| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Display using:
|
|
The young Quillian...
Posted: 15 Oct 2003 02:36 PM |
Kessia Oakelklennet wiped her brow and peered out the rear window of the shabby, yet neat shack. The salve for Mrs. Keelor was almost ready, but for the hook root. There was no sign of Quillian returning down the path she had taken over half an hour earlier. Kessia cursed mildly under her breath. *Where has the girl gotten to now?* She untied and folded her apron over a chair and emerged into the bright sun of the noon hour. Quillian could not keep track of time or much else and often returned from gathering plants with the wrong one. *She needs to smarten up or she’ll never be a healer like mum and me. How can ye mix up a faring flower with an aneskis flower? One is big and blue, the other small and red! When I was her age…* Such were Kessia’s thoughts as she stalked up the hill.
At the apex, she scanned the field beyond where Quillian should have been gathering hook root. The girl was not there. Kessia continued down the hill worrying about her daughter. Quillian was bright, but she didn’t apply herself to the task at hand. She was always examining clouds, insects, water droplets and such when Kessia tried to teach her the Art. Then the girl would either go off and make sandcastles on the beach with elaborate stories and characters or she would get into some kind of trouble. Sometimes, Kessia would watch her daughter dancing gracefully and without self-conscience on the beach. To watch the girl move was like listening to poetry. *But it won’t heal the poor folk who have relied on our family for generations!* Kessia yanked a root and sliced it deftly. Pocketing it, she retraced her steps back to the house.
Halfway up the hill, Kessia saw a tattered purple ribbon, rather, a tattered purple rag that served as a ribbon, hanging on some brush leading to the north. She narrowed her eyes and muttered, “Quillian…” and followed the faint path leading down the hill into a copse of trees that hid the waterfalls and pools. There she saw Quillian copiously washing her face with one arm while holding the other under water.
“Quillian! What ever are ye doing, girl?!” Quillian turned around to face her approaching mother, but kept her left arm in the water. Kessia noted with alarm a red swelling on the girl’s forehead, another on her left cheek, and yet more the closer she got. “Oh no, what did ye get into now, Quill?” Quillian looked up at her mother, “I thought some honey’d be nice with the pie ye made, mama, and I went to get some from the bees like Mr. Greenleaf does, but they don’t like me as much mama… They bitted me and wouldn’t let me have none o’ their honey. Why, mama? Why? They looks so friendly, the bees, all fuzzy and yellow…” Kessia’s anger melted away listening to the child. “Let me see your arm, Quillian.” Quillian reluctantly raised her arm from under the water. Kessia inhaled sharply as she saw the angry red welts all over, twenty or more.
“Come, Quillian.” Kessia gathered her daughter in her arms and brought her home, where she removed the stingers and soothed the hurt with a mother’s love and a poultice. She prepared a tea for Quillian to aid sleep. As she watched her frustrating yet endearing daughter begin to drift, Quillian murmured sleepily, “Oh Mama, I almost forgot. Ere’s the root ye needed…” Quillian removed a rumpled piece of rag from her pocket, handed it to her mother, and fell asleep.
Kessia opened the cloth and smiled ruefully. In it was some cotton cone root. |
Beware the vortex of bureaucracy |
|
  |
|
|
Quivers and Quills
Posted: 16 Oct 2003 11:04 PM |
Several months later, Gram came home and placed a bundle in Quillian’s arms. A broad smile broke out on Quillian’s face, “Look, Mama, a puppy!” Kessia gave Leilah a disapproving glare that Quillian caught. She looked worriedly from Gram to Mama, but the older woman pointedly said to Kessia, “I am certain Quillian will look after the pup just fine, Kessia.” Quillian let her breath out. Whatever Gram said was final and that was that.
