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nebroadweBy the solemn proclamation of Jo Walton, today is International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, honoring those authors who choose to publish or publicize their work electronically. It was developed to respond to the argument of writer Howard V. Hendrix that "the ongoing and increasing sublimation of the private space of consciousness into public netspace is profoundly pernicious" and that online publication is "undercutting those of us who aren't giving it away for free and are trying to get publishers to pay a better wage for our hard work." (All I could think at this point was: if releasing original fiction via the Internet renders one a pixel-stained technopeasant, what possible opinion could be held of those whose output -- such as, for instance, mine -- is largely fanfiction? Eek.)
Various and sundry SF authors are celebrating the day by uploading work to the web. Not being a published author of original work myself yet (and surmising that no one would be interested in my published academic prose), I dug into my hard drive and found the following more-or-less self-contained episode from one of my novels-in-progress ... and herewith release it into the ether. Concrit welcomed.
Title: "The Scrying Bowl" (from [Untitled YA Fantasy Novel] -- I despair at titling any of my original work. Fanfiction titles come easier, for some reason.)
Word Count: ~5000
Warnings: Total lack of context (this is from chapter 2) and substantial implicit referencing of one of the western world's larger meme clusters.
Dedication: For everyone on my f-list who's got an original piece fermenting in a drawer. Per ardua ad imprimenda!
***
Alex hovered on the edge of sleep for a while, unable to relax completely. Every noise -- the fire popping, the clank of the spoon against the pot, the chair creaking when Mark shifted -- yanked him awake faster than an alarm clock. Staring up at the ceiling, he counted the knots in the nearest beams and drew faces and animal shapes in the contours of the wood. Mark began to hum under his breath, but the tune was nothing Alex knew. He closed his eyes again and turned onto his stomach, resting his head on his forearms so as not to get a face full of fur from the rug. This was taking forever. Mom and Dad were going to kill them when they got home. When he found Lindsey, she would have to explain what had happened. She would tell them where she had run off to and complain that she was hungry and while they yelled at her he could sneak upstairs to bed, except the light was off and he tripped on the landing --
-- and woke again with a full-body muscle twitch, almost as painful as really tripping. Alex groaned and curled up on his side. Mark was still lounging in the chair, humming. Alex studied him balefully. It was all his fault, trading shoes with Lindsey, and was he worried? No. Jerk. Alex prodded one of the chair legs with his foot.
"Stop that," said Mark.
Alex stopped tapping, but let his foot rest against the wood. "How much longer?"
"Soon," Mark said. "I hope. You won't make any friends here by breaking things."
"I'm not hurting it," Alex said. "I'm just -- " He rubbed the toe of his sneaker along the leg, following its curve down to the slightly splayed foot and back up again.
"Off," Mark said firmly.
Alex pulled his sneaker back half an inch, met Mark's sidelong look with his own, and gave up. It was going to take forever and he would die of boredom before his parents could kill him. He pulled himself into a ball and squinched his eyes shut, tight enough to see pale firework splotches.
The front doors boomed open. Alex unfolded like a jack-in-the-box; Mark rose gracefully to his feet. "Hail, Cynthia!" he called out.
Framed in the doorway, her arms still part-way outstretched, stood a tall girl -- very tall, taller than Mark or the chariot-driver, as tall as Alex's dad, perhaps, and he was six-foot-two. She was pretty as well, with blue-gray eyes almost glowing in the pale oval of her face and long silver-blonde hair drawn back into a ponytail. But it wasn't a fluffy kind of prettiness, even if she was wearing a white dress with flowing sleeves and a silver-buckled belt and a skirt that rippled into many folds around her knees. She seemed more like a runner who had just broken through the tape at the end of a race, only to be stopped by a particularly annoying sideline reporter. She put her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at Mark. "What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying the gracious hospitality of your household," Mark replied smoothly. His left hand gathered up a fistful of Alex's jacket and pulled him upright, stifling Alex's protest with a twist of the collar that briefly cut off his air. "My client and I have been most pleasantly entertained while we awaited your return. He comes to you as a suppliant; do him a kindness, and hear him."
A none-too-subtle shove to Alex's back sent him stumbling off the furs toward Cynthia. By the time he had recovered his balance, she had halved the distance between them with long, strong strides. Alex goggled up at her as she approached until his head was tipped back on his neck. He had no idea what to do. Her eyebrows drew down in the slightest of frowns, and Alex felt his arms break out into gooseflesh. He couldn't look away; he couldn't speak; he couldn't --
"You're supposed to grab her knees," Mark stage-whispered.
What? Alex half-swiveled, froze, and carefully reversed the movement. But Cynthia was not frowning any more: she had taken a step back and was giving him a friendly smile. "Don't listen," she said. "That isn't one of your customs, is it? What's your name?"
"Alexander Rocambeau. Ma'am," he added, feeling his way.
"And what favor do you ask of ... Cynthia, Alexander Rocambeau?" she asked, her attention flickering past him and back again in the pause.
Alex said nothing. What was he supposed to ask for? How could he explain what had happened to Lindsey without mentioning Mark's shoes? Why hadn't Mark told him what to say? All that time while they were waiting he had just sat there, and now Alex wasn't even in a position to catch his eye -- not without turning his back on Cynthia, and she had just dropped to one knee, putting them on a level. It would have been rude to ignore her. It was going to be rude not to answer her. But she waited, holding his gaze calmly until he began to feel calm himself. His thoughts quit circling the drain and cleared, showing him how to start. "It's about my sister."
"And what's her name?" Cynthia asked.
"Lindsey." What was it his father always said? Be brief, be clear and be gone. "She ran away and I have to find her. Please, can you help me?"
"I would like to help you, if I can," Cynthia replied slowly, "but surely those who love your sister are searching for her ... "
It wasn't a question, but it was an opening. Should he tell her that no one was looking? What if she asked why? "No one else knows Lindsey's gone yet," he said. "I want to get her home before -- like we're supposed to, so she doesn't get into trouble."
"And that may take some doing," Mark broke in, to Alex's great relief. "I believe her to be astray beyond the ecumenical bounds."
Beyond what? thought Alex, as Cynthia asked, "And how did she manage that?"
