Fall Ceramic DM - Final Round Judgment Posted!

[Macbeth]

Ceramic DM Fall 2004, Round 3.1: Piratecat vs. Macbeth
Words
By Sage LaTorra


His words tumbled out, a trickle, a stream, a river, a flood. Ebbing and flowing, pulling you under and washing you to a welcome shore. That's how I remember him, not as a person, but as the stories he told, the phrases that came down like rain, like snow, like hail. Looking back now, it's easier to see it. I'm older now, and I can see how it all happened. And even when I can see how it happens it doesn't make his stories any less wondrous, his words any less magical.

Don Diego first arrived in that dry summer, in San Fierro, in our dreams, as an entertainer. He stayed as a legend, or maybe a virus. I still haven't figured out which.

He looked so absurd that first day. The first time he walked into our ruined streets, the roads neglected by the needs of subsistence farming, he looked like a story book, too colorful to be part of our faded village, too alive to be in the dead Mexican town I called home. He had a smile out of place in the dust, a manner alien to our daily death. And the lute... the lute wasn't broken, broken or busted like all the heirloom instruments that sat in the village houses.(1)

I was young, that was my excuse. I was too young to know better, that's why I did it.

He sat down on the old bench, the one we might have sat on if we weren't working in the fields, and waited for somebody to notice. He was so sure of himself. Maybe he knew what would happen, I can only guess, but it seemed like he could see it all laid out in front of him, a flat ocean waiting for him to make waves.

I was the first one to talk to him. I had been working with Papa on the field, and I cam back to the house for a drink. He was just sitting there, waiting. I was too curious, that was my problem, and I walked up to him and studied him. Then I did the one thing that started it all: I spoke.

“Senior, who are you?”

He opened his mouth, and what came out wasn't human. It was beyond human, purer then human, a voice run through a filter, purified into a perfect sound. You couldn't not listen.

“Well, My child, I am Diego, and I am here to tell you a story.”

Stories were only for bedtime. This was special, to get to hear a story, to stay out of the fields for fun.

“Si, Senor.”

“Once, long ago, there was a boy much like you, a young prince...” That's how that first story started, that original sin. The first one was always the best. I can still hear the melodious flow of words that he spun, the perfect cascade of people, places, things I had never even dreamed of. The story soared over a mystical land, the prince met every challenge placed before him, and I was enthralled. “And that, my child, is how it happened.”

When Diego stopped talking, I realized how late it was, how angry my father would be. I told him thank you, like my father had taught me to, and ran back to the fields.


That night Diego stayed with the Lopez's, a guest of a village that couldn't even support itself. I told all the other children about Diego's story, and we decided to sneak into town from the fields the next day and listen. I couldn't have seen the end, so my mistakes can be forgiven.

We all did it. We all made our little excuse, me and Pablo and Juan and Julia and all the other children, and we met Diego sitting just as he had the last day, on the old bench.

Our little feet quaking with fear of the stranger, making a low rumble of impending doom, we walked towards Diego. I had thought I would have to ask for a story, but Diego spoke before I could form words.

“Hello, my children. Have you come for a story?”

“Yes, senor Diego.” I was the only one brave enough to speak.

“Sit down then. And listen to the story...” The words flowed, melted, froze, evaporated into our ears, spread out across the area around the bench, and drained back into Diego, drawing us all in with them. This time the story was full of magic, a wizard giving life to a village by bringing a storm, a special storm of water that would fall, then walk to where it was most needed, one drop at a time. “... and the lord was satisfied with the harvest, the village was allowed to stay, and the crops grew taller then all of you stacked together.”

“All of us together, Don Diego?” The story had given the others enough confidence to speak.

“Even taller, my child. Now, would you like to make the story come true?”

Rain was all our village needed. A chorus of “yes” almost as deep as Diego's own voice came from all of us children.

“Then here is what you will do. You will all go home, and you will find the plant that grows closest to each of your houses, and no matter what plant that is, you will take a leaf of it, and spit on it, and put it under your pillow. And we will see what comes tomorrow, my children.”



It looked like the rain drops could have walked off the leafs. The storm had given the village life, it had given life to the plants, and thereby given us life. Each and every leaf looked like a raindrop had walked onto the very tip of it and sat down.(2) It might have been coincidence, but I still don't think it was. The children of the village, all of us, we knew what it meant. It meant Diego was right. And we told our parents.

The day after the rain, after we had ensured that every plant was growing again, the adults gave us the day off, since the harvest looked so promising, and all of the children went to see Don Diego again. He had spent everyday since he arrived on that same bench.

But this time our parents came too. We told them of what Diego had done, and they wanted to meet this miracle man. From what we told them you would have thought Diego walked on water. In fact, you never know, he might of.

My father was the first to speak to Diego.

“Senor?”

“Si. What is it?”

“Did you bring the rain?” Diego's voice had startled him. He spoke like I would have. Diego was good with kids, so he made sure everybody seemed like a child around him.

“We all brought it, senor.”

This must have been too much for my father. I think he had expected Diego to be a simple story teller, he expected him to not take credit for the rain. But Diego knew what he did. “Then prove it. Do something else.”

“You doubt me?” I had never heard that kind of edge on Diego's voice, except when he acted like the villain in a story. “Senor, I have done nothing but help you, and you doubt me? Tonight I will prove it to you senor. Tonight you will be able to farm the fields as if it was day.”