Kessia sighed, wondering what her mother was thinking. *The girl can barely clothe herself properly in the mornings, never mind lookin’ after another.* After a last beseeching look at Leilah, Kessia resigned herself to the fact that they now had a puppy in the family and watched her daughter cradle the black and white ball of fur, “I suppose it is rather cute,” she conceded, “Look at how she quivers.” “Mama, that’s what I’ll call her, Quivers!” Kessia laughed and shook her head, “Ah yes, Quivers and Quills, double the trouble.” The little puppy wagged her tail hesitantly, then full force sending Quillian into a gale of delighted giggles.
Later that night as both puppy and girl lay exhausted, the former in a corner with hay and the latter in a tangle of sheets, Kessia spoke with her mother. “Ma, ye know I’ll be the one looking after the puppy and I have my hands full enough trying to keep track of Quillian. Yes, Quillian *says* she will look after the puppy, but she says a lot of things. Mark my words, within three days I be seeing to that pup’s survival…”
Leilah shushed her with a gesture of her hand, “Don’t underestimate Quillian. Mayhaps she’s not going to be a healer …” “Mother!” Kessia was scandalised, “Of course she will be a healer – it’s in her blood!” Leilah gave her a withering look and continued firmly, “Quillian will find her own way, but it won’t be your way. Or my way. It will be Quillian’s way.” Leilah’s face softened, “I know ye have dreams for Quill, but when you have a child you must accept that they will have their own dreams. Let the girl feel some pride in something. Let her care for that puppy.” Kessia seemed about to say something, but instead nodded and silently went to bed.
Afterwards, Leilah sat with a pipe mulling over her daughter. Since Quenin disappeared shortly before Quillian was born Kessia had withdrawn into herself and lost her ebullience. In those first few years hopeful suitors came to see Kessia, but she spurned them all and eventually the men ceased approaching her. *She needs a companion beyond an old woman and a young girl.* Kessia also concentrated solely on healing with an intensity that precluded all else, including, it seemed, Quillian. *True, the work be important since there be no one else who will help a soul who can pay only with a dozen chicken eggs, and sometimes not even that.* Leilah spat on the ground thinking of the fancy temples in the city proper that would not even see a person in need without gold up front. *That not be healing. To heal ye must care about the person, not the gold.* She shook her head and drew in on her pipe before going back to her primary concern. *But Quillian should be just as important. How ironic and how sad. My daughter can read strangers but not herself or her own daughter.* Despite numerous talks with Kessia, Leilah could not make her see that truth. So Leilah tried to give her granddaughter what Kessia could not.
In the months and years that followed, puppy and girl bonded and where one was, the other would be found. Gram was right, the puppy was good for Quillian and fostered a sense of responsibility in the girl. It was one thing for Quill to ignore own needs, but another to ignore Quivers’. Kessia watched this maturation and marvelled at her mother’s wisdom. *How did she know?* But pride kept her from opening her heart to Leilah, and Kessia turned back to her work.
Meanwhile, the distance between mother and daughter widened. Kessia was frustrated at the girl’s apparent lack of industry and Quillian was frustrated with herself. She tried so very hard to please her mother and remember the plants, what they were used for, and how to prepare them. But she just could not remember those things. She could find the nest that had the little blue eggs that she had seen last year. She could imitate the sound of the crickets. But she could not remember which bark to grind to soothe a bad burn. Each day she began anew resolving to do better, and each day the resolutions dissolved into more failures that filled Quillian’s heart.
“Why am I so stupid? Mama says that when she was younger than me she could make that tea without anyone needing to tell her what ingredients she needed and where to find them.” Quillian and Quivers sat by a moonlit ocean and the dog cocked her head as though she wondered too. Cupping her chin in her hands, Quillian let the sound of the waves and the sight of moonlight shimmering on the water lull her into a safe place, a place where she could feel no pain. Quivers whined slightly and licked her mistress’ hand, but Quillian was already gone. |
Beware the vortex of bureaucracy |
|
|
|
|
The City Proper
Posted: 20 Oct 2003 11:54 PM |
Quillian passed through the gates into a different world. Dirt roads gave way to cobblestone, gardens featured well-tended decorative flowers, and there were no beggars to be seen. Ladies in dreams of reds, golds, blues – every colour you could think of – floated by like entitled butterflies. Visitors from far-off places roamed the streets speaking exotic languages. Vendors displayed items that stirred the desires of all who glimpsed them. Important men in robes strode purposefully to equally important destinations.