This question was directed over Alex's head; he glanced back at Mark, whose face was as bland and earnest as a plaster saint's. "Blood will tell," he said.
Cynthia stood. "It will indeed," she replied.
Behind her, steps on the stoop announced Selene, now dressed -- Alex blinked -- in jeans and a denim jacket over a pale blue work shirt, just like the woman who ran the stables across from church. She winked at him and exchanged nods with Cynthia. "Fetch the scrying bowl," the younger woman ordered, even further over Alex's head, and the old woman at the hearth nodded acknowledgment. Wrapping a towel around the handle, she began to shift her pot off the fire.
"I'll bring the water," said Selene, and disappeared back through the doors, shutting them behind her.
Cynthia returned her attention to Alex, studying him; he pulled at the hem of his jacket to straighten it. Was she going to help? What's going on? "Is it Alexander?" she asked abruptly. "Or Alec?"
"Alex."
"You've come a long way in pursuit of your sister, Alex." She didn't seem angry with him, anyway. More like -- more like the school choir director scanning the ranks in search of a soloist, while Alex's insides tensed with pick me! pick me! anxiety. "How did you find the journey?"
"Oh -- it was great!" he said, jigging a little for relief and remembered pleasure. "Ms. Selene even let me drive."
"Did she?" A grin brightened Cynthia's face, making her look for the first time very much like Mark. She bent down and whispered conspiratorially in Alex's ear, "You're privileged -- I have to beg for a turn."
Alex laughed with her, and soon found himself giving her an enthusiastic and detailed description of the trip, egged on by her enjoyment of the tale. As they talked, she led him toward the dais, Mark following behind, amused but watchful. He gave Alex a little be careful! shake of the head when he caught his eye. By then Alex was relaxed enough to be annoyed. Come on! he thought. I'm not going to mention the stupid shoes -- they don't even matter to this part of the story! Besides, Cynthia seemed ready enough to help them: what else was all the preparation for?
The old woman had descended the steps at the far end of the hearth; she was taller than she had seemed all bent over on her stool, though nowhere near as tall as Cynthia. Alex was glad to see her go, slowly crossing the hall toward the door next to all the cupboards. Cynthia herself vaulted up onto the dais from the floor beside the long table and held out a hand to Alex afterward to help him do the same. They fetched up beside the oval table, whose dark top Alex now saw to be rimmed with a pattern of -- no, pictures of animals and people: a goat, a man carrying a jug, two fish ... Oh, the Zodiac! The figures were not painted, but jigsawed together out of contrasting shades and grains of wood; flecks of mother-of-pearl gleamed when the shifting light from the lantern overhead caught them, marking the positions of the stars. Alex walked along to his own sign, Pisces, and gently traced the stippled bodies and curving tails. "This is pretty cool," he said.
"Thank you," said Cynthia. "It was a housewarming gift from my half-brother."
Alex looked up at Mark, who laughed. "Not me," he said. "I wouldn't have the patience."
"Or the skill," Cynthia added swiftly.
It almost wasn't a joke; Alex waited for Mark to chuckle again before he joined in. "Be fair," the older boy replied. "I didn't do so badly with that tortoise shell. And speaking of patience, where do you keep your scrying tools these days? Buried at the nearest crossroads?"
Cynthia did not need to answer: at that moment both the door by the cupboards and its counterpart across the hall opened. Selene must have reentered the house by some back way, for she stood in the nearer of the two, holding a double-handled jug just like the one in the Zodiac border -- all black, except for bands of dark orange at base, neck and mouth. The old woman cradled in her arms a silver half-sphere as large as a big mixing bowl. Both women paced slowly across the floor as if what they carried were heavy, or fragile. Alex thought of his cousin Margaret's wedding: the bridal party had walked up the aisle just as solemnly, but with organ music and cameras whirring and people murmuring comments. Cynthia's companions approached the dais in a silence that grew until their own footsteps and the crackling of the fire seemed no louder than the tick of a watch.
Cynthia stood across from Alex now, her eyes closed as Selene and the old woman mounted the steps. Selene, with less ground to cover, reached the table first and waited impassively behind Cynthia's right shoulder. The old woman did not hurry to join them, but as she passed in front of the fire she raised the bowl so that its smooth surface flashed with reflections of the flames. When she placed it in the center of the table, Alex saw that the inside was nothing like as polished as the outside, but marbled with dull gold and brown patches of tarnish. He wondered if they had forgotten to clean it, or if it had gotten that way from the stuff they put in it. Only when the old woman continued to hold it steady did Alex realize that the bowl had no foot. Her face was turned away from him, so he felt free to watch her. She was bent over in what looked like a really uncomfortable position; her back was going to hurt if she had to do that for long. Alex hoped that meant that whatever they were going to do would be quick.
Selene handed the jug to Cynthia with a bow, and Cynthia lifted it easily to pour water -- once, twice, three times, with a pause between each for the liquid to settle into stillness -- until the bowl was filled to an inch or so below the rim. The old woman released it, straightening, and to Alex's surprise the bowl neither tipped nor wobbled, even when Cynthia jostled against the table in returning the jug to Selene. It must be like the egg trick, he thought. Or else real magic ...
"Alex, give me your left hand," Cynthia commanded softly, holding out her own.
The quiet left no room for questions. Alex reached toward her cautiously; she grasped his wrist and turned his hand palm up, drawing it out over the center of the bowl. Alex leaned forward, shifting his feet, and so missed the moment when she unsheathed the knife that had hung hidden at her side in the folds of her skirt. Swiftly she brought it up and sliced across the pad of his ring finger before he could pull away.
The pain was no worse than being stuck for a blood test, but he panicked, throwing himself backward so that his head whacked into Mark's ribs, right hand scrabbling for purchase on the table edge as the left twisted fruitlessly in Cynthia's grip. Help! He stared up at Mark, pleading, only to meet the same half-concerned, half-exasperated look with which his companion had met his refusal to go home. Mark pushed him back toward the table, saying, "Wait!"