“Then it will be a good night, Don Diego.” I remember hating my father for that. Hating him for doubting Diego. He just turned and left after that. I wish now that he had stayed.

Diego tool up where he had left off. “Today's story, my children, today's story is about an evil king, and his mage, who might have saved the kingdom, if not for the king's stubbornness. It all started with...” The story wove into our ears, danced with our minds. The words hooked our ears and Diego reeled us into his net like a fisherman. The story dove through caves, and magic was done, and the mage made the sun shine in the depths of the night, and the king was stupid and bull headed. “... and the mage was right, and the king was ashamed. All the people told the king to go away, told him he should have done as the mage said. They all said he should have trusted his magician.”

Diego took a deep bath, and even his breath was melodious. “Now my children, do you want to make the story true?”

We all wanted Diego to be right. I think I wasn't the only one who hated his parents for doubting Diego. It might not seem like much now, but story and a day off from Diego's rain was more then our parents had given us in our whole lives. A little more timidly then last time, we all murmured our agreement.

“Then here is what you will do. Tonight, before you go to sleep, you will take an ember from the fireplace, and throw it out of your window.”

“But won't the embers burn us, Senor Diego?”

“Yes they will, my children. And it will hurt, it will indeed, but you must do it for the magic to work.”


That night the better part of the village went to bed with burned palms. Even as I stirred in my bed, trying to forget the pain in my hands, I saw brilliant flash. Immediately I ran to the window, sure that Diego had worked his magic.

And I was right. Diego did it.

All of us, all of the children, ran out and played in the light, even as Diego's little sun faded. It only lasted a few hours, but we all played in the dirt and dust, kicking up brilliant red clouds into the glow of Diego's sun.(3)


The next weeks were different. The adults knew about Diego's powers now, the magic his cascading words could work. They let all of us, all of the children, spend the days listening to Diego's stories. Diego brought more rain, and richer soil. But he also made other things. His stories had sneaky faeries, and he would bring them to life too. Diego wanted all of his story to come to life, and little things like faeries, mystical plants, and some odd creatures came to life too. But as long as the crops grew, it didn't matter to the adults.

Then came Burro. Diego's story for that fateful day was stranger then before. It had a mad man who made animals that angered the Elders of his village. It was darker, and the words cast a shadow over the entire village.

We did what Diego said that night, as always, since the adults would do anything to keep he crops growing.

And the next morning the Burro was in the fields.

He had been minor character in the story, just another creation of the madman, a half donkey, half dolphin creature that would eat anything, just to keep others from having it. And now he was in the fields.

When my father found Burro, he had already eaten enough to ruin a quarter of the harvest. Burro just stood there, dumbly staring at my father, and chewing away at another corn stock.(4)

The entire village was furious. With what Burro had destroyed, we were almost back to where we had been before Diego arrived. Not quite as bad, not as nearly starving, but still worse off then if Burro had stayed in the story.

My father marched me off to the bench, to go to talk to Don Diego. He was mad, his face red like the sun Diego had put in the sky.

For the first time since he arrived, Diego wasn't on the park bench. It was empty. It was odd to see it again. With Diego there, you always focused on him, but without him, you realized how much the area around the bench had changed. The trees were green, a color unknown in the village before Diego arrived. That's the one change I'll always remember the most. Diego made the night into day, made the village come alive, but it was never so striking as seeing green trees in the village.(5)

We looked all over the town that day. It was if Diego knew we were going to come after him. Like he knew we were going to look for him. Maybe he knew we wouldn't be happy, but I don't think he was sorry. Not after that night.

Nobody had seen Diego all day, and I went to bed for the first time without doing one of Diego's little ceremonies, without bringing his story to life. After my father had tucked me in, I heard Diego's voice. I thought about moving, but the comfort of my sheets was too great, and before I knew it Diego had started a story, and I didn't want to move anymore.

“Listen, my child, to the story of a little boy, much like you...” I let the ebb and flow of his words pull me under, let him drown me in the story. I listened as the little boy, the nephew of the mage from the other story, took vengence on the king. The words were forming a dagger in my hand as the boy made his way into the king's bedroom with his knife, and made it all right. I words wrapped my hands, clenched my fists around the imaginary blade. The boy fixed it all, proved that the mage was right, just by killing the king. “... and with the bloody knife still in his hand, the boy knew it was all made good. The mage would be the new king, and everything would be better. Now, my child, do you want to make the story real?”

I was afraid. I knew that Diego had hurt the harvest, but I also had heard Diego's stories. His words ran over me, and all I could think of was his other stories. How much I had loved his other stories, and how great it was for them to come true. “Yes” I mumbled from beneath my covers.

“Then reach beneath your pillow. I left a knife there. You can work your magic. Your father is wrong, he is like the king in the story. And you, you are like the young boy. I always said you were like the young boy.”

That was it. I was mesmerized. I couldn't fight back, so I did as he said, and it was all over, my child. That was how my story ended, with me killing my own father, and spending the rest of my life drowning in a sea of regret. So please don't make it real again, my child. Let Don Diego's story end here, my child.

(1)Don diego when he first eneters the village.

(2)The Rain Diego rbought with his story.

(3)The sun Diego created in the night sky, from his magical story.

(4)Burro, another magical thing from Diego's stories, eating the crops.

(5)The empty bench where Diego once sat.

 

[Sialia]

You have each in your own way brought tears to the eyes of this little blue flumph.

I am profoundly glad that I do not need to judge this competition.

As far as I am concerned, you are both completely magnificent.

