A Forest On Fire

In The Shade of The Rose Bushes

In the shade of the rose bushes, sitting placidly on a wooden moth-eaten bench, was a middle-aged woman, dressed in clothes as black as the sky above her. The garden in which she sat was bustling with people; those simply passing through or those also dining on the tables similar to hers passed her by or paid her no mind, as she was just another woman in their eyes.

A tea pot sat in the middle of the table, and she watched it as the smoke rolled from the spout and dissipated into the cool spring air. She seemed to be waiting. The crepe lying in front of her remained untouched on its plate. She could smell the sweet, glazed fruit as the scent wafted upward. Half of her face was hidden in the shade of her hat. She seemed to be waiting, but she did not seem to be impatient.

Then, a man stepped into her view. She lifted her head and smiled. The man before her was young, younger than herself. His hair was of the overwhelmingly common shade of light brown but was pleasing to look at nonetheless. His eyes were neither as light nor as dark as his hair and gave the appearance of being grey at the first glance, but, in reality, they were a dull blue. He had a naïve look about him, sort of child-like, and could have easily been mistaken for the woman's young son. This was the scene that took place:

The man sat across from the lady and waited for her to speak. She poured more tea into her own cup that had been drained and refilled several times before. She spoke.

"You're late."

The man looked startled in the way that only his innocent look could manage to pull off. He looked down. "I know. I'm sorry."

"I know what you are." The pleasantness never left her voice.

"I know you do."

She smiled and poured tea into his cup. "So, I want you to tell me something, dear Alexander."

He looked back up. She was staring intently at him.

"Where is he?"

He leaned forward as if being watched and whispered, "Who?"

Less calmly, she answered, "Don't be stupid, Deben. You know who I'm talking about. Vincent. Xaviour. Whatever you like to call him. Where is he?"

His innocent look dropped when the name hit his ears. "Vincent? He got what was coming to him, Maribelle."

"What he stole from you was not yours to begin with, and you know that, Deben. You know where he is. Where is he?"

The man called Alexander Deben thought for a moment. "What do you have?"

Maribelle seemed caught off guard. "What do you mean?"

"You can have your brother back, 'Belle, if you give me something in return. You know how we are." He grinned a toothy smile. "We like gifts."

Maribelle's sweetness had fled now, and she seemed to teeter on the idea of shouting at him. "I don't have to give you anything, Deben. Sparing you now is a gift enough, is it not?"

He leaned forward, nearly spilling his tea with his elbow, and growled in a low voice, "You think you're some strong monster-slayer, don't you?" He was gritting his teeth together, seething; his demeanor had changed completely. "The Volleh name is wasted on you, vou mispuck. You're only strong because you're too little of a threat to us to bother with."

"Am I?" People had begun to stare now. "Is that what your son thought?"

Alexander's face hardened. "He was young. He made a mistake. That was not you; it was him."

"Blaming your son's death on himself, huh, Deben?"

Alexander crushed the tea cup with his fist, but the pain of it did not seem to register in him.

The moon grew fuller in the sky, and, as it did so, people began to leave the garden. Soon, it was just them, and a drunk man sleeping on one of the benches. Deben did not answer her. He knew that it was not his son's blunder which had killed him; it was her and her own talent. He had been so certain that she would not win; he would've been so proud of his son of killing a fiend- the wife of his enemy, no less- from the Volleh family, that wretched line of hunters.

The beast was on his knees now. He could still feel the stock of the rifle striking the side of his face and the crunch of his bone as it made impact. Blood dripped onto the dusty ground. Maribelle grabbed the collar of his coat with rough, gloved hands and brought his face level with hers. Alexander spat at her face, and she wiped it off with the side of her glove. "I don't have to give you anything, Deben," she repeated. "Tell me where Vincent is."

A small clunk of metal diverted her attention. Behind her, a rusty, silver raven landed on the table, sending puffs of black smoke into the air with a small popping noise. Maribelle dropped Alexander and picked up her rifle. He still refused to speak. She stuck out her forearm, and the old raven hopped on, emitting a screeching, wheezing noise before it fizzled into a voice, which said:

"Maribelle, dear friend, I know you're busy at the moment with your children and all, but, well-" The woman, whom she recognized as Ruth Lucan, paused, "well, I don't know exactly how to say this, but I need your help. Would you- Would you allow me to stay with you? My children and I? It's Harry- I've explained him to you-" Ruth seemed to choke up. "I- well- I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Please send your answer. Quickly."

Maribelle Volleh sighed and recorded her response to her friend. Ballast flew off, and she then turned to Alexander, who remained on his knees before her. She coughed lightly and tucked some of her dark hair behind her ear. She knelt down to look at him and said, dangerously, "Stay out of this country and go back to the slums of that rathole you call a home, Chalinian krelaud." She thought, for a moment, to spit on his face like he did hers, but she refrained and stood up. What he did was a characteristic of the lowliness of his kind, and, after all, she wouldn't want her own children to do the same in the future.

The woman stood, again, and walked away, and he looked after her with all the malice of a captured wolf.