Hollow with betrayal, Alex turned back to catch Selene regarding him earnestly. She shook her head at him, one eyebrow raised, as if to say -- what? It's all right? Alex licked his lips and reluctantly faced Cynthia again. The cut on his finger was oozing blood; his arm was beginning to ache from the tug-of-war they were playing. The knife was no longer visible, but Alex didn't find that reassuring; he had no doubt she could produce it as quickly again if she wanted. When she spoke, he shrank, though her voice held no threat. "Do you want to find your sister, Alex?"
At the sound of his own name his head came up and, without willing it, Alex found himself looking Cynthia in the eye for the second time. He braced himself, but she said no more and made no move, and gradually peace wove itself around him out of her silence. Like a warm blanket draped over his shoulders, calm spread down into his chest, quieting his heart and steadying his breathing. He remembered Cynthia listening attentively to his story; Selene keeping careful hold of the reins behind him as he drove her horses; Mark promising that nothing bad would happen to him as long as he did what he was told. Yes. I do want to find Lindsey. That's why I'm here. He let his arm relax, surrendering his hand to Cynthia's grasp.
She smiled at him and, turning his palm down toward the water, compressed his throbbing finger until a drop of blood fell from it into the water. Ripples spread from the point of impact as if from a stone, and where they rolled the water darkened until Alex seemed to be gazing into a pool of ink.
"Look," Cynthia said, releasing his hand, "and see!"
Alex held his breath and tried not to blink. The dark water reflected nothing, not even the light of the lantern hanging from the crossbeam above. He waited: maybe the thing had to warm up, like a television. A slow minute passed. Alex gave up and began breathing again -- even blinked, but without lifting his straining eyes from the black ... hole in front of him. Did he need to do something else? Give it something else? He curled his injured finger against his palm; the sting of the air in the wound was distracting.
"Strange," said Cynthia, frowning.
Alex hunched over the bowl, his fists clenched so tightly now that his wrists trembled. Lindsey, show me Lindsey, come on, show me ... The water seemed to brighten and he held his breath again hard, pushing at the bowl from behind his eyes, as he did in dreams when magic needed to be made. Show me, show me ... The shadowy outline of a head, faint as a reflection, sketched itself on the clearing surface. Alex gasped, but even as his heart thumped with surprise he recognized his own face, screwed up and gaping together, like a constipated fish. He closed his mouth.
The darkness faded completely: looking past his reflection, Alex could see right to the tarnish-mottled bottom of the bowl. His shoulders hurt. He straightened to find himself ignored. Cynthia, her arms folded across her chest, had raised her eyebrows at Mark. "Sister?" she asked coolly.
Mark shrugged.
"Lindsey is my sister!" Alex put in indignantly. "Mom and Dad adopted her, same as me!"
Cynthia sighed and shook her head. Mark dropped a heavy hand on Alex's shoulder, but when Alex twisted to look at him, Mark was smiling sourly at his half-sister. "Skimped on my homework," he said. "Sorry to take up your time."
"Oh, is that what you're sorry for?" she mocked him.
"Among other things," he said. "I dislike failing my clients, too."
That brought everyone's attention back to Alex. "I beg your pardon, child," said Selene. "If we had known you weren't related by birth -- "
"What's that got to do with it?" asked Alex. He knew he was being rude, but he hated it when people acted like being adopted didn't make you real family. The fact that it did somehow matter here only made him angrier. He crossed his own arms and glowered across the table, ignoring a poke in the back from Mark.
Cynthia looked affronted, but Selene reached past her to tap the edge of the silver bowl. "This technique depends on the call of blood to blood," she said. "It's no use for anything else. I'm sorry."
Her tone was kind but final. Alex swallowed his arguments; they seemed to clog his throat. "Then how am I supposed to find my sister?" he asked after a moment. "Mark said -- "
"Mark?" Cynthia interrupted, her eyebrows flying up again.
" -- he said you could help." Alex turned to the older boy. "What do we do now?"
Mark, by his nettled expression, was about to say something sarcastic when Cynthia broke in. "Ask the master of the day's all-seeing eye," she said.
"Who's that?" asked Alex.
"The far-shooter, lord of prophecy and music, font of healing and wise counsel: my twin brother," Cynthia went on, smiling down at him. "I'm sure he could help you. I'll recommend you to him myself, to make amends for delaying you here."
This sounded both impressive and promising, but Alex hesitated. Something in Cynthia's voice reminded him of the way Lindsey would say things to other people to get him riled up. He looked to Mark again. "Another brother?"
"We're a large family," Mark said tightly. He leaned over to half-sit on the table, propping himself with his left hand, carefully casual. "Widely scattered. Your sister's trail will have gone cold by the time I drag you all the way out there -- "
"I'll convey you," Cynthia offered cheerfully. "It's no trouble. We can be away at first light."
"More delays?" asked Mark, tilting his head to look at her.
Cynthia put a hand to Alex's cheek, turning his face slightly away from the fire. Her touch was firm and cool; a shiver ran up his backbone, but he leaned against her palm and was comforted. "Have a care for your client," she said. "A weary hunter mistakes the trail."
"I'll make you up a bed," said Selene. "We keep a bolster or two in the closet." She strode off down the dais, chuckling a little. Alex could guess why. Mark's face was bland, but he had certainly lost this round.
Yawning, Alex couldn't bring himself to care very much. Bed sounded like a good idea, much better than going back out into the chilly dark for another long ride to meet ... Mark and Cynthia's brother. Who might or might not know where Lindsey was. Somewhere safe, Alex hoped, until the sun came up and they could see to look for her properly. Playing hide-and-seek in the dark: it wasn't fair ...
"Hey!" Mark's voice was loud in his left ear. Alex started out of the doze into which he had been drifting. Cynthia tapped his cheek and withdrew her fingers; feeling oddly bereft, Alex looked down at the two fish chasing each other's tails. Mark stood and thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. "All right," he said. "I give: I know when I'm outnumbered." He sighed theatrically. "And if you're going to fall asleep on me, you should lie down first."
"Just show me where!" Alex shot back.
"It's not my house," Mark retorted. "Ask your hostess -- politely, if you can manage it."
Alex's face went hot with outrage. He pushed himself away from the table so violently that the water slopped in the scrying bowl. Chin up, he brushed past Mark with his mouth resolutely closed on the wail of No fair! that boiled in his lungs. I'll show you! He planted his feet in front of Cynthia and gave her his best piano-recital bow. "Thank you for you all your help, ma'am," he said. "Please, where will I be sleeping?"