Humble thanks for stories that not only used the pictures, but which exceeded them, and made them better.

 

[Maldur]

Sialia you are right, both stories are wonderfull. We should make thyem write a book together, and let you do the illustrations

 

[Graywolf-ELM]

Arrgh, Macbeth spun a good story. Piratecat aluded to Arcade and Dylrath from his story hour. I'm really glad I'm not judging here. I like the originality and finality of Macbeth's story, but I think the images were used slightly better in Piratecat's story, and the character's call to me.

Good luck with the judging. good luck to both writers.

GW

 

[Piratecat]

So folks know: I wrote my entry with the expectation that the story would be judged on its own merits, with no knowledge of storyhours or other characters needed. If it can't stand on its own, independent of source material, then it shouldn't be here.

 

[Berandor]

I didn't get the allusions, and I still don't really get them. So no fear. (Well, maybe a little, because Macbeth's story is quite ... well, leave that for the judgement)

 

[FireLance]

Ceramic DM Round 3.2: FireLance vs. Rodrigo Istalindir

Nighttime Wanderings

Jim rubbed his eyes wearily. It was the third night in a row that he had stayed up past two o' clock, trying his hardest to cram legal precedents and financial best practices into his tired brain. It had seemed a good idea at the time, to take just a year off his job to pursue an advanced dual degree in Law and Financial Analysis. He had been so confident that he would be able to do it, but now, the examinations loomed and he still wasn't able to make anything he had learned stick in his mind. He surveyed the piles of books and papers with mild dislike. If he passed his examinations, he would take great pleasure in carting the whole load of them to the small storage shed in the back garden and leaving them to rot.

Jim's stomach rumbled, and he realized that he had skipped dinner. With a sigh, he set down his books and went to the kitchen, hoping to find something to eat. With a sinking feeling, he vaguely recalled that he had neglected to go shopping, too. The results of his search were disappointing. All he could find was four peppers, one orange, one green, one red and one yellow (1). He had originally bought them to try out a recipe he had found for "four pepper casserole", but had then got too caught up with his studies. Red, orange, yellow, green. There really ought to be a blue pepper too, he thought.

He glanced at his watch. It was too late to call for a pizza. He looked out the window and saw that it was raining heavily. That would make a trip to the convenience store extremely unpleasant. Besides, that would take time away from his revision. He turned back to the peppers. Red, orange, yellow, green. Best to do it in order, he thought, reaching for the red pepper.

He returned to the study, munching the red pepper. The spicy taste set his tongue on fire and warmed his blood, making him feel more alert and alive. With a sigh, he settled down to face his piles of books and papers again. He wondered if it was worth this much effort, just to be a multi-classed accountant/lawyer/financial analyst. He smiled. It had been years since he had thought of himself as a multi-classed anything. Once, he had been Jimalleon Veramocor, the elven fighter/mage/thief, infiltrator and agent of the Elven Imperial Navy. But that had been a long time ago...

"Jim, me lad, where have you been all these years?" a familiar, jovial voice boomed from behind him. Jim turned round in disbelief. Standing there was a man with the head of a hippo, a highwayman's three-cornered hat perched on his head, holding a flintlock pistol in his right hand (2).

"George?" Jim asked weakly, "What are you doing here?" This was not possible. George was a creation of his own childhood imagination, an amalgamation of the personality and mannerisms of a character from his favorite book with the name and face of a hippo puppet from his favorite show, made for a game that he used to play, where hippo-men sailed between the stars in magical ships.

"Searching for the Blue Pepper, of course. Isn't that what you're here for, too?" George said. Jim shook his head in confusion, and George stepped closer, a look of puzzlement on his face. "Surely you've heard? It's the talk of every tavern in every spaceport. The Dark Lord has stolen the Blue Pepper for his own nefarious purposes. If you're not looking for it, what are you doing in his lair?"

"Dark Lord? Lair? Blue Pepper? What are you talking about?" Jim babbled, "Why am I talking to you? You're not even real! You're just some hallucination. Yes, that's right - you're the product of a tired mind already weakened by stress, hunger and insufficient sleep. That red pepper might have something to do with it, too."

"Ah, poor lad. The Dark Lord must have confused your mind," George muttered, "I'm sorry to do this, Jim-boy, but you'll thank me for it later." With that, he brought his fist round in a tremendous punch which knocked Jim off balance and left him sprawling on the floor.

George leaned over him. "Are you feeling better, Jim? Thinking clearly now?" Jim nodded and rubbed his cheek. That punch had hurt. A dream couldn't be that painful, could it?

"So what say you, Jim? Shall we join forces to look for the Blue Pepper? The Dark Lord wouldn't stand a chance against the two us. Come with me, lad, and the bards will sing of the exploits of Long George Platinum and his mate Jim for years." He reached down a hand to help him up.

Jim hesitated. He felt vaguely tempted, but he had examinations to prepare for. He couldn't afford to waste any time. "I'm sorry, George," he started to say, but then he saw something behind George that chilled his blood. A sinister black cloak loomed above him, billowing ominously.

"Jim, is something wrong?" George managed to ask, before it engulfed him. "Jim, me lad, help! Help me!" George's muffled cries came from within the dark shape, which shuddered and shook as he struggled against it. But, paralyzed by fear, Jim could only watch and listen as George's struggles and cries grew steadily weaker and eventually stopped.