Quillian both anticipated and dreaded running errands for Kessia to the “City Proper”, as the northern section of Porteneau was called to differentiate it from the poorer “Southtown” where the Oakelklennets lived. She could spend hours watching the dramas unfurl on the streets, but at the same time she was very aware that she was a visitor and an unwanted one at that.
Those same ladies that Quillian admired would either stare through her as though she were not there, or worse, look at her as though she were on par with the blighted rats found near the docks. The well-groomed guards in their gleaming armour scanning the crowds would let their eys linger upon Quillian and her ilk a few breaths longer. Children who had not yet been corrupted by their upbringing and smiled at her were pulled sharply away and then scolded by their nannies.
Sometimes Quillian wanted to *make* them take notice of her, see that she was every bit as deserving of dignity as they. Why then, were they with the advantages? This was a question she could not answer but she still believed there were valid reasons that an uneducated halfling girl would never understand. Answers she was certain the wise priests of the city knew. And who was Quillian to question wise men?
Today, she had two errands. The first was to go to the library to exchange some papers with the head librarian for Mrs. Keelor. Quillian’s aged neighbour had worked at the library until painful swelling of her joints had all but immobilised her. Without an income, the widow had lost her small apartment and ended up in Southtown. Mama made salves to keep the woman as comfortable as possible and exchange for these services, Mrs. Keelor was teaching Quillian to read.
Quillian’s second task was to purchase some glass vials for her mother, who had tied two strings to a finger on Quillian’s left hand as reminders. One string had already fallen off. The strings were the latest method in Kessia’s campaign to mould her daughter into the woman she thought Quillian should become. After the first week, however, the reasons for the numerous strings blurred together and Quillian forgot once again.
She looked up at the great double doors of the library, a building she had never been in. Fanciful carvings in the wood caught Quillian’s imagination and she stood daydreaming for a moment before a man in a hurry bumped her and swept past without a word.
Entering the building, the first things she noticed were the soaring ceilings and the intricate mosaic patterns on the floor. Warm light flooded the library from a source Quillian could not discern. *Surely there could be no grander building in all the world!* Polished teak bookcases lined the walls. *What could they possibly write that would fill up all those books?* She hesitantly approached the nearest shelf and tried to read a title. She sounded out the words like Mrs. Keelor had taught her.
Mrs. Delving’s Tome of Port Royale Etiquette
Mrs. Delving’s Tome of Midorian Etiquette
She had learned the word “etiquette” just the week before and wondered what the books were for. *Isn’t polite in one place polite in the other? Who needs a book to tell you what polite is? That is what your Mama is for.* Quillian tilted her head upon a revelation. *Orphans. Orphans don’t have Mamas.* She nodded. Those books were for little orphans who had no mothers to teach them right from wrong.
Before she could ponder further, a man tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped. “I said, girl, what do you want here?” His voice belied the fact that he obviously did not want Quillian in his library. Quillian began to stutter out an explanation, to which the man tapped his foot impatiently, “Speak proper, girl. I cannot understand your blathering.” She reddened and tears sprang to her eyes, making her stutter even worse. “That accent is unintelligible girl! Why can you people not speak properly? And could your mother keep you clean at least? It’s not like you people have to pay for the water after all…” Quillian’s face burned and the tears spilled. She wanted to tell the man that Mama *did* keep her clean, and indeed, she had been freshly scrubbed and groomed before she left home this morning. It’s just that on her way to the library, she had seen a frog stranded on the road drying out in the heat so she picked him up to return him to water. The path to the pond was muddy and Quillian must have transferred dirt to her face while swatting flies.