"Upstairs, I believe -- ah, yes!" Alex turned with her to see Selene standing on the balcony near the right-hand staircase, a white cloth folded over one arm. Cynthia nodded to her, then said to Alex, "You are most welcome in my house. And your patron, too," she added, with a wave at Mark.
Alex stifled a laugh at this, peeking at Mark to see how he took it. The older boy simply turned away, a look of pity on his face.
And then he came alert, all the slouching indolence dropping from his posture like snow from a laden branch. "Here, mother, let me help you with that!" he said to the old woman, who had picked up the silver bowl and begun to shuffle away down the hearth. Four quick steps brought him to her side to pluck the vessel from her grasp. "Heavy!" he exclaimed, shifting his grip as the bowl tilted and the liquid inside surged from one edge to the other. "Too much for you. Let's lighten the load!"
His tone mocked her, but there was a cutting edge to these sarcasms unlike anything he had directed at Alex or Selene or Cynthia. Before Alex could ask what was wrong, Mark pivoted and threw the scrying water into the fireplace. It flashed violently into steam as it met the flames, and Alex's finger throbbed and stung. He grabbed at it, but the pain was already gone, and the cut with it. He pushed and stretched the pad gingerly with his thumb, turning it to catch the light. No break in the skin, no scab, only smears of drying blood on his finger and palm.
A sound like pebbles rasping against each other, but mushier, startled him out of this uneasy scrutiny. Mark was returning the bowl to the old woman with a butler's half-bow. Alex couldn't see his face, but his opponent's lips were pressed together, her forehead creased with angry wrinkles. Another rasp, and another, and Alex realized the woman was grinding her teeth. He didn't like it. He wished Mark would let go, let her go away or make her stop that noise. It made him want to bite his tongue. Mark's hands gave the bowl a little push and dropped to his sides; the old woman clutched the vessel to her chest, blinking rapidly and raising her head to scowl past his shoulder. Instinctively, Alex shrank back, and Mark stepped sideways to block her. "Outnumbered, perhaps," he said. "Outwitted ... ?"
"At least once," murmured Cynthia.
Mark turned his head to glare at his half-sister; she returned him a thin, contemptuous smile. Lantern-light and firelight threw competing shadows on their faces as they stared at each other. Alex hugged himself, his fingers kneading the rib-ridges in his sides. He didn't like this at all. The old woman was taking the bowl away, still grinding -- no, gnashing her teeth, like the Bible story. He hoped she wouldn't start wailing, too. Or Mark and Cynthia shouting ...
"Alex."
He flinched, but it was only Selene beckoning to him. She had come down the stairs to stand by the long table, calm and smiling. He sidled away from Cynthia and Mark and jumped down off the dais. Putting an arm around his shoulders, Selene drew him away from the hearth. "Don't mind them," she said softly. "They're always arguing. It has nothing to do with you."
Alex shrugged. He felt a little better, walking with her away from the tension and argument and weird noises toward bed. He climbed the staircase in front of Selene, letting her shield him until, turning right and right again, they passed into a narrow corridor dimly lit by a hurricane lamp in a niche, safely out of sight of anyone in the hall below. Selene picked up the lamp and opened the door beside it. "Here you are," she said.
Hesitating on the threshold, Alex studied the room, gathering details as the light exposed them. Like the hall, it was sparsely furnished: a wardrobe against the left-hand wall; a small, half-round table opposite under a large picture of some kind. Beneath the single window a long bench or chest ran the width of the chamber. A welcoming lump of bedding lay atop it, a triangle of sheet and blanket turned back below the fat pillow, ready to receive him. Selene set the lamp down on the table, brightening more of the picture. Trees and flowers and animals -- birds? a deer?
"Come in," said Selene. Her voice seemed louder beneath a flat ceiling no higher than that of Alex's own room at home. "You won't have much time to rest if you're leaving at dawn. Here." She shook out the cloth she had been carrying and held up a large short-sleeved shirt. "A little big for you, but that won't matter to sleep in. Leave your clothes and shoes outside the door once you've changed and I'll see they're cleaned."
"You don't have to do that," Alex said awkwardly as she handed him the shirt. It smelled like other people's clothes, with a trace of something familiar and sweet. Mom's purple soap. "If it's just going to be a nap, I -- I can sleep in my clothes."
"You'll be more comfortable out of them." Selene regarded him shrewdly. "No one will disturb you, I promise."
Alex ducked his head. "Okay," he muttered.
"I'll leave you the lamp. Good night!" She pulled the door closed behind her, throwing him one last smile over her shoulder.
Alex waited in the middle of the room, listening to her receding footsteps and the quiet that followed them. Then he tiptoed over to the door and stood with his back against it. He was so tired ... and she was right: he would be more comfortable out of his jeans. He undressed as quickly as possible and dragged the borrowed shirt on over his head; it was heavier than a cotton T-shirt but just as soft. He stuffed his socks into his shoes and rolled the rest of his clothes around them. Easing the door open, he thrust the bundle out into the hall and retreated to the bed. The covers and pillowcase smelled faintly of cedar. Alex lay with his back to the window, hands folded together under his cheek. The lamp burned steadily, bright enough to be distracting to dark-adapted eyes. He pulled a corner of the sheet up over his head like a visor, and under its cedar-scented shadow relaxed at last into dreamless sleep.
Author's Note: Yes: Alex is hobnobbing with the classical pantheon; but no: he hasn't twigged yet. "Mark" is the guess he made at his guide's name from an interrupted introduction (heh). "Cynthia" is one of the epithets bestowed on Artemis; the unnamed old woman is Hecate; and bringing them together with Selene as a maiden/crone/mother triad was my own idea (more or less. I mean, to the extent that any maiden/crone/mother triad can be one's own idea). Any other obscurities in need of elucidation? Just ask ...
This is an original work by the owner of this LiveJournal account. All rights are reserved.
Various and sundry SF authors are celebrating the day by uploading work to the web. Not being a published author of original work myself yet (and surmising that no one would be interested in my published academic prose), I dug into my hard drive and found the following more-or-less self-contained episode from one of my novels-in-progress ... and herewith release it into the ether. Concrit welcomed.
