Spinning New Spirals

[Peredhil]

He enjoyed this day's work beside his father.

Working side by side on the fence line, they had fallen into a rhythm.

Stoop, scoop, heft, fit.

Each stone was nestled firmly into place before moving to the next.

The sun was hot on the linen shirt he wore, although it's wide sleeves caught any movement of air. The steady work was soothing, mindless.

The days spent digging in the fields, uncovering the stones, shaping them for their future resting place, those required more thought - and forced him to work alone.

 

Alone was not a good thing. Alone mean he could think about the dreams that haunted his sleep.

 

It was better to work beside the solid comfort of his Father, fitting the shaped stones, enjoying the breeze and bird's twittering, the blue of the sky and the light brown of the soil.

 

Together they worked their way steadily down the row, muscles bunching in unison.

Stoop, scoop, heft, fit.

The stones nestled into their allotted places, chosen for the pattern of their colors as well as their shapes, peasant beauty rising from necessary form.

 

Wistfully he wondered when he would be allowed to wear a sword while he worked.

[Peredhil]

Laying in bed he listened to the different patterns of breathing. His father drew deep breaths, held for a moment, then released to end in a faint snore. Mother's breathing was always nearly silent, except the occasional faint whistle of her nose. She hated whistle-nose. His littlest sister's breath was quick and harsh, like that of a captive bird nestled his one's hand.

The empty spot in the bed where his brother had lain still tore the rhythms of his life. Sometimes when the Voices were loud, he'd reach out to hold his brother, and find only a cold pillow to comfort him.

He strongly suspected the Voices had taken his brother away. They talked about his sister at times, but she was too fast for them, always moving. Even now her feet jiggled in her sleep, making the enormous quilt they all shared vibrate like ripples in a pond.

 

He'd started hearing the Voices about the same time as he'd begun growing hair other than his head. At first, he'd thought the hair caused the Voices, perhaps the white downy hair on his lip being the Voices that sighed in the wind, and the darker hairs under his arm that dampened so readily with sweat were the Voices which babbled in the water. The Voices that groaned in relief as they dug the rocks from the ground would have to be the dark curly hairs.

But he'd carefully and painfully plucked all the hairs one day, hidden alone in the trees. With the studious fascination of the child he was just outgrowing, he'd caught each hair in the fine cracks of a bent stick, then straightened it and pulled.

When he was all awash with red bumps and tears, he could still hear the Voices, laughing softly at him and whispering for him to join them in play.

 

And at night, the Voices were louder. When his parents slept, when the fire was banked, when his sister twitched, the Voices plucked at the thatching and howled under the eves. The Voices grumbled like Old Papa had in the mornings, but deep under the floor. They sang low melodies in the blue flames that crept between the ashes and lickered along the charred coals.

 

It was getting to where a boy simply couldn't sleep at night unless he was exhausted.

 

He hoped they'd dig stones tomorrow, or chop wood.

[Peredhil]

The beat of the sun made his hair hot to the touch. The back of his neck had that prickly warmth that let him know it was burning again.

He sighed.

Father and he were working with sharpened sticks to scratch the sunbaked ground. Sister followed behind, carefully dropping three seeds every two steps and covering them. He could hear her counting as she worked, "Step One, Two. One-Two-Tree. Patty-Pat, Patty-Pat. Step One, Two."

He wondered if she'd ever tire of the repetitious chant.

 

He scowled as he dug the point of his stick in the ground. At the next break he'd have to take the hatchet and sharpen it again. It was already dulling and splintered.

 

The Voices laughed and mocked their efforts. The Deep Voices pretended to scream in pain everytime he poked the soil. At first, he'd stopped, only to hear them howl in laughter at his delicacy.

For a while after that, he'd stabbed the ground viciously in vengeance at his embarrassment, but they'd jeered at his puny efforts. He's stopped when his angry hands had begun developing blisters beside the thick callouses they already bore.