But the words wouldn’t come. Just as she was about to turn and flee, a tall Elven man in white robes approached and asked what the problem was. The man sneered, “This little ragamuffin has wandered in off the streets. Now she is wasting my time with her accented gibberish...” The Elf ignored him and knelt down to Quill’s level, “Young lady, do you need something?” Quillian swallowed and nodded. “What do you need, little one?” She responded in a voice just above a whisper, “Mrs. Keelor wants for me to give these papers to the man as runs this place. I’m s’posed to get another paper from him for Mrs. Keelor.”
The Elf straightened and gave the man an imperious glare. Quillian was glad the man was receiving it and not her. She would have collapsed to the floor. “Norbert, do be so kind as to give the papers the young lady has to Master Bridgeport. And wait for a response.” “Right away M’Lord!”
As the man scurried off at full speed the handsome Elf once again knelt down to speak with Quillian. Never having seen an Elf before, she stared at him unabashedly for a moment and then remembered her etiquette. He smiled serenely at her, “What is your name, little one?” “Quillian,” she responded shyly. “That is a lovely name Miss Quillian. I am Valandil.” Quillian remained speechless. After a few moments he continued, “Quillian, I noticed you reading the book titles over there.” She nodded, “Mrs. Keelor teaches me readin’ and about the numbers.” He smiled at her earnestness, “Ah, I see. Which books have you read?” “We haven’t any books.” “What? No books?” Valandil looked distressed a moment and then produced a little book from his robes, “Then I have the honour of presenting you with your very first book, Miss Quillian.” She looked at it deferentially and then shook her head, “M’Lord, I cannot accept this.” “Child, it is for you. I insist.” He pushed the blue-bound book into her hands.
Quillian sounded the title out loud, “A Book of Midorian Poetry.” She stumbled on the last word and looked askance at Valandil, “What’s a poetry?” The Elf laughed kindly, but with a hint of sadness, “Poetry, dear child, is an attempt to commit the beauty and mysteries of the world to paper.” Quillian beamed and nodded, “Like the little sparrows that no one notices but would miss if they was gone?” Valandil smiled back at Quillian, “Exactly.”
Just then, Norbert returned, gave a sealed paper to Quillian for Mrs. Keelor, and wordlessly bowed and left.
Valandil straightened, “Well, little Quillian, enjoy the poems.” His face took on a serious cast and he held her firmly by both shoulders looking her in the eyes, “And do not let anyone tell you that you are less than them. Promise me. You, young Quillian, have much to offer the world.” She nodded but did not understand. He released her and smiled.
Quillian quickly exited the library. She ran as fast as she could to a favourite spot by the ocean and began to read the verses. She sounded them out slowly at first, then faster until finally the words just sprang from the page and she became lost in them. The poems spoke to her, as if the way she saw the world had been captured in ink. Her heart quickened and she was overcome by the beauty of the words. Clear pictures of Midor and the Winterlands emerged for Quillian. As the sky darkened and the stars came out, Quillian turned to the first page and noticed that the author was a Valandil Tiwele. *The Elf with the eyes like emeralds wrote this book…* The shriek of an owl brought Quillian back and she noticed with alarm that the moon was rising. *Mama is going to kill me!* She tucked the book in her cloak and ran the remainder of the way home.
Sure enough, Kessia was waiting at the door, anxiety etched in her face. “Where have ye been?! I’ve been worried sick!” Upon examining Quillian and seeing her fine, Kessia muttered, “I’m going to kill you child.” Quillian snapped back, “What is it, are ye going to kill me or worry about me? Make up your mind, ye can’t do both, woman!” Kessia’s eyes narrowed, “You have no idea child…” Quivers whimpered and went to her mistress’ side. Crossing her arms across her chest, Kessia continued, “I suppose ye didn’t deliver the papers? Or mayhap you lost them?! Or perhaps, a bird flew up to ye and took ‘em away?!! What is it the excuse this time, Quillian!?” Voice like ice, “No, Mama, they been delivered. And I have this for Mrs. Keelor.” She tried to hand Kessia the folded parchment.
