Potenkiah, the deathgiver

Chapter 2.1

Bridget ran into her room as if her life depended on it. Her breath was caught in her throat above the violent beating of her heart.

“Child!”

“I know, I know, nanna,” she replied, panting.

She quickly discarded her robe and swimsuit. She had to change for her next class and wasn’t about to be scolded in public for being late twice in the same day.

Bertaliz stepped closer to help. In front of a mirror, Bridget hopped into her underwear.

“When did you get that bruise?”

Drat, she’s seen it. Bridget turned around and stared over her shoulder, searching her reflection: the bruise was still there, purple and tinted with different greens, over one of the bumps that started on her shoulders and faded as they reached the waist, as evidence that her wings were hidden inside her body, in the sibinah, the waterproof pocket that sheltered them.

“I was practicing my somersaults and landed wrong, I guess.”

“And what about this one?”

“There’s another one?”

She stretched her neck searching for the mark. Bertaliz put her finger over one of the erolas, and the pain almost made her jump.

Pluck me!

“It will hurt when you try to pull out your wings, child.”

But she had to, her chambers where the only place where she could practice her somersaults with her wings in plain view. Bertaliz pulled the dress over her head and urged her to put her arms through the sleeves.

“I’ll be more careful during training,” she assured her.

Part of it consisted in learning how to fall without breaking her back or a leg, “With style, ladies,” their trainer would say, and by style he meant rolling over the mattress following the momentum of inertia. Other than that, training consisted in keeping balance after landing on a narrow surface, getting ready for takeoff, and controlling flight direction… all this without using their wings; in their place, a huge trampoline sent her into the air long enough for her to position her body, before gravity did the rest.

Bertaliz sighed, doing the last buttons of her dress.

“I know, I didn’t calculate properly,” she said while she stepped into a pair of heeled sandals. “Can you help me with the hair?”

She was a mess.

“What’s an earthworm, nanna?”

“Where did you hear that, Princess?”

“Someone called me that. By the tone I could tell it was offensive, but I want to know how bad was the insult.”

“An earthworm is a pale, tubular invertebrate.”

“Tubular, of cooourse,” she huffed. Now she understood. Bridget did not have a single curve yet. She was seven beltas old and resembled a young potted plant, and she appeared to be famished, like an earthworm. “How long until I have breasts and hips like Annie, nanna?”

“Your development is perfectly normal for your age, Bridget, child. Don’t listen to cruel words. Whoever said that insult is surely rude, insecure and ignorant.”

“Elisa Bandier…”

“Elisa, the human?”

I said that outloud?

Ever since the human visitor had joined her class, she had found the way to make her feel underdeveloped. Because Elisa, who was fourteen years old, was a young lady who had round breasts and curvy hips while Bridget, if not for her dress and braided hair, could have been mistaken for a boy.