 

He glared resentfully at the ground, feeling the heat, feeling the frustration, feeling hot tears welling up to wash trails down his dusty cheeks. He stood for a moment, stupidly watching them plop into the thirsty soil, a moment of dark instantly absorbed.

 

The Deep Voices has stopped laughing. He listened carefully, filtering out the winds and the shimmering heats and the screams of the forests. Yup. No ground.

 

Ignoring his Father's angry yell he stumped over to the bucket sitting in the shade and removed the slimed wooden lid. Carefully filling the carved ladle bowl, he moved out to where his stick lay.

 

"Please..." he begged the Deep Voices, straining to hear them. He threw the water out in an bridging arc to fall in the unscratched ground. He followed it in a moment, as his Father's horny hand set off sheets of white light in his sundazed head.

 

"...-good stupid boy. Wasting the water that I have to draw up you weaking. I wish you'd died instead of-" Father's voice cut off suddenly and he watched his Father charge back over to his stick, picking it up and attacking, stabbing erratically at the ground in a blind rage.

 

He sat with black dots weaving and dodging through his vision, knowing his weakness and feeling his uselessness.

 

Behind him his sister counted "One-Two-Three" while before him the ground was furrowed to the end of the row, turned back from a trench three inches deep.

 

He stared in wonder. He couldn't hear the Voices over the throbbing in his head though.

[Peredhil]

"One, Two!" His sister stopped behind him. "Move!" She commanded imperiously. He stepped aside with dragging feet. His head pounded viciously.

"One, Two, Three," she started down his row, dropping the seeds happily.

 

His father continued savaging the ground, which resisted mightily.

 

Staggering off to the shade, he rested his head in his hands, feeling the heat of his sun-pinked cheeks against the dirty callouses. Perhaps I'm going insane. He thought to himself. At the end of his hearing, the high Voices giggled and agreed. Shut Up and Go Away! he commanded them silently.

Surprisingly, they did. His father's stick struck so deeply into the ground it lodged and broke.

[Peredhil]

Lying in bed later, he couldn't sleep. His hands throbbed, as did his head. The blanket was too hot on his sunburnt skin, but he felt like he was freezing when he threw off the covers.

 

Mother's snore competed comfortable with Father's buzzing breaths. Sister's breath was quick and fast, like a bird or the frightened rabbit he'd once held. He remembered the look in its slotted eye, the feel of its heart beating so rapidly against his hands it had tickled. He remembered he'd cried when his Father had killed it, one more bit of meat to add to the pot.

 

He'd eaten it anyway. It was dead and he had to live. But he remembered and cherished the feel of the soft fur on his hands as he'd eaten.

 

His head hurt. He slipped out of bed, his nightgown dusting the floor as he padded on bare feet over to the night pot.

Water out. Water in. He slipped over and let the cold water trickle in drips down his throat. Too fast and his head would hurt more. Too slow and he'd choke, mistiming the breathing.

 

Reluctantly he viewed the large bed. The Voices had been quiet the rest of the day. Father had worked in stony silence, not even beating them when they started taking more and more breaks. He'd even played Sticks and Stones with Sister, letting her capture his sticks two games in a row, just to see her laugh.

 

He brooded over the rest of the day, finally realizing why he couldn't sleep. With a sigh a falling feather sigh, light and long, he moved over to the door. Peering through the rough cracks, he carefully eyed the yard outside. Several minutes passed yet he hesitated.

Finally he shrugged. If wolves, bears, or bandits came through the open door, they'd hopefully kill everyone and he wouldn't get in trouble.

Or so he hoped.

'Cause if Father found he'd opened the door at night, he'd kill him for sure.

Edited by: peredhil31 at: 11/20/02 7:01:30 am

[Peredhil]

Pulling a split log from the stack by the fire over to the door, he stood on it and worked the laces and thongs. Once untied, he was able to pull on the strings to move the bars.

 

Easing the door open the slightest crack, he slipped through. He had a sudden vision of himself, dirty-white nightgown outlined against the dark wood, a ghost in the night. The idea of being a ghost raised a smile to his lips, quickly extinguished.