Title: "The Scrying Bowl" (from [Untitled YA Fantasy Novel] -- I despair at titling any of my original work. Fanfiction titles come easier, for some reason.)
Word Count: ~5000
Warnings: Total lack of context (this is from chapter 2) and substantial implicit referencing of one of the western world's larger meme clusters.
Dedication: For everyone on my f-list who's got an original piece fermenting in a drawer. Per ardua ad imprimenda!
Alex hovered on the edge of sleep for a while, unable to relax completely. Every noise -- the fire popping, the clank of the spoon against the pot, the chair creaking when Mark shifted -- yanked him awake faster than an alarm clock. Staring up at the ceiling, he counted the knots in the nearest beams and drew faces and animal shapes in the contours of the wood. Mark began to hum under his breath, but the tune was nothing Alex knew. He closed his eyes again and turned onto his stomach, resting his head on his forearms so as not to get a face full of fur from the rug. This was taking forever. Mom and Dad were going to kill them when they got home. When he found Lindsey, she would have to explain what had happened. She would tell them where she had run off to and complain that she was hungry and while they yelled at her he could sneak upstairs to bed, except the light was off and he tripped on the landing --
-- and woke again with a full-body muscle twitch, almost as painful as really tripping. Alex groaned and curled up on his side. Mark was still lounging in the chair, humming. Alex studied him balefully. It was all his fault, trading shoes with Lindsey, and was he worried? No. Jerk. Alex prodded one of the chair legs with his foot.
"Stop that," said Mark.
Alex stopped tapping, but let his foot rest against the wood. "How much longer?"
"Soon," Mark said. "I hope. You won't make any friends here by breaking things."
"I'm not hurting it," Alex said. "I'm just -- " He rubbed the toe of his sneaker along the leg, following its curve down to the slightly splayed foot and back up again.
"Off," Mark said firmly.
Alex pulled his sneaker back half an inch, met Mark's sidelong look with his own, and gave up. It was going to take forever and he would die of boredom before his parents could kill him. He pulled himself into a ball and squinched his eyes shut, tight enough to see pale firework splotches.
The front doors boomed open. Alex unfolded like a jack-in-the-box; Mark rose gracefully to his feet. "Hail, Cynthia!" he called out.
Framed in the doorway, her arms still part-way outstretched, stood a tall girl -- very tall, taller than Mark or the chariot-driver, as tall as Alex's dad, perhaps, and he was six-foot-two. She was pretty as well, with blue-gray eyes almost glowing in the pale oval of her face and long silver-blonde hair drawn back into a ponytail. But it wasn't a fluffy kind of prettiness, even if she was wearing a white dress with flowing sleeves and a silver-buckled belt and a skirt that rippled into many folds around her knees. She seemed more like a runner who had just broken through the tape at the end of a race, only to be stopped by a particularly annoying sideline reporter. She put her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at Mark. "What are you doing here?"
"Enjoying the gracious hospitality of your household," Mark replied smoothly. His left hand gathered up a fistful of Alex's jacket and pulled him upright, stifling Alex's protest with a twist of the collar that briefly cut off his air. "My client and I have been most pleasantly entertained while we awaited your return. He comes to you as a suppliant; do him a kindness, and hear him."
A none-too-subtle shove to Alex's back sent him stumbling off the furs toward Cynthia. By the time he had recovered his balance, she had halved the distance between them with long, strong strides. Alex goggled up at her as she approached until his head was tipped back on his neck. He had no idea what to do. Her eyebrows drew down in the slightest of frowns, and Alex felt his arms break out into gooseflesh. He couldn't look away; he couldn't speak; he couldn't --
"You're supposed to grab her knees," Mark stage-whispered.
What? Alex half-swiveled, froze, and carefully reversed the movement. But Cynthia was not frowning any more: she had taken a step back and was giving him a friendly smile. "Don't listen," she said. "That isn't one of your customs, is it? What's your name?"
"Alexander Rocambeau. Ma'am," he added, feeling his way.
"And what favor do you ask of ... Cynthia, Alexander Rocambeau?" she asked, her attention flickering past him and back again in the pause.
Alex said nothing. What was he supposed to ask for? How could he explain what had happened to Lindsey without mentioning Mark's shoes? Why hadn't Mark told him what to say? All that time while they were waiting he had just sat there, and now Alex wasn't even in a position to catch his eye -- not without turning his back on Cynthia, and she had just dropped to one knee, putting them on a level. It would have been rude to ignore her. It was going to be rude not to answer her. But she waited, holding his gaze calmly until he began to feel calm himself. His thoughts quit circling the drain and cleared, showing him how to start. "It's about my sister."
"And what's her name?" Cynthia asked.
"Lindsey." What was it his father always said? Be brief, be clear and be gone. "She ran away and I have to find her. Please, can you help me?"
"I would like to help you, if I can," Cynthia replied slowly, "but surely those who love your sister are searching for her ... "
It wasn't a question, but it was an opening. Should he tell her that no one was looking? What if she asked why? "No one else knows Lindsey's gone yet," he said. "I want to get her home before -- like we're supposed to, so she doesn't get into trouble."
"And that may take some doing," Mark broke in, to Alex's great relief. "I believe her to be astray beyond the ecumenical bounds."
Beyond what? thought Alex, as Cynthia asked, "And how did she manage that?"
This question was directed over Alex's head; he glanced back at Mark, whose face was as bland and earnest as a plaster saint's. "Blood will tell," he said.
Cynthia stood. "It will indeed," she replied.
Behind her, steps on the stoop announced Selene, now dressed -- Alex blinked -- in jeans and a denim jacket over a pale blue work shirt, just like the woman who ran the stables across from church. She winked at him and exchanged nods with Cynthia. "Fetch the scrying bowl," the younger woman ordered, even further over Alex's head, and the old woman at the hearth nodded acknowledgment. Wrapping a towel around the handle, she began to shift her pot off the fire.
"I'll bring the water," said Selene, and disappeared back through the doors, shutting them behind her.