Kessia ignored Quillian’s outstretched hand. “And the vials, Quillian? Do ye have them?” Quillian shook her head. “Of course ye don’t! Ye can’t be trusted with anything girl! Now how am I going to distil those potions tomorrow? Kelsin needs them desperate, but I suppose it’s ok to you that he lie in pain another night. Once again, I will have to go to the market myself because I cannot trust ye!” Raving to herself now, “How did I bear such a daughter? Which gods have I offended?”
Quillian burst into tears, dropped the parchment, and ran from the house, Quivers close at her heels. Her mother had won again.
Kessia watched her daughter’s exit and her anger was replaced with shame. *You are a horrid woman, Kessia Oakelklennet. My god, what have ye said?* She would not trade her beloved Quillian for anything. She would walk through a thousand fires to spare the girl pain. *Aye, and then I say the words no mother should say to a child, words I didn’t mean, could never mean.* But it was too late to take the words back and how could she? What could she possibly say to Quillian to fix this? She slowly picked up the parchment and returned to the table and her cup of tea.
Quillian did not return until shortly before the dawn. Sharing mangoes and sweet milk at the morning meal, both mother and daughter acted as though nothing had occurred the previous night. Knowing mangoes were the girl’s favourite, Kessia had searched for the fruit earlier that morning. |
Beware the vortex of bureaucracy |
|
|
|
|
Re: The City Proper
Posted: 21 Oct 2003 03:10 AM |
| *applauds* |
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The City Proper
Posted: 21 Oct 2003 06:20 AM |
Indeed an excellent read Lisen !!!
I'm always eagerly anticipating your next installment |
Luther McIath: I see, so [X is] the right person in the wrong place with the wrong people at the wrong time.
[Fictrix] ... And can speak French, like both! Wait, I mean Elven. |
|
|
|
|
Re: The City Proper
Posted: 21 Oct 2003 02:39 PM |
Yup... even my roommate sat down and read it in one sitting |
Aria
So talented, so troubled. |
|
|
|
|
Re: The City Proper
Posted: 21 Oct 2003 04:00 PM |
I don't know what your room mate is like, Aria, but I sense I should be impressed. ;)
Thank-you. |
Beware the vortex of bureaucracy |
|
|
|
|
Re: The City Proper
Posted: 21 Oct 2003 07:02 PM |
Very entertaining Lisen and alot of work went into your story I can tell. Keep 'em coming. :-)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Labera lege...Catapultam habeo. Nisi pecuniam omnem mihi dabis, ad caput tuum saxum immane mittam.
(Read my lips...I have a catapult. Give me all the money, or I will fling an enormous rock at your head.) |
{Bentalious "Ben the Pen" Du'Vaine}
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The City Proper
Posted: 22 Oct 2003 02:49 PM |
| A great read, I really enjoy it. Keep em coming! |
I'm The Cult of Personality. |
|
|
|
|
The Arrival of Glim
Posted: 29 Oct 2003 03:42 PM |
Thereafter, whenever Quillian returned to the City Proper she would walk slowly past the library, hoping to glimpse Valandil. One such day she heard his name in the conversation of two robed men and she crept near, eager for news. To her dismay the men spoke of the poet’s return to the Winterlands.
Seated near the softly lapping waves on the beach near her home, Quillian would read the poems and gaze at the blue striations of water fading to sky knowing that somewhere beyond her sight lay the land that had both inspired Valandil’s poetry and borne her father. Quentin was an enigma to Quillian, having been murdered in Port Royale during a shore leave before his daughter’s birth. Beyond that, Kessia would tell Quillian only that he had been a cook on one of the merchant vessels that traversed the seas between Vives and l’Île de l’Aube. Further questioning was repressed by warning glances from Leilah, who herself would not breach the invisible wall. When alone, Leilah told her granddaughter only that Kessia would reveal more about Quentin when the time was right.
Quillian was growing increasingly concerned about her beloved Gram, who had deteriorated both physically and mentally in the last year. The same knotted joints that had plagued Mrs. Keelor now slowed Leilah. More worrisome, however, was her memory. She had begun to call Quillian by Kessia’s name with increasing regularity. At first, Quillian had gently corrected her, but this served only to shame Leilah, so she now responded to her mother’s name.