There was a moment of silence and stillness, and then the dark bundle in front of Jim slowly unwrapped itself. Jim's muscles finally responded, and he scrambled to his feet. As he turned to run, a cold, mocking voice whispered in his ear, "Why run, my son? You cannot escape. You belong to me, now."

"No!" Jim screamed, and awoke with a start. He was seated at his desk in the study. There was no sign of George or any black, cloak-like monsters anywhere. It had been a dream, then. The scariest thing he could see was one of his books, lying open in front of him at the chapter, "Mergers and Acquisitions". He was starting to really dislike his books. Perhaps, he thought, he would put each of them through a shredder before dragging them to the garden shed and leaving them to rot.

Jim was still hungry, and he stood up and went to the kitchen again. There were three peppers left, the orange, the yellow and the green. Orange follows red, he thought, as he reached for it. This one tasted warm and slightly sweet. In a way, it reminded him of peppermint. He had always loved peppermint, especially around Christmas...

He was passing by his bedroom on his way back to the study when he heard a soft giggle and the sound of rustling coming from within. He peered into his bedroom, and his eyes widened in surprise. Someone had left a pile of white and silver tinsel on his bed. He stepped into his bedroom to take a closer look, and noticed a pair of eyes staring out at him warily from inside the pile of tinsel (3). "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" Jim asked.

"Shhh!" a boy's voice came from inside the pile of tinsel. "Not so loud. The Dark Lord will hear you. Then, he'll find me, and he'll make me tell him where I hid the Blue Pepper."

"Dark Lord? Blue Pepper? I'm dreaming again, aren't I?" Jim said with a sigh.

A man's voice suddenly came from outside the room, "Son? Where are you?"

"Now you've gone and done it!" whispered the voice in the tinsel, "He's heard you and now he's going to find me. What am I going to do?" The eyes looked worried for a moment, then brightened again. "Look, it's your fault he's found me, and you're just going to have to fix things. I've hidden the Blue Pepper some place that he will never think of searching for it, because he would never think that anything important could be there. I'll distract him, and you go get it and keep it away from him. Alright?"

"But you haven't told me where you hid it," Jim protested.

"I can't tell you now, he might hear me. Don't just stand there, hide! Quickly!"

Jim was utterly confused by everything that was going on, but he stumbled behind a cupboard anyway.

"Daddy, is it time to decorate the tree yet?" the voice said.

"Don't be silly, it's nowhere near Christmas," Jim muttered.

"Don't be silly, it's nowhere near Christmas," the man's voice echoed, sounding rather cross. Jim stiffened. He recognized that voice. "Have you finished your homework yet? It's almost time for dinner, you know." Jim could hear the man's footsteps now. They were almost outside his room. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped. Jim braced himself for what was coming. "What's this tinsel doing on your bed? Jim!"

"Dad!" Jim shouted, and woke up again. Once more, he was seated at his desk in the study. This time, the book in front of him was open to the chapter, "Laws of Inheritance". His dislike for his books flared again. He had the sudden urge to burn them after shredding them, and then throw the ashes into the garden shed.

Breathing deeply, he counted to ten and calmed himself down. Was it just coincidence that he had two dreams in a row about some mysterious blue pepper and a dark lord who turned out to be his father? There was only one way to find out. He walked back to the kitchen and stared at the two remaining peppers. Yellow or green? After a moment's hesitation, he picked the yellow one. He couldn't take the chance that it wouldn't work if he went out of sequence.

The yellow pepper was dry and hot, like a desert wind on his tongue. Perhaps that was a good sign, he mused. He had read somewhere that wisdom came from the desert...

Jim paced around the kitchen. Nothing was happening. "Hello?" he asked, "Are any dreams, hallucinations or childhood memories going to make an appearance? I'm waiting here."

A low, throaty chuckle sounded from the kitchen door. "You always were an impatient one, weren't you, Jim? Well, you'll have to wait a little bit longer, I'm afraid. These old bones have never moved very fast, and the years have only made them slower." Walking through the kitchen door was an old tortoise about four feet tall, leaning heavily on a staff. "Remember me, Jim?"

"Aristortle?" Jim asked.

"Pity," the tortoise said, "I was hoping you'd have forgotten. Then I could have given myself a new name that didn't sound like it was created by a thirteen-year-old who thought that puns were the highest form of art. Which, as I recall, that was you were when you named me. But anyhow, yes, it's me, Aristortle. In the flesh. Or, to be more precise, in the image."

"So tell me, O wise and all-knowing tortoise sage Artistortle," Jim said, "Why am I having these hallucinations, or dreams, or whatever? What is the Blue Pepper? Is my father really the Dark Lord? What on earth is going on?"

Aristortle was quiet for a while. "You've been very busy lately, haven't you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You should know better than to expect me to give a straight answer to any question. You created me, after all. But my question was rhetorical. You have been busy. College, grad school, a job in the bank, overtime, two promotions in five years, golf, gym membership, and now, advanced degrees in law and financial analysis."

"There's nothing wrong with keeping busy and being a useful member of society," Jim said, "My father always said..."

"And that's the crux of it, Jim," Aristortle interrupted, "Your father was not a bad man. Far from it. He was responsible, hard-working, serious, sensible. You are all these things too, and it is good that you are. But you are not your father. There is another side of you that you have neglected for too long, and it is doing everything it can to reclaim you tonight."

