indentation Ned’s had left. She felt herself drift, imagining to herself that if she lay still enough—perhaps she could stop breathing. The next breath she took could be a little shallower, then the next, barely anything. It wouldn’t be hard. Just a matter of will power.

“You can, you know.”

Suzanne sat up violently, bashing her head into the corner of the nightstand. She swore—a world that had not come to her lips for three decades, at least.

“Sorry,” the man said.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my bedroom?”

The man didn’t answer; he looked at her. His broad, chiseled face—not unlike Ned’s, in fact; there was something about the cheekbones—was eloquent.
Belated fear suddenly gripped Suzanne’s heart. Maybe this was the end. Maybe God heard her prayers.

But she hadn’t really banked on a possibly violent death. Death by stabbing, strangling, shooting—she glanced surreptitiously at his hands and saw they were empty, clasped over his (somewhat ample) midsection.

“Violence isn’t my style,” the man said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Don’t worry—it’ll all be very gentle. If it’s what you want, that is.” He shrugged. “Of course, you get to make the decision.”

Suzanne stared at the man, taking in his salt-and-pepper hair, his dark, intelligent eyes and rather forbidding pointed eyebrows.

As if to reassure her, he smiled—a very kindly smile.

Suzanne shivered. “What do you want? I’ll cooperate.” She slid to the edge of the bed and timidly stood, watching for any movement on his part. “There’s some silver in the kitchen. We’ve got a seventeen-inch flat screen in the living room. Nothing else much of value I—I’m afraid.” Her mind flicked to the safe, hidden upstairs in the attic.But he couldn’t have had time to find that. Why would he search a house only to wake up its occupant before he—no. This had to be something far more sinister.

She took an unobtrusive step toward the door.

“I’m not here to take your possessions. Well, not anything tangible, at least. I’m here for your soul.” He nodded at her, as if this outrageous statement were reasonable, and she ought to be following him perfectly.

Suzanne thought to herself that the phone was right by her hand; she could pick it up and dial 911 in less than a second, and even if she didn’t have time to say where she was or what was happening, she could scream at least—

“They won’t see me, of course.” the man interrupted her thoughts again. “And since you invited me here, I’m not breaking any law to speak of.” He smiled then, and moved toward her. “Let’s get comfortable. I want to get to know you a little bit better before we do this thing.”

“What thing?” Suzanne’s voice came out in a high squeak.

“Death,” The man said, as if it were obvious.

“You’re—you’re going to kill me?” Suzanne whispered. Her fingers shook as she edged her hand toward the phone.

“I’ll take your soul up. If you want me to. You don’t believe a word I’m saying,” he added, glancing at her hand. “All right, then. I thought we were on the same page, but clearly we are not.” He shrugged. “I must admit I thought you were better prepared. Ned seemed to think you—but really, it’s not surprising. Happens a lot, in fact. Well…here, then.”

He walked toward her swiftly, and Suzanne felt her heart nearly leap out of her chest as he put his palm on hers. It was warm, strong, perfect—but held a strange sort of resonance when it touched her, like the pins-and-needles feeling of having a limb fall asleep. And as he kept his hand on hers, suddenly she felt as if her senses were disappearing, she felt as if she were emerging, somehow, like she rose up out of her body and—

She looked down, then, at her body, which had fallen against the wall in an akward position and cried out, wrenching her…
whatever it was—hand? Energy? who knew—from the grip of…

“Are we on the same page, now?” Death asked, releasing her hand.

“Yes,” Suzanne whispered.

She felt as if she slid, as if she were suddenly sucked into place, and found herself looking down at her hand again, her flesh hand. She moved her fingers carefully, and the pins-and-needles feeling disappeared.
Suzanne’s knees shook as she stood.

“Are you called Death, then?” She asked, finally. “Is that your actual name?”

“You don’t really have to call me anything,” he replied. “I’m not all that important. Just an envoy.”

“I can die today?” She asked, skipping ahead a bit.

“We like to delay it by a couple of weeks. Give you time to prepare, make it less obvious.”

“Obvious, how?”

“We do this for most widows and widowers that have lived out the majority of their lives—give them a choice. But we don’t want everyone to plan on it, and we don’t want people to give up, knowing they’ll have a choice.”

Suzanne paused again on her way back to the window. “We?”

He smiled enigmatically at her.

Suzanne quelled a shiver, and tried another question. “Every person who has a spouse die…what’s the cutoff age?”

Death squinted at Suzanne. “Beg your pardon?”