Every day was a monotonous repeat of the previous until Glim Grosko arrived at their doorstep on the eve of a first-day. Quillian was returning from the stench of the chicken coop when she took in the peculiar vision of a red-haired gnome covered in a shabby jewel-toned blue cloak far too warm for the climate.
She walked up behind him as he knocked on their door, “Aye then, what can I do for ye?” The gnome jumped and whirled fumbling with what Quillian could only guess was some sort of wand. Once he saw it was only a halfling on the cusp of womanhood, he slowed his breath down, “Don’t do that lass! Near gave me a heart attack!” Quillian noted the Winterlands accent and hid a smile at his flustered state, “I merely walked up to my front door.” “Nay, ye sneaked to your front door, there is a difference.” Quillian shrugged, “I say I walked, ye say I sneaked. Don’t matter either way. It’s my front door and I can sneak to it if I so choose. Now, what do ye want?”
His face turning red the gnome began to sputter a retort, but held himself in check and bowed instead, “Of course it is your front door, lass. I be Glim Grosko and seek the residence of a Kessia Oakelklennet.” “Then ye done well. Kessia be my mother.” Quillian volunteered no further information, and stood with her arms across her chest. After several long moments of silence, Glim asked in an exasperated manner, “Well? May I see your mother then?” Wordlessly, Quillian opened the door, “Mama, there be a gnome ‘ere to see ye.”
Kessia called from within, “Show him in, Quillian!” Quillian opened the door wider and motioned Glim inside where Kessia stood at the rough-hewn table packaging and cataloguing dried leaves for future use.
The gnome looked about at the bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters throughout the small shack, “So tis true, ye be the local wise woman. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Glim Grosko.” Kessia continued nimbly twining string about packets and barely raised an eyebrow, “Aye?” Quillian leaned against the wall. “Well, Mrs. Oakelklennet, I just arrived in …” “It’s Miss Oakelklennet.” Kessia dryly corrected. “Oh … I just assumed … well...” Glim stumbled over his words, “Yes. Well, I just arrived at Porteneau. I hail from Midor, and goodness, the voyage is dreadful…” “Is it?” Kessia sounded disinterested. “Yes. Weeks it takes. Horrid storms…”
Glim realised Kessia was not listening. He coughed nervously, “I be interested in the plants of l’Île de l’Aube. You see, I am a scholar and thought no one could be better to help me than yourself…” “I’ve sick people to help, Mr. Grosko, and barely have the time to tend to them. Try the library.”
“Well, that’s just it. They, the library that is, they sent me to you. I am more interested in plants that are not well documented.” Kessia looked up from her work revealing a face drawn with exhaustion. “Mr. Grosko, I have much work to do in the real world. I simply do not have time to help ye with your … academic matters.” “I could help you, collect plants and whatever else ye may need…” He trailed off as Kessia walked up to him and examined his hands front and back, “I highly doubt you have ever left a library Mr. Grosko.” The gnome flushed, “But, well, of course I’ve…” “Quillian, show Mr. Grosko out.” Kessia turned back to her work and an amused Quillian ushered the Gnome out the door and shut it behind him.
Kessia looked Quillian in the eye, “Stay away from that one, girl, there is something off about him. He’s not who he says he be.” Quillian rolled her eyes, “As if I’d want to talk to…” “Ye mind me young miss!” Kessia wagged her finger at her daughter.
Three days later Quillian sat on the beach reading her favourite poem, the one about the summer poppies in the Fields of Gladden, to Quivers, who listened intently with one ear cocked. As Quillian reached the poem’s conclusion, Glim appeared. She ignored him.