Aristortle turned, and hobbled towards kitchen door. "You have a choice, Jim. You can dismiss everything that has happened tonight as nothing more than a series of unimportant dreams. You can go back to your regular life and you will still be happy. But if you do decide to continue searching for the Blue Pepper, here is one final clue. Remember this, Jim?"

Aristortle gestured towards the dining room table, and the image of a smaller turtle lying on top of a larger one appeared on it (4).

"Turtle Mountain, and Turtle Temple on top of it," Jim said.

"Correct. Find it, and you find the Blue Pepper," Aristortle said, and he and the image faded away. Jim was left alone in the kitchen, staring at the last pepper, the green one, lying in the bowl on the table.

He knew ought to get back to preparing for his examination. It was the responsible thing to do. It was what his father would have done.

But you are not your father. There is another side of you...

He had no time to go chasing after some Blue Pepper that might not even exist.

Ah, poor lad. The Dark Lord must have confused your mind...

But he had to admit that he desperately wanted to.

Come with me, lad, and the bards will sing...

Like how he desperately wanted to lock his books and notes away some place where he would never see them again.

Some place that he will never think of searching for it...

Like in the storage shed in the back garden.

He would never think that anything important could be there...

All the books and games and toys he had as a child were there.

Jim, me lad, where have you been all these years...

Including the wooden turtle pull toy that was his inspiration for Turtle Mountain.

Find it, and you find the Blue Pepper...

In a flash, Jim ran out of the kitchen and into the back garden. The storage shed was a dilapidated, rusting structure. The rain had stopped, but had left deep puddles around it that added to its forlorn and abandoned air (5).

Jim splashed through the puddles and into the shed. The smells of rust and mildew and decay were strong. Faded books lined the shelves, and abandoned toys peered out from boxes. The entire shed was a mausoleum for his childhood companions.

He spent the morning searching the shed. He found a clumsily-drawn portrait of George amid a stack of other papers on a shelf. He found a pile of white and silver tinsel stuffed into a black garbage bag. In a box in a corner of the shed, he found his turtle pull toy. But there was no sign of a blue pepper anywhere. Dejected, he returned to the kitchen. One last pepper, the green one, remained in the bowl. He looked at it thoughtfully. Why not? He had nothing to lose, anyway.

This pepper tasted fresh and juicy, sharp rather than spicy. As he ate, Jim wondered what had gone wrong. He had found the turtle pull toy, but there was still no blue pepper anywhere to be seen. Had he been searching for the wrong Turtle Mountain? The pull toy was, of course, nothing like the way he imagined Turtle Mountain to be. In the first place, Turtle Mountain had no wheels, and the rock patterns on its sides were more intricate than the uniform green of the pull toy. And the shrine on top was not a crude wooden cut-out, but a majestic structure carved from green jade. If he concentrated hard enough, he could see it so clearly...

Jim jerked himself awake, comprehension suddenly dawning. He hadn't found the Blue Pepper because he had been searching in the wrong place all along. Smiling, he closed his eyes and concentrated, and Jimalleon Veramocor, elven fighter/mage/thief, infiltrator and agent of the Elven Imperial Navy, ran up the slopes of Turtle Mountain towards Turtle Temple, where his friends George and Aristortle were waiting, holding the Blue Pepper in his hands.

. . . . .

(1) The bowl of peppers
(2) George, the gif^H^H^H hippo-man
(3) Eyes peering out from among the tinsel
(4) Turtle Mountain, with Turtle Temple on top of it
(5) The storage shed

 

[Rodrigo Istalindir]

Round 3.2 - Rodrigo Istalindir - Witchy Woman

Witchy Woman​

“Ruined! We’re ruined,” moaned the innkeeper. “We’ll never be able to recover from this.”

Johann Small surveyed the damage wreaked by the spring flood. The winter had been unusually harsh. Whole houses had been buried under snowy drifts, and the villagers had prayed and made offerings to Scandiaca in hopes of an early spring.

The weather mirrored the goddess’ fickle nature; the bitter winds stopping as if someone had slammed shut a door in the sky. In the blink of an eye, the spring sun melted the blankets of snow and the river overflowed its banks. To add insult to injury, sunshine had turned to shadow, and storm clouds threatened to finish what the thaw had started.

The farmers in the outlying areas would survive, Johann knew, and the fertile soil left behind by the receding waters would benefit them in the years to come. Even the craftsmen and other townsfolk would get by. But he depended on the excess coin and comity they provided, and both would be in short supply for quite some time.

With a resigned sigh, Johann directed his daughters to begin gathering what goods that could be salvaged, and he began shoveling muck from the floor. With any luck, he thought, the water hadn’t breached the casks, and he could a least get good and drunk when night fell. (Picture 2)

Hours later, Johann still struggled. His daughters had ventured to the river to try and wash the linens, leaving him alone to grouse aloud while he worked.

“Hail, fellow. Have you a room?”

The voice, though friendly, badly startled the innkeeper, and he nearly fell face-first into the mud before regaining his composure.

“Are you daft or just blind?” Johann inquired, not even turning to face the interloper. “Or do you desire to slumber amongst the frogs and worms?”

“Yes, you do seem to have quite the mess on your hands, don’t you? But for once I have coin to spare, good sir, and having spent the last week sleeping in the rain, even such accommodations as this look welcome.”

At the mention of coin, Johann stood, knees creaking, and faced his new customer.

“Coin, you say? That would be welcome, I tell you true. I’ve not much to offer, but you’re welcome to bed down in the attic with me and my kin. I’ll not charge you full price, of course.”