Cynthia returned her attention to Alex, studying him; he pulled at the hem of his jacket to straighten it. Was she going to help? What's going on? "Is it Alexander?" she asked abruptly. "Or Alec?"
"Alex."
"You've come a long way in pursuit of your sister, Alex." She didn't seem angry with him, anyway. More like -- more like the school choir director scanning the ranks in search of a soloist, while Alex's insides tensed with pick me! pick me! anxiety. "How did you find the journey?"
"Oh -- it was great!" he said, jigging a little for relief and remembered pleasure. "Ms. Selene even let me drive."
"Did she?" A grin brightened Cynthia's face, making her look for the first time very much like Mark. She bent down and whispered conspiratorially in Alex's ear, "You're privileged -- I have to beg for a turn."
Alex laughed with her, and soon found himself giving her an enthusiastic and detailed description of the trip, egged on by her enjoyment of the tale. As they talked, she led him toward the dais, Mark following behind, amused but watchful. He gave Alex a little be careful! shake of the head when he caught his eye. By then Alex was relaxed enough to be annoyed. Come on! he thought. I'm not going to mention the stupid shoes -- they don't even matter to this part of the story! Besides, Cynthia seemed ready enough to help them: what else was all the preparation for?
The old woman had descended the steps at the far end of the hearth; she was taller than she had seemed all bent over on her stool, though nowhere near as tall as Cynthia. Alex was glad to see her go, slowly crossing the hall toward the door next to all the cupboards. Cynthia herself vaulted up onto the dais from the floor beside the long table and held out a hand to Alex afterward to help him do the same. They fetched up beside the oval table, whose dark top Alex now saw to be rimmed with a pattern of -- no, pictures of animals and people: a goat, a man carrying a jug, two fish ... Oh, the Zodiac! The figures were not painted, but jigsawed together out of contrasting shades and grains of wood; flecks of mother-of-pearl gleamed when the shifting light from the lantern overhead caught them, marking the positions of the stars. Alex walked along to his own sign, Pisces, and gently traced the stippled bodies and curving tails. "This is pretty cool," he said.
"Thank you," said Cynthia. "It was a housewarming gift from my half-brother."
Alex looked up at Mark, who laughed. "Not me," he said. "I wouldn't have the patience."
"Or the skill," Cynthia added swiftly.
It almost wasn't a joke; Alex waited for Mark to chuckle again before he joined in. "Be fair," the older boy replied. "I didn't do so badly with that tortoise shell. And speaking of patience, where do you keep your scrying tools these days? Buried at the nearest crossroads?"
Cynthia did not need to answer: at that moment both the door by the cupboards and its counterpart across the hall opened. Selene must have reentered the house by some back way, for she stood in the nearer of the two, holding a double-handled jug just like the one in the Zodiac border -- all black, except for bands of dark orange at base, neck and mouth. The old woman cradled in her arms a silver half-sphere as large as a big mixing bowl. Both women paced slowly across the floor as if what they carried were heavy, or fragile. Alex thought of his cousin Margaret's wedding: the bridal party had walked up the aisle just as solemnly, but with organ music and cameras whirring and people murmuring comments. Cynthia's companions approached the dais in a silence that grew until their own footsteps and the crackling of the fire seemed no louder than the tick of a watch.
Cynthia stood across from Alex now, her eyes closed as Selene and the old woman mounted the steps. Selene, with less ground to cover, reached the table first and waited impassively behind Cynthia's right shoulder. The old woman did not hurry to join them, but as she passed in front of the fire she raised the bowl so that its smooth surface flashed with reflections of the flames. When she placed it in the center of the table, Alex saw that the inside was nothing like as polished as the outside, but marbled with dull gold and brown patches of tarnish. He wondered if they had forgotten to clean it, or if it had gotten that way from the stuff they put in it. Only when the old woman continued to hold it steady did Alex realize that the bowl had no foot. Her face was turned away from him, so he felt free to watch her. She was bent over in what looked like a really uncomfortable position; her back was going to hurt if she had to do that for long. Alex hoped that meant that whatever they were going to do would be quick.
Selene handed the jug to Cynthia with a bow, and Cynthia lifted it easily to pour water -- once, twice, three times, with a pause between each for the liquid to settle into stillness -- until the bowl was filled to an inch or so below the rim. The old woman released it, straightening, and to Alex's surprise the bowl neither tipped nor wobbled, even when Cynthia jostled against the table in returning the jug to Selene. It must be like the egg trick, he thought. Or else real magic ...
"Alex, give me your left hand," Cynthia commanded softly, holding out her own.
The quiet left no room for questions. Alex reached toward her cautiously; she grasped his wrist and turned his hand palm up, drawing it out over the center of the bowl. Alex leaned forward, shifting his feet, and so missed the moment when she unsheathed the knife that had hung hidden at her side in the folds of her skirt. Swiftly she brought it up and sliced across the pad of his ring finger before he could pull away.
The pain was no worse than being stuck for a blood test, but he panicked, throwing himself backward so that his head whacked into Mark's ribs, right hand scrabbling for purchase on the table edge as the left twisted fruitlessly in Cynthia's grip. Help! He stared up at Mark, pleading, only to meet the same half-concerned, half-exasperated look with which his companion had met his refusal to go home. Mark pushed him back toward the table, saying, "Wait!"
Hollow with betrayal, Alex turned back to catch Selene regarding him earnestly. She shook her head at him, one eyebrow raised, as if to say -- what? It's all right? Alex licked his lips and reluctantly faced Cynthia again. The cut on his finger was oozing blood; his arm was beginning to ache from the tug-of-war they were playing. The knife was no longer visible, but Alex didn't find that reassuring; he had no doubt she could produce it as quickly again if she wanted. When she spoke, he shrank, though her voice held no threat. "Do you want to find your sister, Alex?"
At the sound of his own name his head came up and, without willing it, Alex found himself looking Cynthia in the eye for the second time. He braced himself, but she said no more and made no move, and gradually peace wove itself around him out of her silence. Like a warm blanket draped over his shoulders, calm spread down into his chest, quieting his heart and steadying his breathing. He remembered Cynthia listening attentively to his story; Selene keeping careful hold of the reins behind him as he drove her horses; Mark promising that nothing bad would happen to him as long as he did what he was told. Yes. I do want to find Lindsey. That's why I'm here. He let his arm relax, surrendering his hand to Cynthia's grasp.