“Eh then, what’s that you got, young Miss Quillian?” He approached and sat next to Quivers. “This would be a book Mr. Grosko.” His eyes narrowed momentarily but he ignored her insolent answer, “Ah, but which one?” Quillian impatiently showed him the book, “This one.” “Hmmmm … Valandil Tiwele, yes, a very talented writer. More importantly, an honourable man, too.” A spark of interest appeared in Quillian’s eyes, “Ye know Valandil?” “Aye. He frequented La Sapienza, the library in Midor. Spectacular place – ten times the size of the Porteneau library, classic Midorian architecture, a sight to behold. There is nothing like it on this isle…” He sighed, “Midor is without a doubt the jewel of Vives. But there are other fine settlements. Young lady, did you know there is a halfling community in Vives? Brandibuck Vale tis called.” Quillian shook her head. “The Realm’s finest ales are brewed there. Lies north of Midor across the Great Plains…” Glim spun his tales of Vives to the captivated Quillian for several hours, until the sun began his descent below the horizon. “Tis late, lass. Tomorrow, if ye meet me here, I can tell you about Ferein, the land of the Elves.” The mere mention of Elves ensured Quillian’s return.
That night Quillian lay on her pallet watching stars and planets arc through the sky. Sleep would not come to her as waking dreams of the Winterlands crowded her mind. By the time the sun banished the night, Quillian was fully dressed. Kessia gave her daughter a queer look. Every other day I need drag the girl out of her bed. She sent Quillian to the henhouse to collect eggs for breakfast.
Fried eggs and bacon for breakfast was a rare event requiring more time both to prepare and clean up after. Barely tasting her food, Quillian glanced outside frequently to monitor the shortening shadows. Something was up, but Kessia figured it was another of the girl’s bizarre activities. Just the other week she had found Quillian kneeling by a large anthill gently scooping sand. When she questioned Quillian, the girl explained that she was ‘helping’ the ants excavate the hill by removing excess sand so the ants would not have to carry the newly dug up grains quite as far. “Ye will kneel here and help ants, but ye will not collect plants properly for me?” Kessia walked away consternated.
Quillian rushed through the cleaning while Mama prepared a bag, but discovered to her dismay that she may as well have taken her time. “Quillian I must attend Mr. Knotwise at the Dolikan farm.” This meant that Quillian had to stay with Gram in case she needed something, or more awkward, wandered off. There had been several instances recently where a neighbour had returned a scared and crying Leilah to the Oakelklennet home. She would embark on an errand only to find herself in vaguely familiar surroundings, but with no memory of why she was there or how to get home. These were places Leilah had known all her life. Quillian would therefore silently trail her grandmother, appearing only if it became apparent Gram was disoriented. In this way, Leilah maintained her independence.
Never had a day crawled so slowly for Quillian. The sugar cane farms were further inland and it would take Kessia at least half a day to walk there and back. High sun came and went. Gram had fallen asleep promptly after breakfast, providing no distractions. Quivers also slumbered in the heat and Quillian could barely get the dog to expend enough energy to wag her tail. She tried cleaning but there were few possessions and Kessia kept the home as immaculate as one could keep a dirt-floored shack. Most of her day was spent sitting on the front porch looking down the path that led to the beach and awaiting Kessia’s return.
Only a few hours of daylight remained when Kessia turned down the path. Before she could reel off the bevy of chores that she had thought up on the long walk home, the girl had already pushed past, leaving Kessia standing exasperated with her hands upon her hips.
An out of breath Quillian arrived at the beach. “Ah lass, I thought ye had forgotten about ol’ Glim Grosko,” the shabby gnome greeted her. She shook her head shyly. “Well, ye wanted to hear about Ferein, so, let me begin with …” Glim told tales of heroics, beautiful queens, and enchanted gems. “Not surprising that this would be where Valandil came from. May explain his way with the words. Fills them with magic, I suppose.”
He paused and tilted his head…“Ye know, Valandil also has an interest in plants.” Quillian looked surprised. “Aye, that’s why me and him are such good friends. We studied together.” Glim drew in on a pipe, “Pity I won’t be able to bring back those samples for him.” Quillian quickly interjected, “What samples?” “Well, Valandil and I are writing a book on exotic plants. So I came here to see what the l’Île de l’Aube had to offer.” He mused, “If I were to discover a very interesting plant, I will need to send for Valandil so he can see for himself.”
