In the hollow of the white hazel, it had sat for years. That's where Rychaintelo found herself, kneeling before it. A slight breeze. A song of rustling came from the white gramophones of winter lilies. Crows loiter overhead amongst three moons. In the hollow of a white hazel was an owl carved from wood. The pocket sized edition bird was nestled in bedding and bloodstained cloth. The sun had risen proper by now. It crested over the Rusburgh Range crowning it in a leonine mane. Flocks of birds rose from the trees like ribbons unfurling from the knot in Rychaintelo's stomach. The tree sat upon a small island that bulged from the centre of a quagmire. Something stirred in the water which histamined the air. She felt uneasy, whether it was the stench of iron in the air, or the blood welling in her throat. The tension was heavier than air. The fever pitch was struck out of the park. She sat the blood onto the sod as she picked out the owl from its nest. The quagmire was flush with crisp chirping. Lost in the greens, penny sized coqui frogs pranced on lily pads. Sprigs of water caltrops in the water. Stalks of reeds in the water. There was no one here anymore. None, except for what sat frog-perched on the bank. A baby girl in blue dress with dog eared book in one hand and basket in the other. Rychaintelo pulled up beside her, fixing her trousers. It's quiet now in the summers. The coqui, tiny and bullet black eyed, soundtracked the landscape. There was a queer stench here, Rychaintelo couldn't place it. It came from the quagmire, but she had no intention of wading deeper into the waste. The little girl, with her book of aqua fauna and swamp life, pulled herself up with the tree's outstretched branch. Rychaintelo wiped the muck from the girl's knees with gloven hands, fixing her dress where it bunched. With the same gloved hands she drew the girl's gaze up with her as she stood back up. Six foot three, Rychaintelo in her black uniform looked like a wandering omen. Alijax squinted through the sunlight at her big sister with hands on little hips. She hadn't seen it till Rychaintelo had felled the curtains with her cloak over Alijax, smothering her. The cold metalwork pressed on her skin. Her long swantailed uniform dipped in the sod. She pulled back, leaving a little parcel of a kiss on Alijax's forehead. Iron links and belts wrap the stomach and legs. A high collar around a flowery shirt, white and plain. A cloak hung from the neck. A wide brimmed hat sat the head with an image of shifting stars in the brim. A curved shotel sheathed to the left. A talisman graven with runes around the neck. A red wolf on a white field of snow on her left breast, the image of The Black Imperators. From the perch of a crouch, the omen laid more kisses on little Alijax's head then sighed. The forest grew darker beneath the canopy of trees. The brace of red trees which surrounded the quagmire seemed like a bulwark for nightmares. A shifting darkness lurked beyond them.
Rychaintelo wore a mushroom cap; middle parted, dead, beneath her hat. A head like an almond peeked by a forehead crowned in dull brown. Pursed, unflushed lips where stained cobbles of merlons peeped unmanned by the curtains. Long locked, though at moments spread eagle. Lopsided dimples and a wry, ticklish smile dressed the face. Cheap shades of custard-blues and deep afro-sharps filled the eyelids and her cheeks. A cut across the forehead. A gash on the chin. Wan and waxed, a face of pimples and craters, like the surface of the hoisted moons. A tiny nose between thin, thrice-wept eyes. Alijax had the same dresscode, though she traded a boyish choir boy haircut for long brown kepts. She had porcelain skin, as The Black Imperator once had. Twenty-eight years is a long time. Alijax, of a single digit, of little limbs, and of smooth skin, was still untarnished by the bludgeoning senescence of being.
"As it was, are you a sweeting thing" said Rychaintelo, stroking Alijax's cheek and reaching for the basket "are we content?"
"Ah" Jerked Alijax, reaching for the basket with clumsy hands. She took a moment, then pulled back her hands "See... little babies. Oh, babies. Oh, so delicate. I've myself myself, and oh, and of, aren't they so terribly cute."
YOU ARE READING
The Weirwolf of Kasper Fonda
Short StoryCursed are those who speak its name... An abandoned daughter born from ritualistic rape is searching for her absent mother, and searching to silence a bell. There is a ringing in her ears, the ringing of the bell of vengeance. The silence she seeks...
