“Beautiful night,” said Gran Akha.
Gran’s voice was full of reverence, as she gazed up at the moon.
“Uh huh,” said Nala, only half-listening.
It was night, so not much light came from the sky. The light came from other places.
The cookfire burned red beneath the bubbling cauldron of stew. It looked like slop, but smelled like salvation.
“First meal’s done!” Gran said.
Nala looked up, and watched Gran dip two fat soup mugs into the cauldron to fill them.
The mugs were homemade, like most things in Nala’s house. Both cups were crafted from the same streaky clay, and both cups had the same lip for sipping on soup. But that was where the similarities ended.
Gran’s mug looked elegant, and was glazed a smooth gradient of dark green and bright blue. It turned teal where the colors crossed, and it had two handles. The mug was so symmetrical, so balanced and beautiful and easy to hold, it could have been sold in the market.
Nala’s mug was Nala-sized. She had painted it herself, and it was covered in spatters of every color she could get a hold of. That was way back when she was a kid.
Well, a little kid— back when she was nine, a lifetime ago. Eleven felt so much older than nine.
“Smell’s good,” Gran said.
Nala agreed, but was in a bad mood, so all she did was grunt, “Ngg.”
The full moon was right behind Gran, silhouetting her. She used a pocket rag to wipe the lip of Nala’s mug clean, before handing it over to her.
“Here you go!” Gran said, then served herself. “Let’s eat as we walk. Come on.”
“Can’t we just wait?” Nala whined.
“Up!” Gran said, blowing on her mug to cool it. “Let’s hit the road! If I’m gonna do this, I’d like to get it over with, and I definitely don’t wanna be late!”
Nala didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. She didn’t like being rushed.
But once they were walking, it didn’t take long for the soup to be cool enough to eat. And once she’d eaten, Nala’s mood brightened.
“Better?” Gran Akha said, smiling.
“Huh?” Nala said, mouth full.
“You seemed kinda hangry.”
Nala smiled, and shrugged. Rather than answer, she took a gulp and put a little hop in her step.
There was yellow light, too, from the moon, descending to the clouds, to the edges of all things.
Nala imagined that she could feel the moon’s light, illuminating each of her own shape’s edges. The moon was her favorite of all the goddesses, in all the old stories.
The stars were out, but those endless pale twinkles gave no light at all. Not really. What light did make it down was a whisper of blue, a distant note beneath a tapestry of purple and gold.
“So bright,” Gran Akha said, looking up at the moon. “So bright, we may not even need werelights!”
Nala chose her words. “But… I like the werelights.”
Gran laughed. “I know you do.”
So they stopped, and Gran Akha began to work the little spell.
She put her palm on Nala’s forehead.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
Nala did.
“Alright, young lady,” Gran said grandly. “Nine breaths, if you would.”
Nala began, but—
“Nope,” Gran said. “Too fast. Back to one.”
Nala rolled her eyes.
“Don’t give me that,” Gran snapped. “You can have attitude, or you can have a werelight.”
Nala sighed, but obeyed.
“Good,” Gran said. “Now… Are your eyes closed?”
Nala shut her eyes.
“Good. And now… Nine breaths. Slow. No rushing.”
Nala huffed, then started over.
One…
Two…
Three…
A swell of (mmm) something swelled up from the ground.
Four…
Something rang inside of Nala…
Five…
…the way a bell’s ringing can ring another bell…
Six…
Swelling…
Seven…
Blooming…
Eight…
Gran’s hand came away, but the energy still bridged them.
And then, on Nine…
Nala opened her eyes.
The werelight was lit, hovering in front
Of Nala’s head, bobbing just above.
It was a floating ball of heatless flame.
The dim-but-bright light followed Nala’s will.
It was the color of moonthread. It flickered, quiet.
The moon was bright, and when those two lights met,
The mellow flame flew, through every color
On its way to the end o’the air.