“How old is old enough? I mean…” she shrugged. “How do you decide who’s eligible to make the choice, to stay or—“

“It’s not so much age, really. It’s more about how the person has accomplished their life’s goals or not, or a mission they’ve been given.”

“So I have accomplished all my missions, then?”

“In a sense. You’ve done all the things necessary.”

“OK.”

“Of course, there’s more you could do, if you wanted.”

Suzanne shook her head. “More? Like… charity and stuff?”

Death shrugged. “There are a few loose threads in your life. You could go, and be fine. But you don’t really know what will happen to those around you—to all that you were involved in, before you leave. But then, you never do. Whether you die in three weeks, or fifty, there’s not much you can do to change other people’s choices.”

“You mean Judy.” Suzanne stated it flatly. “All right, is this some kind of prank? I could almost see Ned doing something like this—scare me into calling her…”

“I could give you another demonstration,” Death answered, moving his hand toward hers again.

Suzanne snatched her hand off the table. “No thanks. Why should I stay for that ungrateful, manipulative…”

“He’s Ned’s daughter, Suzanne.”

“She never accepted me.”

“It was hard on her.”

“You sound just like Ned.”

“That's not surprising. I did talk to him right before coming to you. He mentioend Judy.”

Suzanne threw up her hands, then clutched her hair in a mix of exasperation and outraged sensibility.

Ned was in a coffin in the dirt.

Death was in her room.

Talking about Judy.

Saying he’d just talked to Ned.

She must have taken something… maybe Bonnie, out of misplaced kindness, had slipped something into… something—no, she hadn’t eaten anything today.
Maybe that was it. Maybe she was having some kind of strange insulin attack from lack of nourishment. The doctor did tell her, a few months ago, that she had to be careful, she was borderline-diabetic…

“Don’t you want to know what Ned had to say about it?”

Suzanne shook her head, and shut her eyes, tight. “About what?”

“About Judy. About you staying or going. Could be a big factor in your decision. Whatever you want to know, Suzanne… you can ask me.”

“What did Ned say about Judy?” Suzanne asked woodenly, and opened her eyes calmly. As long as she was hallucinating, she might as well play along until she woke up. It was entertaining, at least.

“You’re not hallucinating. He really wants you to stay and see what you can do for Judy.”

“Big surprise,” Suzanne muttered.

“Well, don’t you think you owe that to him? Just a little bit. After all—he gave so much to you.”

Suzanne stared at him, jaw agape. “She’d just slam the door in my face.”

“A few slammed doors is nothing in the face of what could happen,” Death replied.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I’ve had occasion to linger over there these last few months. And I’m of a mind to agree with Ned. And don’t forget he’ll be the one you’ll be with after this. Don’t you want to meet on terms that are free of guilt? Take my word for it… you don’t want to carry guilt into the next life. And while it’s impossible to be completely free of regrets… lightening your load as much as possible is extremely advisable."

Suzanne shook her head. “I—OK,” she said. “You’ve—you say you’ve been over there?”

Death paused. “I have.”

“For what reason? Is—“

“I can’t tell you. You’ve got to do this on your own. Freedom of choice and all that. You understand.”

“Ned doesn’t want me to come.” Suzanne said.

“Well, he loves you. But he also loves Judy.”

“Right.”

Death shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I’ve got about five more minutes. You need to make a choice. I’ll come back next year, if you decide to stay.”

“Wait—you… I can stay only a year? I can probably clear things up a bit in a year.

A year. "Could I survive a year?” Suzanne said it almost to herself, and felt as if death’s hand must be touching her heart… it seemed to die in her chest, at the thought of a year.

A year without Ned.

“I should also tell you—you won’t remember this at all. Every time you see and talk to me… however many times that is, your memory will be wiped clean, and you’ll go on without knowing about all this about the choice.”

“I’ll feel like I just have to go on forever without him.”

“I’m sorry but, yes. IT will feel like that some times. But as I said… I can come back next year. On this same day—the anniversary of your husband’s death, and you’ll have an opportunity to make the choice again.”

There was a long pause. Suzanne scrutinized her fingers, winding them together, clenching her palms together until the knuckles were white. Here’s the church… here’s the steeple… open the doors… “How do I know you’re—I mean. There’s things people say about angels, and… how do I know you’re from… not from, that other place?”

“I guess some things I can’t really prove, Suzanne.” Death smiled. “You’ll just have to take it on faith.”

Suzanne shook her head. “This is entirely crazy. And I just thought of something—if I don’t remember this, how will I know about talking to Judy, working everything out so I can make Ned happy, and be ready for him next year?”

“You won’t.”