A ghost or a target.

 

He quickly moved across the yard, walking carefully and lightly. Grabbing the slimy water bucket he drag-thumped it across the ground to the field. The little water in it sloshed and swirled, rendering it off-balance and nearly too heavy for him to move. He had no time to hate his weakness, he had to hurry. The cracked door condemned him every moment he was outside.

 

The air was chill and without motion. No Voices broke the silence; as he made his way even the birds and insects stilled their voices. He felt the heavy earth below him and the high moon above. All the world seemed still and watchful, waiting on him.

 

Thump-slosh. Thump-slosh. Thump-slosh.

 

At last he was in position. With a pristine clarity he saw the dark lines of the rows, all crooked except one. The seed bag lay discarded off to the side; he'd have to hang it up when he finished or Sister would be beaten again for carelessness.

 

He realized he was stalling.

 

Taking the ladle, he filled it. Summoning all his will, focusing his need, he slung it out over the field.

 

Nothing happened. The dark streak soon faded into the sunwashed white of the stripped earth. He considered crying in disappointment, or frustration, or rage, but couldn't decided which he felt, and instead fell silent inside.

 

"Please?" he whispered to the Voices. "Please come back?"

 

He dipped the ladle, feeling it scrap across the slimed bottom of the bucket. Trying to feel the thirst of the soil, the feel of water on a parched throat, he flung the water out in a moonlit arc and commanded, "Row!"

 

The soil rippled silently and his heart sung. The voices began singing triumphantly, softly and low not to distract him as he repeated the motion and the command until he was out of water and flushed with victory.

 

The field was nearly completely plowed, even straight rows, waiting for seed.

 

Moving the empty bucket back to the pump was easier. He even remembered to pick up the bag of seeds and hang it.

 

He slipped back inside and secured the door, buoyed by the softly singing support of the Voices, reveling in their sudden harmony. He dragged his wooden 'stool' back over to the pile of firewood.

 

He felt comfortably tired now. He could sleep.

 

Turning to the bed, he saw his Father's eyes open, watching him.

[Peredhil]

He froze.

 

His father slowly rolled to a sitting position, and then thrust himself erect with a grunt, never taking his eyes away.

 

He found himself pressing back against the door without remembering having moved. He quit looking at his father's eyes, which told him nothing, and watched his hands warily. He coolly estimated Father wouldn't kick when barefoot.

 

He felt his lip curl in helpless defiance as his father approached. It would be a victory of sorts not to move, to prove that he could not flinch even though he was weak and small.

 

It was with some surprise and consternation that he realized Father wasn't going to hit him. He moved silently to the side and watched as his father untied and opened the door.

 

Would he be exiled? Thrust into the night. He felt his breath catch in a sob as the thought of being thrust into the night hit his emotions harder than any fist.

 

Father passed through the door and into the night. A moment later, Father reached back through and yanked him through the door. Father dragged him without malice, feet bouncing every few feet as he tried to walk, feeling helpless in Father's grasp.

 

He trembled with terror as their destination came clear. His Brother's grave.

[Peredhil]

Mother sneaked out in the chill pre-dawn mornings to put flowers with trembling hands on the grave.

Sister no longer played on that side of the house.

Father ignored the weathered mound.

It was the only place the Voices wouldn't speak - and that had long frightened him more than anything else.

 

They arrived. Father threw him at the grave. The sweet smell of decaying flowers rose up and choked his nostrils, forcing an explosive sneeze.

He cried out at the sound and and scrambled to his feet, the Vision of bony hands with strands of tough rotting flesh thrusting through the soil to grasp -

Father slammed him back down with a slap.

 

"Lie there damn you!" His fierce whisper whipped harder than a fresh-cut stick.

"Did you even THINK of your Mother when you opened that door? Did you remember the things that come out at night?

Did you think your VOICES would save you?"

 

His look combined rage with pity.

 

"You think I didn't know?"