“Cozy, I’m sure. By kin, I assume you mean your daughters? I saw them by the river and they sent me hither.”

“Aye, they are my daughters, but I warn ya….”

“You’ve nothing to fear, my good man, nothing at all,” the newcomer laughed. “I’ve been the subject of a tale or two already. I’ve no desire to personify the butt of so many jokes.”

“The attic will be just fine, and I’ll be on my best behavior, I swear.”

“Well then, you’ve got yourself a place to stay.” Johann wiped his muddy hand on his shirt and shoved it forward. “Johann Small, innkeeper.”

The stranger took his hand and shook it firmly. “Kylo Krumboldt, good sir, at your service.”

“What brings you here, Mister Krumboldt? Surely you didn’t come to enjoy our fine mud baths?”

“No, though your mud is quite lovely. And please, call me Kylo.”

“I am a merchant by trade, though recent misunderstandings in the south have left me without wares. I thought that perhaps these northern climes would renew my fortunes as the spring renewed the land.”

“Ach, just as well you’ve no merchandise. You’d have lost a wagon in the floods for sure, and maybe your life along with it.”

“You are probably right, Johann. And I feel churlish for bemoaning the loss of some trinkets while you townsfolk are suffering such a disaster.”

“We’ve survived worse, I suppose, though I’d be hard-pressed to remember when. Still, no one lost their life, and for that we can be thankful. Why don’t you settle yourself upstairs, Kylo, and I’ll join you in a moment. It’s about time for a wee bit o’ beer, don’t you think?”

Kylo laughed, clapped Johann on the shoulder, and headed into the tavern and up the stairs, feet squelching in the mud.

*

An hour later, as the sun neared the horizon, Jenne Small and her younger sister Jule approached the inn pulling a small cart laden with dried and folded clothes and bedding. From outside, they heard boisterous laughter, some recognizable as their father’s. Grabbing armfuls of laundry, they hurried inside.

Reaching the top of the narrow stairway leading to the attic, they entered to find Kylo and their father sitting on the floor, a small cask of ale between them. Both men held large flagons, and waved them drunkenly as they told jokes that made the girls’ ears turn red.

“Hey, Kylo, I’d like you to meet my daughters. The one on the left is Jule, and th’ other one ish Jenne.” Johann slurred.

The two daughters exchanged an exasperated glance.

“Tis the other way around, sir. I’m Jenne, and she’s Jule.” Jenne corrected her father. “And we met Mister Krumboldt this afternoon.”

Oblivious, Kylo struggled to his feet. While his capacity for alcohol was prodigious, he’d met his match in the innkeeper.

“Kylo Krumbolt, at your service. Such fine lasses you are. I can see you’re the apple of your father’s eye.” Grasping Jenne’s hand with his right and Jule’s with his left, he kissed each in turn. Laundry tumbled to the floor.

The sisters looked at each other again, and stifled their laughter.

“Please to meet you, Mister Krumboldt, ” the girls said formally, and then burst into giggles.

Kylo staggered back to where had been sitting and tumbled awkwardly to the ground. He picked up his flagon and picked up his tale where he’d left off.

The girls gathered the fallen laundry and folded it before stacking it atop and old chest.

“We’re going down to the pantry, father. Hopefully the food on the higher shelves is still dry.”

*

Jenne and Jule returned an hour later, hoping the small cask had been drained and that the men had either regained their senses or lost consciousness.

It seemed the former, as the bawdy tales had ceased and the two men sat quietly talking in the corner. They had dragged a table and four chairs from the main room, and sat across from each other.

The girls pulled chairs up to the table, and placed bread and cheese scavenged from the pantry in the center.

“Please, Kylo, you’ve got to try. We’ve nothing to lose. If those clouds let loose, we’re done for. The whole town will wash away.”

“I don’t know. If this Scandiaca is as crafty as you say, I’m not sure bargaining with her is wise.”

“But you are a man of the world. If half of what you’ve told me of your adventures is true, you’re the only one around that can match wits with her and win us a change in the weather.”

Kylo was torn. On the one hand, fleecing the gullible was more than a habit with him, it was his calling. But his luck had nearly run out in the south, and the memory of awakening to see an angry crowd pointing sharp things at him had made him cautious. And he was starting to like the innkeeper.

“Okay, Johann, okay. I tell you what. I’ll seek out this Scandiaca, and try to persuade her to make the rains go away. If I succeed, I’ll take your gold and say ‘thank you’. If I fail, and it rains within the week, I’ll charge you nothing and offer my apologies.”

That was as fair as he’d ever been, Kylo thought. He wander out into the wilds, wait a day for this mythical goddess to show, and then come back. Betting on the weather was no more risky than most of the wagers he’d made in his life, and if the rain held off for a week, he could claim his reward with a clean conscience.

“Deal.” Johann grabbed Kylo’s hand and shook it.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me for a bit, I’ve got to get rid of that ale,” said Johann, and he made his way down the stairs.

“Are you really going to bargain with the Weather Witch?” Jule asked in awe. “No one has ever seen her and returned to tell about it.”

“If they’ve never returned, how do you know what really happened to them?” Kylo asked, amused. “Maybe they just fell in the river and were washed away, or something equally mundane.”

Jule looked up at her older sister.

“You said so, Jenne. You said she punished those that had the nerve to trespass in her abode by cracking their bones and eating the marrow. And when I was growing up you told me she snuck into town at night and stole little girls who didn’t do their chores!”

