Readimina

In which Naitlya's daily meditation at the tavern is interrupted, and some foreshadowing occurs.

       The town of Readimina was so far from anything, and so small at that, that it had not seen any form of conflict excepting a pig getting loose and trampling a neighbor’s garden in over a century. The residents were really quite happy and proud of this fact.

       Between this town and the large dormant volcano at the center of the island was a dense forest that no one had bothered to thoroughly explore. They had no need to, and so the residents of Readimina went about their quiet lives blissfully unaware of what might be lurking among the trees in the shadow of the mountain.

      Yet, there was one resident of the little town that did not quite fit in. I alone would study and wonder, and dream of beyond. But perhaps out of fear, or something else, I never ventured from the security of the town, either. No one in the town was really sure what brought someone like me to such a boring area, but I had my reasons.

      On that day, like many that had come before, I sat and enjoyed the buttertap liquor, unique to the island. My daily appearance was always a shock to the locals, though I had lived there for nearly twenty-four years. Usually I was able to ignore the staring, and impertinent questions, except when one interrupted my daily meditation in the pub.

       “So, lady, do you play the pan flute?” the half-drunk beatnik enquired, his face flushed, very unaware of the insult that had just passed his lips. I nearly crushed the warm glass of buttertap that I was holding, and that would indeed have been tragic, for buttertap is quite possibly the most divine liquid that has ever met my lips. Smooth, milky and sweet, it hides effectively the essence of alcohol contained within, while warming the body and numbing the mind.

       I really should not have been so upset. It had been a few months since the last annoying interruption to my routine, making it long overdue. It might have been the drink, or it might have been pent-up frustration, but the question enraged me much more than it should have.

      “Satyrs play pan flutes, young fool.” I climbed out of the wooden armchair I had been curled in, setting my mug on the table in front of it. Though I was easily a head shorter than him, I was the one doing the intimidating. “I am a faun! A genius of the woodland, not some traveling half-blood bard! If you mortals don’t get that through your heads soon…” I felt more amusement than anger when the boy’s face turned horrified. I raised my hands, palms facing each other, and let some simple magic seep through them. A wispy green light danced between my palms, and the human whelp dropped his mug of mead, its contents spewing onto the wooden floor. “I might do something unpleasant.” I growled finally, sending the boy bolting from the tavern.

       A burst of raucous laughter from the other young men in the tavern brought me back to the ground. I threw a glare at the table they sat around, and a few stopped, horrified. The others guffawed even harder, beating their mugs on the table. Had I become some sort of sick right-of-passage for these farm-children? I recognized them: I had pulled the same trick with them only months before.

I glared at my hand. In my palm sat the small, leafy green plant that I had conjured. Fauns had a great difficulty with offensive magic, being so attached to the living things of the forest. It was a fact that I would have liked to forget.

       Ignoring the young humans’ glee, I threw myself down into my chair again, setting my hoofed feet on the table. I glared venomously at my mug as it caught and reflected the dancing light from a candle. Sure, my legs were that of a goat, and I had furry ears protruding from the top of my head instead of hairless ones on each side, not to mention the fluffy tail hidden beneath my skirts, but was it necessary to make me a walking freak show?

       My brooding was interrupted as an old, withered hand waved in front of my eyes. Looking up from my stupor, I met a friendly face.

       My infrequent drinking buddy, Morrense, stood before me. His clear and slightly protruding blue eyes looked steadily into mine, and a comfortable smile appeared behind his nearly white beard, making his wrinkly cheeks pinch upward. The man was physically crooked and gnarled like an ancient tree, and he had been around long enough to gather the most interesting stories. However, by the way he clutched his walking stick, I felt that he did not seek me out for idle chatter.

       “H’lo, Morrense,” I slurred slightly, “what can I do for you today?”

       The old man gave a raspy chuckle. “You always know, don’t you, young’un? What people want to talk to you for, you always have an inkling.”

       I gave a short laugh. “That’s ridiculous, friend. You mortals just make is easy for me.” Perhaps that was one other reason why I liked living in a town full of humans. The creatures were always so emotional and open, unlike my fellows and others of immortal races. It was always harder for our kind to enjoy the “now” than for humans.

       Morrense nodded. He was accustomed to me pointing out the boundary between us. I guess those kind of comments slipped out unconsciously. They always had. Saying such things to separate myself from the more dimwitted residents of the human race was a survival instinct, and another burden of immortality. I would miss this old man, despite my best efforts, when his body grew too worn for the burdens of the world. He was older than me by only thirty years, myself being young by faun standards, but too soon I would pass him in age. I would live until an outside force – disease or injury – stopped me but I was not expecting to encounter either of those any time soon.

       “Let me test my ‘inkling’ then.” I stood, brushing creases out of the soft, plant-leather coat that hung comfortably around me. “You need more medication for your leg, don’t you?” It was less of a question than an accusation, but the old man nodded cheer-fully again. Morrense had broken his right leg in his younger years, and it had never quite healed right. The constant, dull pain of improperly set bones was something I had never had to deal with myself, but to see a friend of mine in such pain was enough to make me wince.