 

His voice was suddenly a shout, a torn cry from the heart, which pressed him back into the clammy soil.

 

"WHAT DO YOU THINK KILLED YOUR BROTHER!"

[Peredhil]

He lay there for a long while, feeling the chill of the ground seep into his body, matching the cold that'd invaded his heart.

Watching his father cry in silent heaving sobs that made his face blotchy red and his nose run.

Finally, he dared to move. Reaching out tentative hand, he asked with great daring, "Da?"

 

Father slapped his hand away, and with it the memories of a thousand rejections from the last two years slammed up into his throat; he couldn't breath for a long moment.

 

Then his Daddy swept him up into his arms and held onto him fiercely. He could feel the snot from his nose drip onto his hair, the tight pressure of his work-hardened arms making his ribs crack.

 

He wished he'd never let him go.

[Peredhil]

After a timeless moment, the hug relaxed to a loose grip. His father's was deep and difficult, occasionally catching and checking in a sob, then gusting in a racking sigh.

 

Finally his father rose, effortlessly lifting his slight body with him. Holding him astraddle one hip, almost absently, his father braced his feet apart, squared his shoulders bravely and drew a deep deep breath.

 

He expected a shout rather than the whisper that trickled regretfully from his father's lips.

 

"Mordecia. I'm sorry. You were right. Please come."

 

The Voices gave a Shout and snatching his words, fled away.

 

He clung to Father in a state of shock. An apology? This was a night of world-twisting events. He'd been carried into the house without realizing it.

 

Once he was under the warmth of the comforter, he began shaking with a suddenly realized cold. As he softened and warmed, sleep overtook him suddenly.

 

It was three days later that the Man without a Hat walked out of the wood's edge and stopped to watch them work the fields, bringing the Voices with him.

[Peredhil]

He'd never heard the Voices sing in harmony before. But they sang in a cautious joyous welcome.

 

Straightening from watering the rows, he looked around suspiciously.

 

Standing in the forest's edge was a Man without a Hat. Tall as father, but lean and weathered rather than brawny and sun-burnt. His hair was cut short as a child's, barely covering his ears, and was the color of wet dirt, rich dark brown.

 

Although he couldn't see him clearly, he knew he was looking and smiling at him. The Voices ran in circles around him, like a pack of dogs marking their Master's prey.

 

"Sir?" He was proud of how calm his voice sounded. "I think Uncle Mordecai is here." Father's face darkened to an adobe red and his face took on a curious tightness as he straightened ever so slowly and turned to face his brother.

 

He wondered for a moment how his father had known exactly where his brother was standing; there wasn't even an animal track in that part of the woods.

[Peredhil]

Uncle Mordecai waved absently; the Voices went silent. After all their clamor, the chirps of the birds and rustle of the breeze in the trees seemed somewhat muted.

 

He watched Mordecai walk forward. Father stood waiting solidly, jaw working absently.

 

His uncle stopped a few feet away, and stood smiling wryly.

 

Father spoke first.

"He died. Just like you said he would. We hated you for a while, killing him like that."

 

A spasm of pain shadowed Mordecai's face, he started to speak, hesitated, and fell silent.

 

His father continued in a strained distant voice, unnaturally calm.

"We swore we wouldn't let you kill another one, but he's Bad Seed just like you. You killed my oldest. You killed our parents. Are you going to kill him too?

"I give him to you instead."

His father turned and grabbed him, thrusting him roughly at his uncle.

He bounced a foot short of the lanky body and fell to the ground at his uncle's feet. His sister was crying in confusion.

 

By the time he stood up, his father had tucked his little sister under his arm and was striding with her back toward the house.

 

His uncle called after the retreating back.

 

"I DIDN'T KILL HIM! I was trying to warn you what could happen, what might happen.

He needed training, you can't stop it once it's star-"

 

His voice was cut off by the slam of the door.

 

The sun dazzled his eyes as he looked up at his uncle. His uncle's eyes remained fixed on the house with a strange pained hunger.

 

The Voices raged in anger around Mordecai at Father's cavalier treatment.