“I made up the part about stealing little girls. But the rest is true, I swear.”

Kylo smiled.

“Don’t believe everything you hear, whether it’s from some old hag with the evil eye or an older sister who’s trying to trick someone into doing all the chores.”

“What about traveling scoundrels with silver tongues?” Jenne asked.

“Especially them.”

*

The following morning, Kylo set out from town. He followed the surging river upstream, keeping well clear of its unstable banks. Johann had told him that Scandiaca was rumored to live in a cave in the small mountains a half a day’s walk distant.

The soggy ground made for slow going, and dusk was not far off by the time he reached the mountains. Looking around for a place to camp for the night, he spied a bird high overhead, circling lazily in the dying light.

Kylo spotted a small depression, a grotto ringed by broken rocks and sheltered from the wind. Broken tree limbs were scattered about, but they were too wet for a fire. He managed to scrounge some scraggly underbrush that looked like it would suffice, and set to making camp.

*

The night sky was overcast, and there was no stars visibly, and only a faint glow where the moon hung behind curtains of clouds. It was quiet, too, save for the low crackling of the fire.

Kylo lay in against one of the smoother rocks, his cloak wrapped around him for warmth. It wasn’t as nice as the attic at the inn, he thought, but at least it wasn’t raining, and he slowly drifted off to sleep.

“Who!”

The cry jerked Kylo from his slumber, and he looked around groggily, trying to spot the caller.

“Who!” Again the cry sounded.

Across the rocky bowl, a beautiful white owl sat upon a scrawny tree growing out of the barren ground.

“Who!” A third time.

Kylo stood mute, watching the creature. With a sudden flurry, it launched itself from its perch Flapping furiously, it stopped midair several feet away and changed. Where the bird had been an instant before stood a woman.

She was shrouded in a cloak covered with white feathers, and a fur-lined hood nearly obscured her face. Coal-black eyes stared unblinking at him, and Kylo shivered as a wave of bitter cold swept over the clearing. (Picture 4)

“Who dares disturb my aerie?” Her voice was deep and resonant.

“My name is Jamis” Kylo responded. Despite his fear, his natural survival instincts told him that giving her his real name would be a bad idea.

“First you disturb my home, then you lie to me?” she hissed. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t turn you into a mouse and eat you!”

“My deepest apologies. Twas a reflex, nothing more. Names have power, and one shouldn’t use them out lightly. I am known as Kylo.”

“Do you know my name, foolish one?”

“I have heard the villagers call you Scandiaca.” Kylo ventured.

“I am known by that name. Others as well. Winter Witch. Lady Owl. But Scandiaca will do.”

“Again, my apologies, Scandiaca. I did not mean to intrude on your home. I was seeking a place to sleep for the night, nothing more.”

“Why do you come here, to these mountains?”

“The townsfolk sent me here to beg a boon from you. They are fearful that the rains will come and wash away their livelihood. They would ask that you work your magic and keep the storms at bay.”

“And what do they offer me in exchange? What price will they pay for my forbearance?”

“I’m sure they will give you anything you ask, anything that is within their power to give. “

“Very well. I demand a child. No more than a year old. The meat is most tender when they are young.”

A horrified gasp echoed across the rocks, and Kylo’s head whipped around at the sound.

“Spies! You brought sneaky spies!” Scandiaca shrieked.

Kylo glimpsed a Jule atop her sister’s shoulders, peering over the rocks.

Lightning flashed and smoke billowed, and when it cleared, the girls were nowhere to be seen.

Sick to his stomach, Kylo ran to where they had been hiding. Instead of two young girls, he saw two green turtles, one atop the other. (Picture 3)

“What have you done?” He turned back and shouted at Scandiaca. “They were just children.”

“Be grateful they were too old to eat, else they’d be mice instead of turtles.” Scandiaca scowled. “But turtles do make such a nice sound when you drop them on the rocks.”

“No, please, don’t. Turn them back, please. I promise you, they just wanted to meet you. They meant no harm.”

“So you ask another boon? You wish to barter for the children’s safe return?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. What will you ask to return the children to the way they were, and let them return home safely?”

“Hmm. Let me see. Food is nice, but I can get my own food.”

“How about these? Do you fancy emeralds?” Kylo asked, pulling a small puch from his shirt and dumping two small gemstones into his hand.

“Pretty, yes, they are pretty. But not my color, I think.”

“I know.” Scandiaca said. “I want you, Kylo.”

“Aren’t I too old and tough to eat?” Kylo stammered.

“I don’t mean to eat you, Kylo. Oh no. I mean to bed you. It can be so cold and lonely on my mountain, and you are fair to look upon.”

“What?”

“That is my demand, mortal. Your body for theirs.”

Kylo felt trapped. He couldn’t let the sisters spend the rest of their lives living in pond.

“Very well. My body for theirs. And for the town, as well. But for the night only.”

“Done.” Scandiaca shouted triumphantly. She gestured, and again the flash of light and cloud of smoke sprung forth. Jule and Jenne stood upright and human once more.

“Run, children, run like the wind.” Kylo shouted, and the girls fled the clearing.

“And now, Kylo, you pay for their freedom.”

“First, the rain. Make the storms go away.”

“Very well. Follow me, Kylo, and I’ll satisfy you before you satisfy me,” she leered.

The witch disappeared behind a rock, and at first Kylo suspected more trickery. Instead, he found a cleverly concealed tunnel. He entered, and followed it down a few dozen feet before it opened into a large cave.