“Oh! We have many interesting plants! Um, there’s hornlock, that um… well Mama knows!” The gnome cupped his chin with his hand and looked sad, “Aye. I’m sure she does, but she won’t speak with me, child.” Quill was quiet a moment and then her eyes lit up with an idea, “I could ask Mama the questions and tell ye what she says!” He pondered this carefully, “I don’t know lass, I don’t think she’d like that.” “Well, I don’t have to tell her. Asides, it always makes her happy when I ask her questions about the plants.” And so the deal was struck.
The very next day Quillian became a persistent presence at her mother’s elbow. Kessia was surprised at the sudden interest, but was so pleased she asked no questions. Mother and daughter worked closely over the next month, Quillian drinking in the knowledge each day and regurgitating it for Glim each night. He took copious notes as Quillian chattered away.
To her surprise Quillian enjoyed her time with Kessia. Kessia’s undemonstrative variety of love was alien to the sensitive Quillian. For the first time, however, Quillian was able to look past her mother’s façade and pick up the subtle expressions of love she had missed before. It was enough. Her mother may never give voice to the words Quillian longed to hear, but her actions spoke them.
Each morning, Quillian would arise without fuss and either collect plants of her mother’s choosing or help with the preparations of concoctions for an assortment of ailments. As the sun reached it’s zenith, mother and daughter would part for a few hours.
The people of l’Île de l’Aube had various ways to cope with the stifling heat of high sun. Typically, they slept in the shade. Quillian, however, would spend her time in the water. She loved the deep freshwater pools and would dive into them from a low cliff. Afterwards, she would bask in the cool mist of the waterfalls feeding the pools, afloat on her back. The ocean was also her playground and she could be seen soaring through waves, glistening, lissom as a dolphin. While watching the terns sail the air currents effortlessly far above she would stretch on the beach letting the soft breezes and the sun dry her.
It was not unusual for Glim to ask the girl to pick up odd items here and there – powdered garlic, a rounded stone, a white feather. She wondered at the strange variety, but there was always a plausible reason for the request. One day he asked her if she ever saw sponges as she explored below the ocean surface. “Aye.” “I have need for a sponge, would ye be able to retrieve one for me?” “Which colour would ye like? There’s yellow and orange and sometimes I’ve even seen blue ones! But it’s the …” Glim interrupted impatiently, “Any colour will do, child!” She was momentarily bewildered, then took a breath and brought her chin nearer her chest as she exhaled an, “Oh.” Seeing her face, he was immediately conciliatory, “Whichever colour please ye, lass.” She smiled uncertainly.
The next day she wove her way under the gentle swells to the muted world below. Colourful fish parted for her passage, and through the flurry of fins Quillian spied what she was looking for. Surfacing, she took a deep breath and dove again to attain her goal, lying nestled in some coral. Before removing the sponge, she gently reset a spidery arrow crab from the sponge to the coral. A perfectly formed opalescent shell shimmered in a cavity of the coral, catching her attention. Before pushing off, Quillian seized the shell in her free hand.
The sponge she gave later to Glim. Although she had hoped to find a purple sponge, orange was the best she could do. The shell, she kept. |
Beware the vortex of bureaucracy |
|
|
|
|
Re: The Arrival of Glim
Posted: 01 Nov 2003 03:03 PM |
Just a quickie to say I'm really enjoying your Stories Lisen :D Excellent Stuff! Keep 'em coming.
Cheers!
Arathon |
Vives Screenshots!
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The Arrival of Glim
Posted: 01 Nov 2003 05:47 PM |
I suppose I better add sumat like that as well.
Awesome little tales! Not so little... meh. Keep going!
-Barnas |
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The Arrival of Glim
Posted: 03 Nov 2003 02:28 PM |
| Thank-you to all who have either posted or PMed me. This is the first time I have ever written anything and I really appreciate the encouragement. :) |
Beware the vortex of bureaucracy |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|