       “See? Your intuition is grand, young’un.”

       “Maybe so, but if it was better, I would have known to go get more silver milkweed for the medicine this morning. I ran out making Sop-bombs last night.”

       “Sop-bombs?” the old man raised an eyebrow. “What on earth are Sop-bombs?”

I puffed up my chest, always ready to explain my delving into the explosive elements of alchemy. “I came up with them last week! They burst when thrown, sending a pudding-like substance all over! That’s where the ‘sop’ comes from,” I finished, grinning proudly.

       Morrense sighed, “What use do you have for pudding-spewing bombs in a place like this?”

       The man could always steal my fire out from under me.

       “Err… I’m gonna head out and get the stuff for your potion, then.”

       He did not point out that I had changed the subject to save face, but I knew he realized it. Another reason I respected the old man: he was the only being in the town that would ever dare to point out my follies. One needs that kind of person in their life to keep them straight.

       I grabbed my glass of buttertap and gulped it down, feeling the smooth liquid fill my innards. Usually I would have savored it, but as a favor to my old friend I would make the potion as soon as I could. As I moved to leave, Morrense gripped my arm with more strength than was evident in his crooked hands. “One thing before you go, lass. There’re some evil rumors stirring about you.”

       I found myself rolling my eyes. When wasn’t there?

Morrense noticed and chuckled softly. “Naw, you should go see Gorn and ask him about it. Shouldn’t talk about such things here, but I’ve come for a drink and I’m not leavin’ ‘till I’ve had one.” The old man released my arm and hobbled over to the barkeep where he began to chat animatedly. I watched them for a moment before I left.

       I had to shield my eyes as I stepped into daylight. Spending entire afternoons in the tavern was not unusual for me, but I did not usually leave until after dark. Patting down my coat, I did a quick inventory on the contents of my pockets. Two newly packed Sop-bombs, a Cloud-bomb I made last week, a pair of scissors, and a small pouch. The pouch and scissors were good enough supplies for collecting silver milkweed, so I headed straight north toward the forest.

       I paused as I neared Gorn’s house, and after a few seconds of deliberation, I knocked on the front door. Gorn Tudor was Morrense’s nephew, and a friend of mine just like his uncle. He was married to a farmer’s daughter three years prior, and he already had two sons with another on the way. It was Gorn who opened the door, furry eyebrows narrowed in a rather unfriendly manner. His two-year-old peered up at me from between his father’s legs.

       “Hullo,” I mumbled awkwardly at them, and Gorn’s stern face melted into a welcoming smile.

       “Naitlya!” Opening the door wider, he welcomed me with a firm pat on the back that sent me staggering inside. Gorn was friendly, but always seemed a little unsure of how to act around me. Instead of treating me like the lady I was, he always found it better somehow to act like I was a young man. It had taken me years to get used to his rough nature. “I see my uncle passed on my message.”

       “In a way, yes,” I agreed, and settled myself at the wooden table in front of their fireplace. The rest of Gorn’s home was a lot like that table: sturdy and manly looking. However, I could see from the knitted covering on it that his wife was slowly adding her own feminine touch.

       “Usually I wouldn’t be so uppity ‘bout it,” The man admitted, settling himself on the opposite bench. His toddler wandered over and continued to stare at me. “It’s jus’ that the nature of this rumor isn’t like the others I’ve heard.” He paused for a moment, cracking his knuckles. Seeming very unsure of how to phrase what he was going to say next, he coughed and asked, “How familiar are you with dragon-kin, Naitlya?”

       The question surprised me. “Just about as much as anyone, I suppose… Why?” I found myself chewing on my lip: a nervous habit of mine. Some part of me really did not want to hear about this rumor anymore, but curiosity quashed that fear.

       “Well, some strangers came into town today – big guys, not very friendly types – and bought some hammers from Ol’ Will down the street. Now he says they were really nervous, and to make some big guys like that shake it had to be something really bad, so he asked them what their trouble was. Will didn’t get the answer out of ‘em easily, but when he put a few pints of ale in ‘em they were pretty much ready to say anything.”

       Gorn paused again, clearly disturbed by what he was going to have to say. His son was petting my legs in a way that embarrassed me greatly, but I said nothing for risk of interrupting the man’s thoughts. He finally took a deep breath and continued.

       “These big guys, they’d been walking for three days from the Port, and they said that on their way they saw one of them. A dragon-kin. Right here, on our island. Well, these guys weren’t having any of that, so they said to Will. But when they went to tell that dragon off, they couldn’t say what happened next. It was two big guys against one of them, and that dragon scared them out of their skins!” Gorn chuckled morosely. “But that isn’t the worst part. They said that dragon was coming this way. Now why, do you think, would any scaly monster like that want to come here?” His gaze turned to me, expectantly.