She smiled at him and, turning his palm down toward the water, compressed his throbbing finger until a drop of blood fell from it into the water. Ripples spread from the point of impact as if from a stone, and where they rolled the water darkened until Alex seemed to be gazing into a pool of ink.
"Look," Cynthia said, releasing his hand, "and see!"
Alex held his breath and tried not to blink. The dark water reflected nothing, not even the light of the lantern hanging from the crossbeam above. He waited: maybe the thing had to warm up, like a television. A slow minute passed. Alex gave up and began breathing again -- even blinked, but without lifting his straining eyes from the black ... hole in front of him. Did he need to do something else? Give it something else? He curled his injured finger against his palm; the sting of the air in the wound was distracting.
"Strange," said Cynthia, frowning.
Alex hunched over the bowl, his fists clenched so tightly now that his wrists trembled. Lindsey, show me Lindsey, come on, show me ... The water seemed to brighten and he held his breath again hard, pushing at the bowl from behind his eyes, as he did in dreams when magic needed to be made. Show me, show me ... The shadowy outline of a head, faint as a reflection, sketched itself on the clearing surface. Alex gasped, but even as his heart thumped with surprise he recognized his own face, screwed up and gaping together, like a constipated fish. He closed his mouth.
The darkness faded completely: looking past his reflection, Alex could see right to the tarnish-mottled bottom of the bowl. His shoulders hurt. He straightened to find himself ignored. Cynthia, her arms folded across her chest, had raised her eyebrows at Mark. "Sister?" she asked coolly.
Mark shrugged.
"Lindsey is my sister!" Alex put in indignantly. "Mom and Dad adopted her, same as me!"
Cynthia sighed and shook her head. Mark dropped a heavy hand on Alex's shoulder, but when Alex twisted to look at him, Mark was smiling sourly at his half-sister. "Skimped on my homework," he said. "Sorry to take up your time."
"Oh, is that what you're sorry for?" she mocked him.
"Among other things," he said. "I dislike failing my clients, too."
That brought everyone's attention back to Alex. "I beg your pardon, child," said Selene. "If we had known you weren't related by birth -- "
"What's that got to do with it?" asked Alex. He knew he was being rude, but he hated it when people acted like being adopted didn't make you real family. The fact that it did somehow matter here only made him angrier. He crossed his own arms and glowered across the table, ignoring a poke in the back from Mark.
Cynthia looked affronted, but Selene reached past her to tap the edge of the silver bowl. "This technique depends on the call of blood to blood," she said. "It's no use for anything else. I'm sorry."
Her tone was kind but final. Alex swallowed his arguments; they seemed to clog his throat. "Then how am I supposed to find my sister?" he asked after a moment. "Mark said -- "
"Mark?" Cynthia interrupted, her eyebrows flying up again.
" -- he said you could help." Alex turned to the older boy. "What do we do now?"
Mark, by his nettled expression, was about to say something sarcastic when Cynthia broke in. "Ask the master of the day's all-seeing eye," she said.
"Who's that?" asked Alex.
"The far-shooter, lord of prophecy and music, font of healing and wise counsel: my twin brother," Cynthia went on, smiling down at him. "I'm sure he could help you. I'll recommend you to him myself, to make amends for delaying you here."
This sounded both impressive and promising, but Alex hesitated. Something in Cynthia's voice reminded him of the way Lindsey would say things to other people to get him riled up. He looked to Mark again. "Another brother?"
"We're a large family," Mark said tightly. He leaned over to half-sit on the table, propping himself with his left hand, carefully casual. "Widely scattered. Your sister's trail will have gone cold by the time I drag you all the way out there -- "
"I'll convey you," Cynthia offered cheerfully. "It's no trouble. We can be away at first light."
"More delays?" asked Mark, tilting his head to look at her.
Cynthia put a hand to Alex's cheek, turning his face slightly away from the fire. Her touch was firm and cool; a shiver ran up his backbone, but he leaned against her palm and was comforted. "Have a care for your client," she said. "A weary hunter mistakes the trail."
"I'll make you up a bed," said Selene. "We keep a bolster or two in the closet." She strode off down the dais, chuckling a little. Alex could guess why. Mark's face was bland, but he had certainly lost this round.
Yawning, Alex couldn't bring himself to care very much. Bed sounded like a good idea, much better than going back out into the chilly dark for another long ride to meet ... Mark and Cynthia's brother. Who might or might not know where Lindsey was. Somewhere safe, Alex hoped, until the sun came up and they could see to look for her properly. Playing hide-and-seek in the dark: it wasn't fair ...
"Hey!" Mark's voice was loud in his left ear. Alex started out of the doze into which he had been drifting. Cynthia tapped his cheek and withdrew her fingers; feeling oddly bereft, Alex looked down at the two fish chasing each other's tails. Mark stood and thrust his hands into his jeans pockets. "All right," he said. "I give: I know when I'm outnumbered." He sighed theatrically. "And if you're going to fall asleep on me, you should lie down first."
"Just show me where!" Alex shot back.
"It's not my house," Mark retorted. "Ask your hostess -- politely, if you can manage it."
Alex's face went hot with outrage. He pushed himself away from the table so violently that the water slopped in the scrying bowl. Chin up, he brushed past Mark with his mouth resolutely closed on the wail of No fair! that boiled in his lungs. I'll show you! He planted his feet in front of Cynthia and gave her his best piano-recital bow. "Thank you for you all your help, ma'am," he said. "Please, where will I be sleeping?"
"Upstairs, I believe -- ah, yes!" Alex turned with her to see Selene standing on the balcony near the right-hand staircase, a white cloth folded over one arm. Cynthia nodded to her, then said to Alex, "You are most welcome in my house. And your patron, too," she added, with a wave at Mark.
Alex stifled a laugh at this, peeking at Mark to see how he took it. The older boy simply turned away, a look of pity on his face.