Nala smiled. Her dark green skin was a canvas
Of opposites, and for a moment she
Was free from her sticky daymare, and happy.
“I hope I can do that one day,” Nala said, wilting.
“You will,” said Gran. “Patience, Nala.”
“I don’t wanna be patient,” Nala didn’t say.
But it was like Gran could read her mind.
“Patience pays,” Akha cooed.
“Not always,” Nala told her nearly empty mug. The werelight’s many colors danced in the goop that coated strips of carrot and cabbage.
Then she walked away, and this time it was Gran Akha that followed.
“Aren’t you gonna…?” Nala began to ask, trailing off.
“What, a werelight for me?” said Gran, grinning.
Nala nodded, then slurped more soup down.
“Nah,” said Gran. “It’s bright enough for me. I’d rather save it for when it counts.”
Nala grinned, and gulped. “For the Telling?”
Gran nodded.
“You excited?” Nala asked.
Her eyebrows went up. “Yes! And No!” Then Gran giggled. “Been a long, long time since I’ve been in front of a crowd. Nervous, too, but… Yes. Excited. I get the feeling this will be a night to remember.”
* * * * / * * * *
As they walked, the moon bobbed, ducking behind trees, and stealing brief peeks of the scene.
They came to a sharply slanting hill. The grass grew patchy, and the trees thinned. As the orchard receded into the distance behind, the valley unfolded below and before them.
The werelight flickered over purple grass.
As they passed, a crow cawed from its branch.
Nala flinched.
“Just crows,” Gran said.
“Yeah,” murmured Nala. “Just crows.”
Its murder answered. A flutter of feathers followed overhead, close enough to make Nala yelp. The werelight went upward, blinding some of the crows, enough to send them shrieking skyward.
As the crows ascended through dense purple leaves, a swarm of bats fluttered awake.
“And bats!” cried Nala.
But Gran just laughed, completely unafraid, utterly casual.
“They’re harmless!” said Akha. “Not only that, they’re lucky.”
“Bats?” said Nala.
“You’ve never heard that?”
Nala shook her head.
“Bats and snakes,” said Gran. “Lucky creatures. Friends of our family, going way way back. That’s why they’re in so many of our stories.”
“Huh,” Nala grunted. She didn’t feel like bats or snakes were friendly enough to be lucky. Or harmless. But she wasn’t about to say as much.
The crows descended westward, down into the valley, flapping toward the torches of Market Town.
The bats stippled the moon on their way to the crags and caves to the north. There were no trees or flowers there. Not even grass grew on that stony northern range.
“Come on,” said Gran, all playful, light. “Let’s follow the crows into town.”
She could see the whole valley laid out below, clear as a map…
The waste mounds.
The many fields of the grainwitch.
The butcher, and the tanner, and the two huge horse ranches, beset with barns so big they looked like cedar cathedrals.
But down, down, in the heart of the valley, glittering campfires were roaring under the glittering stars. The normally vacant streets of Orcshire Market were already brimming with music and shouting, with light and loud liquor.
Though the night had only just begun, the party was well underway.
“I can hear it from here,” Nala marveled, both impressed and put off.
“Suddenly,” admitted Gran quietly, “I feel a little nervous.”
Nala looked up at her Gran, and the werelight cast flowing light on Gran’s face.
“You’re gonna do great,” said Nala.
Gran laughed nervously.
“Besides,” said Nala, “I wanna see you do a Telling.”
“What are you talking about?” Gran said. “You see me do tellings all the time.”
“Nope,” Nala said.
Gran made a face.
“No, you’ve brought me to lots of Tellings,” Nala said, “but…”
Then Nala shrugged.
“Huh,” Gran said, reaching for a memory that wasn’t there. “That’s a lot of people, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Nala. “Big crowd though?”
Gran couldn’t help but grin.
Akha had been a sorceress of some renown, and even infamy, but Nala had only ever heard stories. A Telling was a kind of story, but a specific kind, an illusion spell, usually done on a stage.