       “Your guess is as good as mine, friend. I’ve never even seen one of those creatures.” Gorn’s son was playing with the pleats of my skirt now, gently tugging at the fabric. What neither Gorn nor I was saying was what, exactly, the presence of the dragon-kin meant for the village.

       The dragon-kin had long lived at peace with the rest of the world until about a century ago. A new king came into power in Estelhein, and this ambitious young king decided to finally unite the world under his reign. However, when he sought the allegiance of the dragon-kin nation of Zephilon and was rejected, the king used a very deadly and unknown weapon to wipe out their capital city. Any Zephilonian survivors of the incident were either enslaved or converted to Estelhein’s cause. After the triumph over Zephilon, Estelhein turned to the border of the human Republic, but could not break the ranks that defended it. It had been one hundred years of battle with neither side backing down. The fact that a kin was coming for an undefended human village unannounced boded nothing but ill, but I could tell that was not the end of Gorn’s story.

       The man grunted, and the stern look returned to his face, “Even if you and I don’t know, the people in town have made up their own conclusions and, as usual, they are ill-founded.”

My stomach went cold, and my skin felt far too warm. I knew exactly what sort of conclusions the paranoid people in Readimina would jump to when they heard what Old Will had to say of the strangers’ warning.

       “They think I have something to do with it.”

       “Of course,” Gorn growled. “I’m not sayin’ I agree with them, but for your own safety I’d stay out of sight for a few days. It could be nothing but some drunk Port-dwellers’ dream.” He tried to cheer me, but I knew that his hope was false. This probably would not end well for any of us.

Gorn stood and dislodged his son from my clothing. We said our goodbyes, and I was escorted out.

I stood in front of his house, enjoying the cool evening air for a moment. The sun was low in the sky, and shone just over the tops of the trees. I shivered, but not from the cold. Ill times were ahead if a dragon-kin came to Readimina.

       However, I was not going to let a stupid dragon-kin let my friend suffer with a painful leg for another day. Breathing deeply, I continued toward the forest, completely on edge.

As I walked, I listened to the clear and steady rhythm of my hooves hitting the cobbled stones beneath them. Like a lullaby, it helped my mind become more at ease.

        This has nothing to do with me, I made myself think. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.

Before long I was strolling down the dirt path that transected the fields that were Readimina’s life-blood. It was nearing the end of summer, and several men were out preparing for harvest. I found myself wishing very deeply that whatever trouble was brought about in the following days would not hurt these people, nor stop them from obtaining the food necessary to live for the winter. My heart sunk again at the thought, and I tried to distract myself by looking forward into the thick trees that bordered the fields.

The path narrowed abruptly as the underbrush thickened and the trees blocked sight of the setting sun. I continued to follow it, though the small bushes constantly pricked and prodded at me, sometimes getting stuck on my clothes or fur. Usually that was enough to discourage humans from entering the forest, but I knew what beauty laid just a few feet further.

       The trees had split in this part of the forest where a river once ran between them. Hundreds of delicate white-flowered plants bloomed here. These were the silver milkweeds that I needed to harvest.

Eagerly settling down to work, I crouched in the old riverbed and began snipping the flowers from the leafy plants. It was tedious work, sorting out the small buds and making sure not to step on anything, but I liked it. It was a wonderful distraction, and I soon found myself smiling gently at the soft caress of the leaves and petals and the sight of a few butterflies sipping their nectar.

       The sun continued to fall as I worked, and before I realized it, I had filled my pockets with flowers and it was almost completely dark. As I clipped one final bloom, I caught something out of the corner of my eye. There was something on the path that had not been there a moment ago.

My head turned to look at this foreign thing, and then I froze. All the hairs on my body stood on end, and my heart beat very loudly. My eyes were wide with fear, and I do not think I was breathing.

This thing that had found its way onto the path stared back at me with narrow and wild yellow eyes that almost glowed from behind a shock of black hair. Then, it opened its lips, showing me a set of sharp, white teeth.

       It was not a smile.

      My nostrils flared and I gripped my tiny pair of scissors like a sword. I tried to look my most intimidating, but I knew all too well that I had just become the dragon-kin’s prey.

 

Author's Note

This is probably the most polished of all the chapters, so if there's mistakes in this there's NO EXCUSE. o_o So tell me if you find one.

Reviews

[Philosophile. (Maddy)]

I didn't find any mistakes other than in the first sentence. I usually won't point these out, but you seem determined to have this chapter emulate perfection, so here I go:
"and so small at that, that it had not seen any form of conflict excepting a pig getting loose and trampling a neighbor's garden in over a century."
It twas'....."excepting". I think it should be except. I always laugh at myself when I point out things like this, I don't enjoy doing that much at all. I liked what I've read so far. Your words really jump off the page and you don't follow into the usual pitfalls many writers do. Good job!