And then he came alert, all the slouching indolence dropping from his posture like snow from a laden branch. "Here, mother, let me help you with that!" he said to the old woman, who had picked up the silver bowl and begun to shuffle away down the hearth. Four quick steps brought him to her side to pluck the vessel from her grasp. "Heavy!" he exclaimed, shifting his grip as the bowl tilted and the liquid inside surged from one edge to the other. "Too much for you. Let's lighten the load!"
His tone mocked her, but there was a cutting edge to these sarcasms unlike anything he had directed at Alex or Selene or Cynthia. Before Alex could ask what was wrong, Mark pivoted and threw the scrying water into the fireplace. It flashed violently into steam as it met the flames, and Alex's finger throbbed and stung. He grabbed at it, but the pain was already gone, and the cut with it. He pushed and stretched the pad gingerly with his thumb, turning it to catch the light. No break in the skin, no scab, only smears of drying blood on his finger and palm.
A sound like pebbles rasping against each other, but mushier, startled him out of this uneasy scrutiny. Mark was returning the bowl to the old woman with a butler's half-bow. Alex couldn't see his face, but his opponent's lips were pressed together, her forehead creased with angry wrinkles. Another rasp, and another, and Alex realized the woman was grinding her teeth. He didn't like it. He wished Mark would let go, let her go away or make her stop that noise. It made him want to bite his tongue. Mark's hands gave the bowl a little push and dropped to his sides; the old woman clutched the vessel to her chest, blinking rapidly and raising her head to scowl past his shoulder. Instinctively, Alex shrank back, and Mark stepped sideways to block her. "Outnumbered, perhaps," he said. "Outwitted ... ?"
"At least once," murmured Cynthia.
Mark turned his head to glare at his half-sister; she returned him a thin, contemptuous smile. Lantern-light and firelight threw competing shadows on their faces as they stared at each other. Alex hugged himself, his fingers kneading the rib-ridges in his sides. He didn't like this at all. The old woman was taking the bowl away, still grinding -- no, gnashing her teeth, like the Bible story. He hoped she wouldn't start wailing, too. Or Mark and Cynthia shouting ...
"Alex."
He flinched, but it was only Selene beckoning to him. She had come down the stairs to stand by the long table, calm and smiling. He sidled away from Cynthia and Mark and jumped down off the dais. Putting an arm around his shoulders, Selene drew him away from the hearth. "Don't mind them," she said softly. "They're always arguing. It has nothing to do with you."
Alex shrugged. He felt a little better, walking with her away from the tension and argument and weird noises toward bed. He climbed the staircase in front of Selene, letting her shield him until, turning right and right again, they passed into a narrow corridor dimly lit by a hurricane lamp in a niche, safely out of sight of anyone in the hall below. Selene picked up the lamp and opened the door beside it. "Here you are," she said.
Hesitating on the threshold, Alex studied the room, gathering details as the light exposed them. Like the hall, it was sparsely furnished: a wardrobe against the left-hand wall; a small, half-round table opposite under a large picture of some kind. Beneath the single window a long bench or chest ran the width of the chamber. A welcoming lump of bedding lay atop it, a triangle of sheet and blanket turned back below the fat pillow, ready to receive him. Selene set the lamp down on the table, brightening more of the picture. Trees and flowers and animals -- birds? a deer?
"Come in," said Selene. Her voice seemed louder beneath a flat ceiling no higher than that of Alex's own room at home. "You won't have much time to rest if you're leaving at dawn. Here." She shook out the cloth she had been carrying and held up a large short-sleeved shirt. "A little big for you, but that won't matter to sleep in. Leave your clothes and shoes outside the door once you've changed and I'll see they're cleaned."
"You don't have to do that," Alex said awkwardly as she handed him the shirt. It smelled like other people's clothes, with a trace of something familiar and sweet. Mom's purple soap. "If it's just going to be a nap, I -- I can sleep in my clothes."
"You'll be more comfortable out of them." Selene regarded him shrewdly. "No one will disturb you, I promise."
Alex ducked his head. "Okay," he muttered.
"I'll leave you the lamp. Good night!" She pulled the door closed behind her, throwing him one last smile over her shoulder.
Alex waited in the middle of the room, listening to her receding footsteps and the quiet that followed them. Then he tiptoed over to the door and stood with his back against it. He was so tired ... and she was right: he would be more comfortable out of his jeans. He undressed as quickly as possible and dragged the borrowed shirt on over his head; it was heavier than a cotton T-shirt but just as soft. He stuffed his socks into his shoes and rolled the rest of his clothes around them. Easing the door open, he thrust the bundle out into the hall and retreated to the bed. The covers and pillowcase smelled faintly of cedar. Alex lay with his back to the window, hands folded together under his cheek. The lamp burned steadily, bright enough to be distracting to dark-adapted eyes. He pulled a corner of the sheet up over his head like a visor, and under its cedar-scented shadow relaxed at last into dreamless sleep.
Author's Note: Yes: Alex is hobnobbing with the classical pantheon; but no: he hasn't twigged yet. "Mark" is the guess he made at his guide's name from an interrupted introduction (heh). "Cynthia" is one of the epithets bestowed on Artemis; the unnamed old woman is Hecate; and bringing them together with Selene as a maiden/crone/mother triad was my own idea (more or less. I mean, to the extent that any maiden/crone/mother triad can be one's own idea). Any other obscurities in need of elucidation? Just ask ...
This is an original work by the owner of this LiveJournal account. All rights are reserved.
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Date: 2007-04-28 12:50 am (UTC)Thanks for sharing on this lovely new holiday!
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Date: 2007-04-28 12:17 pm (UTC)Yay! Thank you. I've been working hard to get Alex's voice right -- also to make the shifts between formal and informal diction among the other characters seem reasonably natural. (On the one hand, they're the Greek pantheon; but on the other, they're a squabbling family whose day is past from Alex's perspective. I have a rather complex bit of backstory to get across about how powerful they are in different historical contexts over the whole novel: part of what's going on here is that Mark/Hermes is "stranded" in a context which renders him less powerful than he'd like to be. Not wanting to reveal that to his half-sister, he acts as if he's just playing herald conveying a suppliant.)
Thanks for sharing on this lovely new holiday!
You're welcome! What a lot of interesting stuff people made available -- I'm still sorting through it all, myself.