 

He licked dry lips. The sun felt hot on his hair and he could breathe deeply enough.

 

"Are you going to kill them?"

 

Mordecai looked at him without expression.

[Peredhil]

With great precision, Mordecai spoke.

 

"Shut. Up." The Voices stilled instantly.

 

He stood waiting, swaying slightly in the sudden absence of sound.

 

"No." Mordecai continued slowly, "No. I'm not going to kill them." His uncle looked at the house again. "I wouldn't kill your father. I owe him my life."

 

Mordecai looked back down at him.

 

"When the Voices burned our house, he dragged me from the flames. He hid me from the village, and fed me his own food until I could escape."

 

"He used to believe in me..."

 

Mordecai's voice trailed away. With a last sigh, his uncle reached down and took his hand.

 

"Let's go."

 

Being led away, he considered the soft moist hand holding his. Its contrast with his father's hard callouses, more than anything else so far, signalled the end of the life he'd known.

 

At least the Voices had shut up.

[Peredhil]

Later that day, they camped. The Voices were a constant quiet murmur, easily tuned out. His uncle walked broodingly through the woods, following the path of least resistence. He wondered if Uncle Mordecai knew where he was or even cared.

 

He spent the day trying to keep up with the long legs of his Uncle. That and keeping watch for the myriad monsters that he knew wandered the woods.

 

By the time they stopped, he was in a resigned numb funk, hardly noticing his blistered splintered feet.

 

He missed home. He missed his sissy. He missed Mom.

 

He almost missed his father.

[Peredhil]

It was the next day that Mordecai began to talk as they walked. He staggered on painfully, his attention more on his feet than the words of his uncle, but occasional phrases slipped through.

 

"...have to always be on guard... Master must first master himself... they're tricksy!... if your will is great enough, there are few limits ... they're jealous sometimes, beware of loving ..."

 

Finally he could walk no longer. Every step was squishy with blood. He stopped and and just stood, waiting for the beating he'd earned with his weakness.

 

"What's wrong boy?" Mordecai stood before him now, impatience interlacing his voice with concern. A long scarred finger lifted his chin.

He focused on the fine pores in the cheeks. How much smaller than his fathers they were. Small hairs shifted on the chin as the lips opened and closed. His vision seemed be come as if he looked up a well; blackness edged all but the moving face.

He could no longer hear the voice over the thrushing sound of blood in his too-hot ears.

 

He heard the Voices Shout as he fell into darkness.

[Peredhil]

"...Kind of idiot walks the skin off his feet without a comment?"

 

The Voices sang a choral reply.

 

"Oh. Well, then. At least he's not a complainer. I want you two to lift him until he heals."

 

Shrill high Voices sang a protest.

 

"Ahneck ddyllew Toan!"

 

A cool comfort spread across the soles of his feet. The relief was so great he spiraled down into blackness again.

[Peredhil]

He spent the next day walking on air. It was a pecularly slippery feeling, and he didn't really like it. It was better than the pain. It was strange to look through the shimmer layer of refracting air and see the raw wounds where he'd walked through the blisters into the flesh.

He tried poking at them with his finger, but it slid off to the side. The Voices on his feet laughed shrilly at his exploratory efforts, unbothered by such gross material things as fingers.

 

His uncle winced in sympathy at the sight of his soles.

 

He was starting to like Uncle Mordecai.

[Peredhil]

He wasn't sure how long it had been. The world was much bigger than he'd ever imagined.

 

After a few days of walking on air, he'd wondered why Uncle Mordecai didn't fear the night. Or the voices. Or anything as far as he could see.

 

He wondered what it was like to live without fear.

 

He wondered how Mordecai was hunting. Every few days, they'd find a dead animal. Freshly killed with no wounds. A rabbit, a shrew, a squirrel, once even a deer.

 

It was more meat than he'd ever eaten in his life.

 

He began to listen to the Voices carefully, trying to understand their constant murmur to Uncle Mordecai.