The witch’s home was rather well appointed, for a hole in the ground. Fur rugs covered the ground in layers, and chimes and totems hung from the ceiling. Lichens glowed from cracks in the wall, softly illuminating the refuge.

The witch hovered over something, and Kylo moved closer for a better look. In her lap sat a plate, upon which sat four brightly colored objects, red, yellow, green, and orange. (Picture 5)

Vegetables, or maybe fruits, Kylo thought, although he’d not seen their like before. Not surprising, given that he felt vegetables were a waste of time when there was meat to be eaten.

The witch’s hands passed over the vegetabes, and she muttered incantations in a strange tongue. For several minutes this continued, until finally she looked up and grinned at Kylo.

“Take these with you in the morning, and when you get to the village, scrape the seeds from them and plant them at the four points of the compass around the town.

“Red, for blood, to the north. Yellow, for the rising sun, to the east. Green, for the plants, to the south, and the orange to the west, for the setting sun.”

“And then what?” Kylo asked.

“And then nothing. So long as the plants that spring forth thrive, the worst of the weather will pass the town by. This I promise.”

Scandiaca smiled at Kylo again, and he suddenly knew how the mouse felt just before it was devoured by the swooping owl.



*

Dawn crept up the slope of the mountains, and Kylo stirred. Moving quietly, he gathered his clothing and crept from the cave. The morning was cold, but still he didn’t stop to dress until he was well away from the cave. He nearly cried out in pain as his shirt scraped against the deep furrows the witch’s talons had gouged in his back, and he wondered, not for the first time, why she couldn’t have changed those meathooks the way she shapeshifted everything else.

“The hag’s gone mad with power,” he muttered. “Pathetic old crone has to threaten children to get a man to even look at her.”

Scandiaca peered over the edge of her aerie, her owl eyes nearly blind now that the sun had risen. Her hearing, however, remained as keen as ever.

“Crone, am I? Hag? You are a pig, Kylo, like all men, and so shall others see you.”

*

Kylo staggered back into town, and headed for the inn. He was worried about the girls, and he hoped that no matter how crazy the old woman was, that she at least was true to her word.

“Johann? Are you here? Are your girls safe?” he called as he climbed the steps.

Entering the attic, he could see the two girls sound asleep, huddled together under several blankets. They must have been exhausted, he thought, especially if they ran all the way home.

He was about to go back downstair and look for Johann when he saw Jule open her eyes. They widened to the size of saucers, and the girl screamed.

Her shouts awakened Jenne, and she too shrieked when she saw Kylo.

“Help, father, there is a beast upon us,” she shouted.

“Jenne, it’s me, it’s Kylo.”

The girl stopped yelling long enough to take a long hard look at him. Her eyes darted to his clothes, then back to his face.

“Kylo? What did the witch do to you?”

“What do you mean?”

Scrambling to her feet, Jenne ran to the table and grabbed the serving platter. She raised it in front of Kylo’s face.

Staring back at him was porcine face, flared snout and all. Only the eyes remained recognizably human.

“Oh my god, that bitch!” he shouted. “Look what she’s done to me.”

Outside, he heard people shouting and doors slamming.

“Kylo! Show your face.” came a voice tinged with laughter.

“The witch. What more does she want from me?” he moaned.

“I’ve come for the wards, Kylo. I’m breaking our bargain, you vile pig. And when I’m done with you, it will be the children’s turn.”

Rummaging through his belongings, Kylo grabbed the only thing he could think of that might have a chance of stopping the witch. Firearms were rare, and he doubted anyone this far from a large city had ever seen one.

Rushing downstairs and out into the open, he saw the witch twenty yards away. In the other direction a number of townsfolk cowered, unable or unwilling to stand up to Scandiaca. More peered from around corners or behind cracked doors.

“We had a deal, witch, and I kept it. Leave these people be.”

“Fool. Do you think I am bound by any agreement with such as you? Does the hunter bargain with its prey? I treated you with kindness, and you mocked me. And now you will know what it is like to be humiliated.”

The witch’s talons began weaving a pattern in the air, and a sphere of brilliant white coalesced around them. Kylo felt the temperature drop as well, and he hurriedly loaded the finicky firearm.

Scandiaca shrieked, and Kylo looked up just in time to see the orb that the witch had summoned streaking towards his head. Without thinking, he raised his pistol and fired just as the missile struck him dead on. (Picture 1)

*

He opened his eyes, but was blind, and something sticky covered his face. Blood, he thought, I’m covered with my own blood. But at least I’m alive. His ears were ringing from the gunshot, but he thought he heard laughter, too.

He lifted his hands and tried to clear his vision. He found his face covered with a frothy mixture that felt nothing like blood, and as he scooped it away from his eyes, he saw that it was white, not red.

He sat up and looked around. A few feet ahead of him, Jule and Jenne were laughing hysterically, and a dozen or so other, Johann included, were laughing as well. He noticed Jenne was holding the sack of vegetables. Of the witch, there was no sign.

Kylo held up his hand and looked closely at the mess enveloping it. He sniffed it, and stuck out his tongue and licked his fingers.

Lemon meringue, he thought. Not bad.

 

[Piratecat]

Nice work, both of you.

 

[Rodrigo Istalindir]

Was starting to panic last night. Clicked the 'Reply' icon to start the post at 12:35. Couldn't get the screen to come up till a little after 1am, and got it posted at 1:18.