Not to say Nala hadn’t ever seen Akha do magic. No no no. She’d seen Gran do petty spells— greensinging, cut stitching… little things like that.
Even though she’d never seen her Gran work an illusion, but something in Nala’s gut told her that Gran was very, very good at it.
“Please?” said Nala. “Come on, don’t chicken out on me.”
That made Gran Akha laugh.
“What is that phrase?” Gran said.
“You know… scaredy chickens,” Nala said, sheepish and blushing. “Can’t hold their courage, run away at first danger… You’ve never heard that?”
Gran Akha shook her head. “Who else says that?”
“I dunno,” said Nala. There were people, but suddenly, under pressure, every name she knew flew out of her head.
“But chickens aren’t scaredy,” Gran said. “They’re scary. You ever provoked a rooster?”
“Well, yeah,” Nala lied, “but— No, I guess I haven’t, but uh—”
Gran Akha laughed.
Nala caught Gran’s glee, even if it was at her own expense.
“You’ve really never seen me do a Telling?” said Gran.
“Not once,” said Nala.
“Huh,” Gran said.
In the nearby brush, some furry creature flitted by.
Nala flinched, and turned to see it.
“Everything okay?” Gran said.
“Huh?” Nala grunted. Her eyes scanned the bushes, nervously.
“You got a little jumpy there.”
Nala wasn’t really listening. She was still scanning, looking for…
She saw it. Her eyes locked onto the creature. She recognized it, from her daymare. A furry thing, something between a rat and a rabbit.
Blood matted its fur on one side.
Its little family flitted after it, and Nala noticed that it was the only parent in the little pack. They were all scrambling away from Mount Wraithwood.
The wind rolled through the leaves, and (hhhhhhhhhhh) startled the critters into action. They bounded away.
“What is it?” Gran Akha asked. “Everything okay?”
Nala nodded. “Uh-huh. Sorry, I… Sorry.”
They went on.
Nala thought about the boy from her daymare. Had he cooked the creature that he’d caught? She wondered if he knew how to cook. She hadn’t, ’til a moon or so ago. Something told her they were about the same age.
She wondered if he’d cooked it wrong, and gotten sick. Nala did that once, not so many days ago, and if he didn’t have enough pract—
“Look,” Gran Akha said softly.
Nala snapped out of it.
They’d been walking, but the time had disappeared, almost like she’d blacked out, and her body had been moving independently of Nala’s will.
The pair was now strolling across the flat bottom sprawl of the valley, with the hills and the orchard and Mount Wraithwood now far behind.
“What is that?” Gran asked. Worry and disgust painted her grandma’s mellow voice.
“What’s what?” Nala asked, then she looked where her Gran Akha was looking.
Market Town’s lights looked different now that they were up close, and Nala was able to appreciate all the decorations for the Springdusk Festival. The smell of bread announced the grainwitch, even half-a-league away.
The moat was high, the gates were up, and both bridges (which were both down) were already swollen with orcs.
But Gran wasn’t pointing at town.
She was pointing at a big blob of something, a sprawl that crowded in around the gated town of Orcshire.
Gran’s voice came out all thin and dry, as she muttered—
“…Tents.”
* * * * / * * * *
(Art by Thomas Cargen.)
GIFT SHOP
1. Hats & Hoodies
2. ORC LORE— Poetry about the Gods
3. 8bit Music for Moonthread
* * * * / * * * *
I could definitely feel Nala’s impatience at the beginning! The way you wrote the counting/breathing definitely made me slow down when reading and made me feel *in* the story.
Just finished! The prose is shifting, I'm noticing, leaning more toward conventional prose with lines broken at key moments. It's an elegant way to change the reader's pace and rhythm, and I appreciate that it's seamless. If I wasn't looking for it, I wouldn't have even noticed it was happening.
Lots of foreshadowing and/or fake-outs this time around. I'm expecting the conflict to emerge soon. Something tells me it won't go well for Gran Akha.