[Peredhil]

It was more than a week of travel before Uncle spoke of the Voices again, instead of to them.

 

"Boy." He looked at Mordecai warily, well learned caution springing instant to the fore.

 

"I know you hear them. But which ones..." He realized that he wasn't being spoken to, he was being spoken about. As long as people talked to themself, they usually didn't hit.

 

"..." The Words struggled up Uncle Mordecai's throat and writhed from between his stiff lips. The Voices Shouted and then fell silent. He could feel them attending carefully.

 

"I want you to listen carefully. You should be able to hear different Voices if you try. They may not be loud, but try to pick them out from the sounds of bird, and the leaves moving." Mordecai spoke slowly and carefully, looking at him with great concentration to ensure he understood. This was important, but it made no sense. He'd tried NOT to hear the Voices!

 

Staring at Mordecai, he swallowed through a suddenly dry mouth and nodded.

 

Mordecai took several deep breaths, like Papa before he lifted a stump, then barked a short Word. The Voices all sang dischordantly in protest, and Uncle's face beaded with sweat as he strained at nothing. Finally the Voices chimed in sullen assent.

 

"Tell me," panted Mordecai, "when you can hear a Voice." He raised his hand and began stabbing it in short jerky motions. At the descent of each beat, a Voice sang, starting with the low Deep Voices from the hidden heat underground, and continuing up to the high Wild Voices of the coldest air. With each beat, he nodded to his Uncle.

 

When the final Voice sang, Mordecai made a throwing gesture and the Voices crowded and swirled around angrily.

 

"Please, I'm afraid," he begged the Voices with trembling words. They touched him reassuringly and settled.

Mordecai sighed and replied, "You don't have to fear them, they're gone now. They may be angry with me for a bit, and I regret rushing into it. I wanted to you speak or nod when you heard a Voice in your range, not in time with my hand."

 

He stared. Uncle didn't know the Voices were still here. Mordecai didn't hear them unless they shouted. He thought he was a liar. He began to speak, but Mordecai waved him to silence.

"It's alright. Just as well. You have the Talent, but you have a long way to go before you'll be able to learn the language of binding."

[Peredhil]

After failing to correct Uncle on that first occasion, he was afraid of the beating he'd receive if he corrected him later. He saw how Mordecai forced the Voices to do things, and while they couldn't stay away from him, they resented him too - especially the high Singers.

 

When Mordecai was asleep, he'd whisper to the Voices, and try to listen to them. The longer he travelled with Uncle, the more it seemed he could almost make out the words. It was so strange, it was when he let the sounds go out of focus, like watering eyes of the mind, that they started making sense. But if he suddenly listened, they were just another note singing.

 

After the testing, Mordecai had forgotten his slippery shoes. Uncle hadn't noticed when he asked them to come back, paying with heavy breathing and soft whistling to pay their price.

 

It was the hard high Voices of the stars who told him of the town they were approaching. Could that be why Mordecai was traveling more and more slowly?

[WrenWind]

so glad to see you add to this story. *hugs* i wait impatiently for more

[Peredhil]

"We'll be at a town soon." He started in surprise. It had been days since Uncle had spoken aloud, and for a moment his speech was merely uncouth noise, the grunts of a animal. He realiezed he was staring stupidly, with his mouth open. Uncle Mordecai gently reached out his long fingers and tipped his lower jaw shut.

 

"We'll be at a town soon," Uncle repeated slowly, looking into eyes for understanding. He nodded, a convulsive jerk of the head. "People like us aren't welcome in towns, although they'll seek us out at night. They fear us. We hear the Voices, but they only see results. And sometimes, the Voices do things for which we are blamed." He nodded again, more slowly. It was hard to focus on the meaning of the words, the syllables kept sliding smoothly like the stream over the sounding stones.

 

He wondered if his voice would ever sound smooth like that. He either croaked or squeaked since the voices came.

 

With a final look, Uncle sighed and turned to lead the way again.

 

He went back to listening to the Voices gabbling.